02/24/2014 Mini-Saga: Liminal

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Poem: I Wish You Knew Me Now

I wish you knew me now.
Back then, I was naive
easy to bully,
manipulate.

I wish you knew me now.
Back then, I was vulnerable,
unskilled at saving
myself.

I wish you knew me now.
Back then, I was angry,
imagining fictional
wrongs.

You can’t know me now.
Sometimes I think of you.
Then I smile, and
stop.

Truth in Four Sentences

To someone that I used to know.

I don’t think of you every day.
You aren’t in my life; that’s not new.
Years have passed since I last loved you.
I’ll still cry when you pass away.

 

Poem: Little Matters That Matters Little

Little matters that matters little.
Memories of messy massive pains
do dim with age, but still they
prick,
stick,
stab,
the sharpest shards of bright and shining things
once (and still?) held dear, too close,
and to the highest impossible standards.

Why, though, are the glimmers of
the past and precious so much more
entrancing,
captivating,
enchanting,
than the light and life of the present?
If to the shattered tatter-rags you cling,
you will be cut,
be rent,
torn asunder…

Insurmountable madness.

You say, “Look! How I bleed! How I cry! How I suffer!”
You chain yourself fifteen times
in gossamer-fine thread and,
with the key in one hand and the lock in the other,
make passionate love to finely honed steel,
pouring out flood red tidings,
giving away your most personal power
to someone who
didn’t,
doesn’t, nor
will ever
want it.

They to whom you grant that dubious boon
are not evil for the unwilling receiving of it,
no matter how much you wish it so…

…and you are not evil for leaving those streaks on the world…

…but in the end, someone has to clean up after you.
And that?
Is never fair.

Poem Seed: Inspired by the Jane Eyre musical

From the musical: ‎”My heart moves through his unquiet sea…”

My poem seed: Hearts have no limbs with which to swim, but they are awfully good at drowning.

Poem: Untitled Haiku

From the earth emerge
The winter now turns to spring
You return, my dear

Poem: Truth, Plain and Unadorned

This could be a poem about how I don’t understand.

I could say,
“I don’t understand why bad things happen to good people”

or

“I don’t understand how good people can still do terrible things”,
but it would be a lie.

This could be a poem about how I don’t care.

I could say,
“I don’t care that you are suffering. We all suffer”

or

“I am suffering. Why should I care when you suffer?”,
but it would be false.

This could be a poem about how faraway problems do not affect me.

I could say,
“That problem’s distance is great, and does not relate to my life”

or

“I haven’t known those people very long, their day-to-day means nothing to me”,
but it would be patently untrue

I understand.
I care.
You matter.

These things are my honesty,
waving a red flag in code
from my aching heart
to yours.

I love you.

Poem: Prayer for the Lost and Wandering

Your path and feet have parted ways,
and though none but you may find it,
your chosen methods leave a daze
over those you love who’d mind it.

I have watched you of many days,
your worldview with confusion rife,
unknowing, watched you slip away,
seen what you have done to your life.

I wait in silent simmering
for word from the lady of trees.
Rock bottom dropped from under me
lifting my prayers up to the breeze

that they may be carried to She
Who resides now in summer bright,
that She may grant Her blessings three
to reach you in your deepest night.

Heed them, at your peril ignore
the signs and portents you have made.
You have been placed at Justice’ door
It’s only She can give you aid.

Those who love you do fear for you,
and sadly of you they fear same.
Metaphors cannot help you, true;
it is left to you to take blame.

I plead You, Psychopomp, hear this:
he lies at losing’s very door.
It’s not his time, he’s gone amiss,
must mend those precious things he tore.

I love you like a dear brother,
Gentle, clever, witty, and true.
Your place, ne’er filled by another,
Is now taken by something else.
Not.
You.

Poem: Parables in Pomegranates

You speak of ancient journeys, wisdoms born
in the liminal places between dark and light.
They are the ones I know,
told from a different heart and a different time
by a storyteller whose words leave me awash in red.
I drink these parables in as a lifeline,
tidal waves of blood and fruit staining my lips.
I offer legend steeped in Mystery,
poured into small clay cups,
fragrant steam curling around your face,
ready to tell the fortune you can make for yourself.
Come into my halls, sit awhile, and be at peace.
We do not travel the same roads, you and I,
although many street corners are the same,
and the same ferryman receives the tithe,
making stops in many places.
My destination is mine, and yours is yours.
At the crossroads of our paths will I be,
ever shall you know I am there.
Seek me there if elsewhere you find me not.
for my counsel and solace leave for you the gates thrown wide.
I find my self loving the marvel that is you,
as one bright and shining thing to another,
and I know my place in the stars.