where did that boy go?
maybe he hid
under the bed,
a cat waiting years
for the noise to die.
suddenly, silence.
suddenly safe
to rear his head.
so much of the world:
changed.
but that boy?
…
he’s all the same.
Tag: spiritual
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You are alive. You won’t be forever. That is the poem. Why should there be more?
This is your one life. What are you doing with it? Why wait until you’re on the other side to become acquainted with what should have been — with what should have been done? Why weep without reason? Why wait to know?
It is so strange that we can be reminded of our mortality — to read the words, “you won’t be here forever” — and for the reality of our finality to not register.
Why should the poet labor? Why should the artist toil over illustrations and visualizations of what it might be like for that final day to come — for you to be laying on your deathbed, confronted with the end? Choking on words unspoken. Drowning in potential never realized. Like a sun buried beneath the horizon who never got to rise.
Why do the metaphors need to be shoved down our throats for us to get a clue that we won’t be here forever? No. We will not. So why do we wake up each morning without ever really waking up? Sleepwalking through each and every day. Rinse and repeat. Why do we not drink in our aliveness?
Who among us can truly say that, if time is money, they’ve invested every penny beautifully, wisely? Why do we squander the only true currency?
This life is all we’ve ever known. We don’t remember a before. How can I even think about it now? I don’t remember the beginning — forgive me if I don’t have a good sense of the end. But you must. You must think of death as your worst enemy and your greatest friend. And you must rage — rage against him, fight each and every day, that you may live to the full.
Truthfully, do I tell you, that when the Reaper comes, it will not be with a scythe. No, it will be with kindness in his eyes. You will take his hand. He will take yours. You’ll be ready to bid this earth goodbye. Unburdened by regret. Unburdened by what ifs, because you truly lived.
There is no rest for one who carries questions to their grave. Ask them now. Ask all of your questions now. Get every what if and what then out of your system. Spend your entire life asking and answering.
They say in death, all answers are revealed. I don’t think that’s true. I think in death, all questions are revealed. Did I live truly? Did I live honestly? Did I love kindly? Were my years wasted — and if so, how many?
Again, I remind you: time is our currency. Do not waste a penny.
-
You are not
what I’ve made you to be—
Darling, pray tell,
what might that mean?
Do I swear off
all flights
of fancy,
ne’er to close my eyes,
nor to dream?
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
That much is clear–
but I cannot say
this changes a thing.
I will long–
I will not touch.
Doe-eyed am I,
secure,
right here,
behind walls of ice.
Would I rather
have a fantasy?
Not the clay,
but the maker?
Not the form,
but the formless?
My love is here,
caged
on paper.
So perfect.
Not human.
No edges, no need to be forgiven.
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
But darling— it was never about you,
only about me.
-
I met the formless goddess
in a hallowed grove.
lulled by her song,
we danced
in liminal slumber.
I sat at the shore–
waves beckoning,
tide rising,
ground coaxed— slowly,
so slowly,
grain
by grain.
But no sleep is the end—
not that beneath the Moon,
nor our final rest.
Hand in hand,
we leapt—
& beneath the surface,
I did not drown, no—
I dreamt.
-
Who do I want to be?
I can’t say who,
but I can say what:
better. Every day.
A mind not growing
is a mind that decays.
Nourish the garden.
Pick up the ewer,
crack open its spine—
yes, literature,
the water of life.
So no—
I cannot tell you
who
I am becoming—
only what.
Less the destination,
more the journey.
-
and of the darkness, of the injustice,
what can I say?
can I tell you there is another world,a great beyond?
can I tell you
that beyond is great?
are these but bubbles,
at your shrewd needle’s mercy?
I know not.
but I have to believe.
I have to believe
that there is something more,
that this
is not it.
I have to believe
we are a realm
between realms
between realms, between realms—
that one of them
is home.
not here.
no, not here.
for if this is but a visit,
I will abide my time.
is this homesickness,
longing
for the motherland,
longing
for the mother’s hand,
to wipe the sweat
from my brow,
the blood
from my mouth?
tell me—
am I just visiting?
should this be a delusion,
then I will gladly be blind.
for I walk through a desert
mad with thirst—
hope that is false
is still hope.
oasis or mirage,
I care not.
this is not home.
-
irrational poets
who call nature their home,
and write love letters
to the earth—
i’m one of them.
irrational poets,
claiming the heart is the cipher
to the hidden language of the trees—
I’m one of them.
yeah, I’m one of them.
irrational.
mad, foolish.
i’m all these things and more.
i talk to the Moon— she talks back.
i march not
to the beat of my own drum.
i gave that up.
the earth’s heart is enough,
her hidden song
which permeates all.
i hear it— oh, i hear it,
& i cannot help
but sing along.
brick and mortar:
i cannot call it home.
but my feet know the feel,
& my gut is a terrible liar.
it knows god’s chapel
is home. have you seen
its diamond-specked ceiling?
have you sat in its pews
of willows and daisies?
have you heard the choir
of blue jays and mockingbirds?
do you hear the sermon
in the winds?
have you shed your burdens
in confession, whispered your secrets
to the mountains,
and let yourself be forgiven
in the silence?
god’s green chapel
is a holy place.
yeah—
i’m one of those irrational poets
who call it home.