But I am the wind.
And my soul is alone
as it blows through the jars
of neat and tidy life.
Oh, the aching.
For, home floats free;
I will never be bound.
Can you not see?
I will never be bound.
And my heart cries,
lonely.
My heart cries.
Lonely.
Tag: Poet
It started with the Fathers of the Fathers.
Each ache, each man left broken
by the one who came before him:
not his fault,
that pain, continued.
But an unwanted gift, often unseen,
too often delivered.
It must now be seen.
It must now stop,
to break the rusty chain.
She fled her body, to where the poets fly.
Her heart lived in that place,
an angel by night light.
There were feathers on the wind of day,
and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting.
Oh, how she loved, there.
Oh, how she loved.
And how she missed that beautiful whisper
when down to earth
she fell.
Categories
Sweet Love Departed
When there is,
in this soft heart,
a tear for sweet love departed,
a tender wave of grief upon the shore;
where do these small hands go?
How do I hold
and kiss
and whisper
each precious ache
into wholeness, once more?
There is an apricot sun in the distance.
There is a mighty perfection
twinkling in the eye.
And so it is,
the ache shall be
here
and I shall know her.
Until I have known her eternal home.
Of all the labels I reject
‘a poet’
is the one golden cage
ringing true to my soul.
It holds my heart,
this stamp that tells me-
not who I am,
but what I do in the world
and how these depths consume me.
And though a label
is but a boundary with imaginary walls
in a universe unending,
a poet
I am
in words
and heart.
A poet I am,
I am.
Categories
The Carpet
The wind was crisp
and the sun sang warm to my skin.
The rest of the world was too fast
to know bliss like that.
The truth is: the truth is too expensive;
a depth of emotion most are unwilling
to pay.
Humanity can’t see through true eyes.
Can’t see the fighting is a small child’s game.
Who are the adults?
Let me know when you meet them.
Wounded and scared;
don’t you know how deeply you once felt the world?
The carpet is there for a reason.
The broom is used by all until the carpet
spills the truth.
The truth, they say,
will set you free, and I am free
to tell you that.
But, then again,
the carpet is good, too.
Categories
Wherever I May Go
Life and her currents.
I feel them like tears in my bones.
And all I can do is let the river run,
let the stream carry me
wherever I may go.
Through the high clouds of white.
Through the deep dungeons, dark.
I will be there.
Life,
I will be there
to follow the rainbow, home.
How deep is the sea that clutches
and drags me to the muddy floor, within?
How many days will I tumble
into the swell of inner life
unspoken, unwanted, unkind?
Shall I stand here, now,
battered and smiling, beside this beautiful life?
Still searching.
Still searching.
Always searching, but for the fleeting days
of clarity,
of home neat and tidy.
The creative knife;
sharp, yet desperately beautiful in shine.
Still searching.
Always, still searching.
Categories
Loneliness
There is depth and beauty in loneliness.
It is quiet.
Peaceful.
And though I’ve never known it,
loneliness is the wave that has known me
a lifetime, long.
Its quiet waits for nothing,
it just hangs in the air,
aching,
holding me closer
and closer
until I am quiet, too.
I will try to let it be.
To never ask it to leave,
but instead,
let it fill me
until I have no room left inside.
I will let it be, now,
loneliness.
I will no longer be attached
to wishing it gone.
Categories
We Are The Poets
We are the poets.
The ones who listen to the bones of the earth.
The ones who feel the wind,
who know the wind,
who are the wind.
The bridge to the aching quiet.
We build it
and we travel its winding path,
searching for more than what we see,
the poets.
We are the poets.
We are the song of aching life.
brooke-cutler.com 