Deep within my heart
there is a river, raging on.
And I ask this river to be careful.
‘I am fragile,’ I say, on the softest breath.
‘Sway me,
always,
never to rush me,
never demand.
Hold me carefully, river.
Hold me carefully,
I am not like the others
made of brick and bone
and steel.
I am only like I am.
I am only like I am.‘
The time for soft and quiet has come.
Rest.
Lay down the bones of sorrows past.
Yesterday is a hush,
no longer ringing her angry bell.
She knows it true.
The time for soft
and quiet
has come.
It is beautiful,
I think,
to be a very small thread
on the web of it all.
Sometimes
I feel five.
Like the world is big
and I am small.
And there are kids all around
bigger than me,
louder,
scarier,
bolder than this softness
that folds me
like tissue.
(No one else folds like tissue.
Just me.)
The softness of me at five
lingers;
a scent
(like lavender)
on the breeze
of my soul.
The softness of me.
The softness of me.
What colour shall I paint my sky?
Soft-pink and grey:
clouds of spun sugar,
sweet dreams that drift me to life?
Bring me a cool breath of clarity.
Bring me a little light,
and I will shine it, wherever I may go.
Though the roads may crumble
and darken
and fade,
I will have my little light.
I will have my sweet dreamy sky.
It smells like a roast
but it feels like a story
of love,
of a garden,
and of home.
Where do I put the pieces of me
that I do not wish to see?
Where do I put the pieces of others
that cut my gentle flesh
and baste me in the black oil
of smiles and lies?
Are we not all perfect, here?
Are we not all, nice?
Tied in the sweetest bows
of comfort and light
are the stories we tell.
Tied by the jagged boundaries
of our own
raging
humanity.
Open your eyes.
It is time
to wake
up.
There is a softness between us.
I gaze, but I do not see you first.
I feel you, first.
I know you,
first,
down to the bones that hold you.
I would ask for a kiss,
but I see it there
waiting
in your eyes.
Those eyes.
Bring me those eyes, one more time,
forever.
Bring me my medicine,
oh, sweet love!
What cruel, dark night
is this that finds me?
A few months ago I received a wonderfully exciting email letting me know that two of my poems are in the running for potential publication. A card company (based in America, I think) is holding them for a while, seeing how well they might hold up within their market space. If the poems do look as though they may sell…my words, and my heart, will be floating across a greeting card or a thousand. How exciting. Since I was young, I’ve thought that might be a nice dream to achieve.
This afternoon, I sent three more poems off for review, and two children’s picture story books. Imagine that: all it takes is to write and believe, and suddenly the world becomes something new. Possibility. And possibility then becomes a beating heart, sent to replace the old one that went about the day without too much more to hope for.
This is the beginning of a beautiful new life, for me. I’m in love with myself for the first time in my life. I’m thrilled to have found a beautiful connection with my writing; unlike ever before, it flows without even the thought of a pause.
I’m falling apart quite often, still, and rather confused about the whole ‘love’ thing: why I didn’t just stick to seventeen year old me’s decision to swear off men forever, is absolutely beyond me.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. Man, or no man, I have an open heart that’s ready to share. And it’s so beautiful to have it flowing and connecting with everything that I am…I could take or leave romance, I suppose.
Maybe I’ll just write about it, instead. ☺️
