The silence between the notes

Even after the rain, With plants that were never meant  For bouquets, We can find beauty. Sort of like in life, In times that we never imagined  We would face, Growth can be beautiful. So maybe beauty comes less  From sweet fragrance  Or visual charm.  Maybe it comes more  From the way  We grow with the weeds  And the rain. *I shared a version of this to a private page on May 27,  and today I decided I wanted to include it in this “collection” on my blog.

  I'm an incredibly private person when it comes to my inner questions and fears and ideals. I've only ever shared those with a short list of individual confidants. Although I doubt that most people in my world really realize that there's so much they don't know about me...because I'm also an unusually philosophical and reflective person, and I DO SHARE those reflections sincerely and authentically with my friends/coworkers/etc. when I feel it's important to our purpose or our working relationship. But it's also likely that there are more sensitive, even controversial topics hidden deep below the surface of what I'm comfortable sharing...Until someone manages to open the floodgates and establish themselves as trustworthy enough to handle the rest...then since all of my ideas somehow relate to one another, I can't seem to stop until I explain all of them at once to the poor unsuspecting soul who offered to listen for the first few minutes. ...

Here I am again, after months of writing things and not posting them. I have in fact had a lot on my mind. (Those of you who know me personally are not at all shocked, I'm sure, but maybe someone out there doesn't yet realize that, so I felt it was fair to say.) But my whole life, I've done this thing where I have too much to say so I say nothing for a while while it bubbles up inside...then I try saying something and it all comes whipping out like a hurricane of nonsense...so then I go back to bottling it up and stating my need for "processing time." Guess that's what's been happening with my sporadic posting for the last few years too. Who would have guessed? Then there's this other thing I do when I don't know what to say--I obsess over a song, poem, essay, etc. in which someone else said what I couldn't. So to that end, I'm directing you to a few two articles by a cause that I admire very much: To Write Love on Her Arms. If you haven...

Poems are a lot like dreams. No.  Poems are a lot like nightmares.  Until you've been broken by one,  You'll never understand how deeply  It can sting, burn, and glow.  And you'll never understand the scars left behind By nightmares and poems.  Beautifully unique scars.  Uniquely hideous scars.  Nightmares are like poems.  For a time, you live inside them, Surrounded by their reality, For better or for worse, Fighting against the sting, Or giving into the burn, Or basking in the glow Of their truths. And their lies.  Until you wake up one day and realize  No one else sees them, or cares.  Nightmares are a lot like poems.  When it's too dark to find your way out. 

Sometimes they just flow out of me,  like they've been ready all along.  Other times they wander and rush through my head for days, Like they're trying to find each other  In the chaos of emotions  They beat down, befriended, or became along the way.  I am more of a thinker than a writer.  I'm more of a philosopher than a poet. Half the time, I have too many words for my theories.  Half the time, I have no words for my thoughts.  But sometimes words happen.  And sometimes I call it poetry. 

Sometimes sleep isn't just a euphemism.  To sleep, perchance to dream? For in that sleep of death,  what dreams may come? Not the death of a body,  just a day that needs to die.  It used to be a sweet escape,  a peaceful place to hide.  But when daylight nightmares invade your dreams,  where can you escape? I used to dream in nightmares;  Now I dream in days.  If only I could wake  and cease to be afraid...

"If so and so jumped off a bridge,  would you?" "It's called a leap of faith.  You just have to jump." Standing on the ledge.  Heart beating out my chest. Messages mixed and nowhere to go.  I give in, give up, take the risk. Fear, destruction, delivery. Falling, rushing, zooming Toward me, to me, through me. Snap.  Pull.  Reverse.  Delivery, distraction, denial. Slipping, shrinking, gone.  Some tell you not to jump.  Some tell you to jump and believe.  But what happens when you jump  and you believe  and you still end up  back where you started? 

I recently attended a workshop where we were asked to write a poem focusing on our choice of imagery and poetic structure. I decided to include only sensory words: no articles, prepositions, conjunctions, or even emotional or intellectual descriptors. Just what can be imagined through a few of the five senses.  I'm not 100% settled on everything in this piece yet, but it was interesting to try writing a poem under a time constraint and with such specific expectations. And I'm curious to see if my image is understandable to anyone other than me.  Skies, horizons, distance downward.               Jumping. Pushing. Rushing.  Empty, open, spacious, vacant.                Winds. Gusts. Gravity.  Jagged, hard, hot, sharp.                Rocks. Edges. Ledges.  Rope, restraint, harness, anchor?               Whip. Rip...

You said to ask. If I needed anything in my future, all I'd have to do is ask. But what I need is for this to be gone, or to have never existed...So the memories can be gone, disappear like they never even were.  The memories of where we sat. And where we talked. And how you looked. And what I wore. And what you said. And what we swore. And what I feared. And what you hid. Or what I feared you hid.  All those memories make the feelings too strong. Too current. Too real. But you can't "fix" that while those memories are still here. And neither can I. So I just get angry. Or sad. Or confused. And it intensifies how much I hate you. And how much I hate everything we lost. Because I'm sure that you already forgot the memories, or never had them in the first place. And it was really just me, by myself, all along.  But what can either of us do to fix that now? Nothing...And what's left to work for or hope for...Nothing...And what could I possibly ask you to help wit...

At 3 AM, a poem came to me and I posted it here with a comment about the unpredictability of writing. In the next 15 minutes, another came to me, but when I went to transfer it from my phone's notebook to this post, I hit a wrong button and lost five lines. As if to illustrate the point of my 3 AM poem, my 4AM brain decided to forget those five lines entirely. I stayed awake until about 4:15 trying to re-create them, then I finally fell back to sleep. I've worked on it again for about a half-hour now and still can't figure out anything that felt as good as the original. I decided I should post it before I lose anything else! But maybe I'll come back and change it later. It's kind of funny to see that a single poem ended up showing how effortless and laborious the writing process can be. -------------------------------------------------------------- I was strong enough to build you up, To save you from what you might become.  But when I fell and needed you, You weren...

A different poem started creeping up in me a few days ago but it can't seem to get out yet. I was lying in bed just now, thinking about it, when my mind started thinking about my somewhat unpredictable writing process. This new metacognitive poem was the result of that tangent. At 3AM. My brain has a mind of its own. This is what it had to say.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sometimes they just flow out of me, like they've been ready all along.  Other times they wander and rush through my head for days, Like they're trying to find each other  In the chaos of emotions  They've beat down, befriended, or become along the way. 

The problem is...that I love many things in life.  And most of the things I love require time, practice, dedication, and commitment in order to improve or to benefit others.  So it doesn't feel like I have enough time to do them all as well as I'd like.  At least, not all at the same time.  I find myself focusing on 2 or 3--OK, I find myself sacrificing sleep, exercise, and family time so that I can focus on 4 or 5 at a time--but it still seems like there's never enough time to be truly accomplished in anything I'm attempting. This little blog is a great example:  I never intended to blog weekly but it's been 7 months since I "published" anything and that is MUCH longer than I'd expected to wait!  Truth be told, I drafted two pieces this spring but never published them because I just didn't have time to refine them. And, of course, I want them to be acceptable to the two or three people who are likely to see them! So I decided to share my wish ...

In other days, it was a softer fall. Rustling, slipping, drifting From branch to earth. It was a peaceful fall, A gentle death. Comforted by the soil Which had nourished them Through roots and branches. But now? Do they know? Do they see what some will meet? The hard-formed ground that was not made for them. The grey. The black. The white. The dirt which cannot nourish Or cradle them as they fade. Do they feel what this day brings? Do they long for other days?

Making work out of words-- Artist denied? Of commas, conjunctions, connotations-- Contrived? Trading fun in for form Or Innate for refined? Rather Opening, growing, guiding the mind? Devotion--Emotion-- First talent…Now skill? Poetry--in motion.

You've never felt what moves me Or listened to me sing. You still don't read my poetry Or sigh when I can breathe. You've never cared how deep This fire burns in me: Respond just when I plead; Applaud just to appease. Ignorance! Don't claim naivety; Don't deny me my reality When you choose , refuse the real me.

(Modeled loosely after one of my favorite classics. Does anyone know the original?) Mark but this tear, and mark in this, How great the fear of future is When faced with what cannot be said: A choice to stay or move ahead; My cool, pale tear drips to my bed. O still, two lives in one life spare, Which might almost in efforts fare To fight, or fly, for what we lack: Escape these living walls of black; Your warm, wan tear runs down my back. In these cruel tears, now mingle our Joys, hopes and fears: their final hour. For future strong, for present weak, 'Tis true; we hear how false fears speak Though our dark tears stream down my cheek.

As the forest fades into the trees, Open yourself toward the sky. Invite the clearing.

When I was there, that's who I was but I moved on and climbed above. Or so I thought 'til your return-- Took hold, refused to let me run. It's not your place to choose, decide, To call me by your Name, not Mine-- To make me feel two inches tall is all You did when I was small-- Now with you here, grows only fear Of How can I continue where I'm strong and free and on my own When you refuse to let me go?

If they knew how this heart bled with theirs, Would they see our pain's the same? If they saw the sweat and heard the tears, Would they see I'm torn down too? Or would these...weaknesses...confirm I am as flawed as they've assumed?