Tag Archives: question

Unknown Stranger

Watching you
from across the room
to see if your eyes
gleam into smile,
silently hoping
your thoughts might
rest on me.

Catching each flick
of the head,
each gaze as it rests
first on one
than another,
never staying
in any direction for long,
casually dismissing all
as beneath your station

Towering above others,
do your eyes ever
touch theirs –
or do head tops –
impersonal and safe –
hold your attention?

Months have been spent
discerning your patterns
yet still you remain a mystery,
beyond reckoning,
an enigma, a mystery
beyond my reckoning.
Each thought stays veiled
shuttered behind lids
never wide open.

You are a locked door to me.
A puzzle whose pieces
don’t quite fit.
Somehow never forming meaning.
A distant vision
on a sweltering summer day,
whose edges are blurred
by shimmering waves of heat.

If you knew
how I wish to unmask
that elusive mind,
exposing raw nerves
to touch and sensation
would you fleetingly run
or in my perusal
would you unfold
those tantalizing treasures
for a pirate hunt
in dangerous areas?
Allowing me
to explore your wealth?

The volume of a voice

Sometimes I feel like a voice in the wilderness – not connecting or being heard. I’m not a screamer by nature so it’s more like “ah, hello, is anyone out there? can you hear me?” in soft whispers. I want to connect but I’m too often the scratching noise at the end of an old phonograph album. White noise with a mild irritation perhaps, but something that needs to be changed.

I wonder what to write about. What matters to others? Do I have something to say more than trite, banal quips? I fancy myself a writer . . . oh, I know I’ll never be Proust or Dumas. Not even Berry or Silva, or even some self-published, harried someone rushing from libraries to bookstores to get their agreement to let me read my writings or display my book. {mostly because I can’t afford it and maybe not have the guts – those copies would be gathering dust in boxes in my apartment} I’m more like a church mouse hiding in the organ pipes, head clanging away when the songs are played. I hide.

Today I mentioned to someone that I have maybe 40 or 50 followers – wait for it – 74!!! Okay, I know that’s not a lot by a lot of standards but considering not one or my friends or family read my site, it’s not bad. I worry about that. I write about some deeply personal things and have come under the forbidding glare of a relative’s eye when they read a paper draft of something or other.

So I’m not sure how to grow my site by conventional methods. Do I start a new Facebook page and link it? One I don’t give my family address to? And how does Twitter work? Perhaps that can stay out of the family focus.

I publish in a couple of newsletters, one being my church. Poem after poem went into it for a while and my sister never commented on them, even when reading it while sitting right next to me. When I asked her why she said, “What do you want me to say? I don’t go in for that kind of thing”. My kids don’t like my stuff either. And the worst part is, I let their comments and non-comments affect me. Shut me down a little more.

So please – be the voice who responds to my whisper. Give me your thoughts about growing my site while remaining anonymous to those near to me while remaining completely accessible to those far from me. Be honest with your feed back. Feel free to shout your answers, or whisper, I’ll be listening.

Whatever shall I write?

Deciding what to print is a tricky proposition.  What do others like?  And do I write to be read or to give voice to my feelings and thoughts?  What is honest writing?  I stumble along in my daily life, knowing I am living a far too simple one.  There is complexity and intensity in some ways but are they writable? A part of me wonders if I give voice to certain things will they be read by those who wish me ill?  And I hate how paranoid that makes me sound.  But I listen to the news and those people who say the government is sequestering everything for potential use, even by people who do no wrong. I’m a person who writes from the heart and is perhaps too self involved in my writing. I need to branch out more but am not sure my opinions matter in the grand scheme of things.  When I was writing love poems or ones about the ending of relationships, my ratings were high.  But I am long past that part of my life and believe there is still meaningfulness in what I write.  So I’m asking you, what is it you want to read?  What tickles your fancy?  What makes you sit up and wonder or imagine or conceive?  I’d truly like to know, especially if you have read my words in the past. Thanks.

And the World spins ’round and ’round

These days I am having a hard time seeing the destruction of our world – one person, animal, flora – the whole of our great mother Earth.  Every moment brings more – a continual drenching of life, melting it back into the ground, corrupted, tainted, tainting. And I don’t know where to go, how to start, where I am needed, and am I up for the challenge?  My head spins with the magnitude of the problems, but I know it is just one step needed to start. Can we each do that? One small step?  Many are already making huge strides but I have a feeling until each one of us has the courage to make one step forward, we will be stuck in the problem. How can so many be blind to this?  How can so many forcefully destroy with willful intent? I don’t understand how that thinking operates.

What is my small step?  I don’t know but I’m sure going to find it.

 

Schoolroom Teachings

With sure lipped bravado
he jet-sends his jeers
to ears waiting, knowing
expecting those words to come,
a fine dance of discontent
within the classroom walls.

Listless teacher, burned out
from too man kids and too many years
crying out for silence
to deaf ears, churning minds,
squirming bodies.  A Saint
might be able to achieve, but
one who hides beneath cover
of smile, whose eyes reflect out,
carrying no inner workings
the poor children carry the
hidden legacy of a broken system.

To look at the children,
the ones who care, yet are not
closed to the outer world,
their bodies retreat into themselves
curled up in a concave impression
of distancing, of
protecting the heart and mind,
placing all extremities out front,
to give the illusion of active attention,
so a measure of safety is gained.
Their eyes wells of sadness.

We witness in silent horror
as our children slowly
are divested of their gifts,
stripped bare of courage and strength,
rendered helpless in the feudal system,
where teachers are all powerful rulers,
infesting the masses with
their brand of corruption.

And, in the corner
facing a stark wall,
eyes turned away from the maelstrom
a boy draws mazes,
over and over again,
seeking his way out.

 

The Question

So love is where its at Baby,
and my, my how we all run
from body to body
in desperate yearning
for that one person
beyond all others
that can reach deeply
into the soul’s dark corners
and pull forth
that gift carefully hidden.

Frantically we search
for the special someone
to fill our empty places,
making a shell become whole
because so little belief
is set in our own capacity
to make ourselves complete.

Love, baby, love –
the solitary key
passed from one hand to another’s
thoughtlessly dropped
by hungry feet
that in riotous panic
throng toward gathering places –

To get lost in the crowd
but fearfully hoping
for one night of love
before the illusion is shattered
and we stand naked
before empty souls
who had too little to give
and no time to give it –
desperate and despairing –
because love wasn’t the answer anymore
but just another question.