Loneliness
Loneliness is, really, such a sad affair.
I feel it in my bones,
creeping in, under my skin.
I hate the blueness of it.
The bluntness of it.
Bearing the brunt of a loss must be nearly
impossible.
I slip into an abyss
at a simple separation.
I feel I've lost my wits.
Loneliness has a virtuous side,
it's main ocupation is
anticipation
and only the softest
anguish.
The difference between living and surviving life
Is a yawning, black chasm that swallows optimism like a
Fine meal.
The difference between living and surviving life
Is measured by the freshness of the food you feed
Your children.
It is bacon on a Sunday morning, and buying diapers
Before they run out.
It is walking into a bank without cold fear at your throat.
It is knowing that when something breaks, it can be fixed;
When it runs out, it can be replenished.
To know how much is enough is a virtue earned by having want and need
As companions.
My Brother
At times, I see you, my brother,
We are one,
And our souls smile at one another.
On other occasions
The space that separates
You from me
Is as wide, as powerful,
As devastating and beautiful,
As the ocean.
Shimmering in the moon’s light,
You call me like the sea.
You are the very tide that pulls me under.
The sun passes over me-
Sometimes dim and weak,
Sometimes brilliant and warm,
sometimes burning and blinding-
Turning my hours into days,
My weeks into years.
At times, I see you, my strange brother,
In my air, under my skin,
Like a burr that every time it pricks you
Reminds you of caves and playthings,
And sticks and words,
And smiles that shine like sunlight.
Day in and day out,
In fields and in cars, even on wet shoes,
Outside, yet inside my life,
All at the same time.
At times, I see you, my lost brother,
I hear your voice on the other side,
Or the absence of that voice,
And I wonder how it all shakes down.
What part of the wall did I, myself, build?
How much was built by
Something bigger than all of us?
Pleasure
The words that breathe from within
separate my soul from insanity
and I'm comforted by the tactile sensation
of pen on paper, specifically.
The smooth, steady flow of my brain,
my hand, the ink on paper,
soothing me, smoothing me,
making me feel safer.
Insulating me from any of life's
unavoidable bumps and bruises,
better than anything else I've got.
Alone in my writing, with no excuses,
I am if I choose it, and my wish
is my own command to realize.
As hours roll by in my cottony womb,
my butterfly cocoon, I fantasize.
I frolic and dream and meander,
no map, I'm the treasure.
I write for the sake of release,
for the sake of beauty and art,
and I write for my own
pleasure. 03/09/98
Hourglass
Like a camel
Between
Sand and sky
I stand
Unadorned,
Unadorned.
Amazing balance
Between
Brutality and passivity.
Breathing,
Living,
Organic stone.
Tunnel between
Birth and death,
I am.
Woman,
Born alive and dying.
I am consumed with
Filling this space.
Hourglass of sliding sand
I do not know
How big I am.
How many seconds
Do I hold within me?
Child
"I’m this many."
This many particles spun together,
This many thoughts, feelings,
Capabilities, dreams,
Fears.
This many grains of sand
Funneled into this one
Hourglass
Who likens herself to
A camel.
I believe I can
Sustain myself
Through this
Desert in my mind.
