I find myself again in the grayness of this city.
Humid billows of ashen smoke fill my lungs,
as tainted mist clings to my skin.
I center myself behind the weight of the world,
waiting for liberation.
The pain gradually rises up,
through the hole in my heart, into the atmosphere.
Mixing with acid rain, it dissipates,
leaving me in sultry exhaustion.
The pain comes in waves,
Pressure builds in my chest,
And with it the urge,
to birth a poem forth,
an animalistic necessity,
in the presence,
of a foreboding awakening.
A splash of promise,
a dash of grief,
a spreading of wings:
They say you must feel pain,
to feel joy,
is necessary to live fully,
allows for gratitude,
and that sorrow,
opens the heart.
But, fuck, does it hurt!
I vowed I would not run.
I would not evade.
I would not numb.
So here I sit with pain,
the full weight of my humanity,
Only trivial relief comes from cool tears,
gliding down my burning cheeks.
My thoughts taunt the dark corners of my mind,
I let them permeate.
Muddled by my refusal to react,
they mix with the background roar of evening traffic,
until I no longer hear nor see them clearly.
I get it; I’m flawed.
I am human.
As I crossed over the Portsmouth bridge into Maine this afternoon,
I saw a flock of white seagulls fly over the deep blue river.
They dissipated into the grey winter forest,
somehow making me feel at home,
along with the muddy patches of melting snow,
and the vivid shifting sky,
over permeating stillness:
Solitude at peace with itself.
I used to see it all as a trap, an icy prison,
of timber and water.
But today there are moments,
in my messy world of cement and tangled bodies,
that I long to disappear,
like the gulls,
into the wisdom of these ancient pines
and crispy thawing streams.
Music gives me the power to love.
Love gives me the courage to fail,
the permission to be flawed,
the insight that there are many Ways
and more than one answer.
Faith gives me the wisdom to be patient,
to believe in signs,
to learn from my emotions
and to simply be.
and overlying limbs.
Silken skin in dusky stillness.
Bewildered by their beauty,
awestruck in sublimity.
My voice is hidden behind the curtains,
in the corner of the room,
quite aware you won’t notice it is missing.
But that’s what happens,
when you let yourself sink into the covers,
never to rise,
until the world shifts its course.
I try to change the paintings on the walls around you,
as not to disturb your fitful slumber,
but so that when you wake,
you will be overtaken,
Nevertheless, the world will continue its course,
with or without our feelings,
so I just let my voice cower under the cool draft,
sinking in from the cracked window.
In the bathroom,
I let my sight,
spill on to the floor.
It makes me lighter.
That way my ears can float,
on the adagio notes that waft in,
from the kitchen,
in our sticky apartment.
My body continues,
its assiduous routine;
wishing its agitation will stir you back,