I was cleaning a bit yesterday and found a poem I wrote about 9 or 10 months ago in response to a series of stream of consciousness writing sent from a dear family member when he was abroad...I thought I would share what words I jotted down...this is raw and unedited, as most of my stuff tends to be (unless it's for the newspapers!).
We Wonder What's Real
Last night I was sent
a rolling brook
of words--songs, poems, psalms-- brilliant
in their Truth. They eroded
at the sand sheath I'd been wearing
and led me to a place
saturated in golden glory.
The word-crafter mused
about love and sculpted a mouth, crying
out to his unknown partner. With an asterisk,
he addressed a note to me. He says--
"Maybe getting fucked up with love is good,
as least you've got that."
And he's right, at least I've got that--
I've been fortunate enough to trudge through
the dangerous and delicate quagmire
of messy love.
It's in the midst of this storm you realize
the only things making the experience seem
heavy are the ones that are unreal
in this world: fear, anxiety, uncertainty,
and doubt.
"I don't know if these are real
poems," he writes
as an act of self-protection, I assume.
I say, even if they weren't yet on paper, they're more real
than the fear in your belly
that keeps you up at night, more real
than the racing heart of questions
forcing your breath to be quick and shallow.
Just as real as the majestic warmth
you feel in the morning when,
for just that split-second, in between
sub and consciousness you float,
suspended in mid-air, just you--
you're free.
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