In self-imposed solitary seclusion
the so-called facts are in doubt.
It appears the spells have been lifted and forgotten,
And life has become merely withstood,
Not lived.
But why?
Why just withstood?
Why just survived?
Let’s bring back the spells.
Believe not in other’s so-called facts
But in the universal truth.
Surrender to the beauty of solitary seclusion
And rejoice in the freedom it brings
to enjoy what is,
and not what only appears to be.
Is it really a new beginning?
Or just a start to another finish.
I suppose it could be a way to a means.
Or a means to an ending.
Or maybe just an ending to another new beginning…
Only time will tell.
Seashells and wave echoes
swirled and laughed in the emptiness behind my eyes.
But now I have let them go, sent them away,
unlocked the door and set them free.
The remaining empty space is vast, but quiet, and soft.
Yet never truly empty despite my best efforts
for when I’m not looking, the wave echoes return to roll around the edges of my inner space
once again.
They blend with a stillness that never stands still,
and become a part of the flow and wash in the space behind my eyes.
It is an expanding space that can hold everything and more.
More me, more us,
together in the completeness of warm love and peace.
So come my love, kick off your shoes and dance with me again.
Listen to the song of the seashells and watch…
watch the empty space fill with us and only us.
Catch the wave echoes when they come around again and
this time,
this one last time,
never
let
go.
That sweet quiet time,
between just you and me.
Softness and warmth.
Holding, silent, sleepy.
Passions spent.
Love renewed.
Years later.
Here in each others’ arms,
again.
Does she know?
Doesn’t she feel it,
That piece of him that has gone missing, again?
Where does it go, where does he take it and who does he give it to?
Does she know?
I know.
It isn’t lost, I have captured it.
I hold that missing part of him.
The part that she is missing.
The part he gives only to me.
The pieces of him that I can’t have are far greater than the one she misses,
but at least I know what to name it.
| His hands are weightless, His smile, eternal. His eyes hold all the stars in the universe, the light of a million suns. His energy charges every cell in my body and his love powers and drives my nightly dreams. When he speaks to me, his words feel like a warm soft blanket draped with love over my shoulders. His voice comes to me in the silence of meditation telling me to stop, to let it all go. He tells me that good will only come to me after I throw out and reject the darkness. He watches in silence and sadness as I try but fail over and over… He knows he can’t do it for me. I know I can’t do it for myself. |
Who is he?
This man I only know up close.
Does he know me? And if so,
who is this woman, this me he knows?
We have an odd situation, he and I, like a fantasy played out on a stage,
a performance, a curtain call and
then done.
I know the up-close, the heat, the physical
Yet when I see him from a cool distance,
I don’t know him.
He becomes someone else with someone else.
So which is the real him and can he be one without the other?
When I ask him, he hesitates as if to say he doesn’t know what to say or
what I want to hear and so he leaves.
When he goes, what is left?
A space, a place holder, a thought,
another time, another place, a different now?
I know for us there is still only the now.
A now only for us.
But when the physical distance is gone, we two become one but with no future
with or without each other.
It is an isolating togetherness, just ours alone now and forever.
He steps out of his life and I out of mine and together we share a space that
is comforting, predictable but out of place.
A place that feels right, until it doesn’t, and I step back into the cool distance of my life.
To a place where I only know this man, up close.
A Story I Tell Myself
It is a story I tell myself.
I repeat it over and over until
it becomes my story, my plan, my hope and
for a while, just a little while,
I am able to convince myself that it’s all true.
It sinks in, it makes sense, it’s easy and right.
Yet it remains just a story I tell myself but
Sometimes,
sometimes,
Even he believes it.
Stone Meadow Poetry 