Alone Too Long

God help me it was the books, the books, the books that went about and about and about my head and in my hands the weight of words, the smell of dust upon yellow pages that crumbled and revived my heart.  My heart that no one noticed but him.

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I’ve been alone too long.  I have become the silence, the shuffle, the witness of depthlessness and to invite you in would build walls of contentment that, though pleasant, would stifle me.

Me.  Sounds so selfish and unreasonable.  For most of my life, I felt the weight of wanting to be alone but hating the loneliness.  I spent my nights dreaming of being beautiful and spent my days close to the walls trying to obtain invisibility.

My clothes were always tight or loose or scratched or were too soft or revealing or concealing or…wrong.  I would feel myself burn into embarrassment and would cry alone.  I listened to music with whispering wind and blowing trumpets and voices that rose to clouds and cathedral buttresses.  I cringed at drums and guitars and lyrics that repeated.

I met a gentle stranger.

God help me it was the books, the books, the books that went about and about and about my head and in my hands the weight of words, the smell of dust upon yellow pages that crumbled and revived my heart.  My heart that no one noticed but him.

I had no one to lean upon, don’t you see?  I had no one except my faith in the words a stranger left for me.  I was fucked and dumped and left to care for someone so much like me.  That gave me the determination to hurt anyone and carry on and write the hammer that comes down on the hands that reached out to me.

I had one to protect and I did and I have and I will.  Alone.

The stranger still gentle has opened up for me the library walls and laughed at my perplexity.  All the languages of history do not mock me anymore; I have all the time of eternity to learn.  I have come full circle.

I am still alone and cradle the feeling of lonely as my very own.  I have been alone too long.

 

Photo by Elisabetta Foco on Unsplash

Rock of Ages Light

Shipwreck and remembering the Great Lakes

Sounding Thunder,

Wind in our sails

Good sailing,

Economy counts

And always will.

We sailed the crew low-

A woman to cook, a boy to pray.

The wind in November there is

Nothing at all like her.

The ice encased the hatchways

Freshwater knives cut and

crack our skin.

The young men cry for mothers.

And one hundred years later, in safe harbor,

The generations etch our tomb in radar.

The sensitive woman may wonder

One hundred years from now

And tomorrow, they’ll forget

The waves that slide and take

Sounding Thunder down

To the Rock of Ages.

Pillar of Salt

Lake Huron, so placid – at times.

Roger’s City and Alpena

The sunrise side

Of cold, cold mourning

Head down, no warning.

Mists of Huron

A grip so soft

yet so unrelenting –

What lies of

Beautiful dreams

Do you have for me now?

What passion

Can you wrench from

Me so as to mock

The salt that I am

And you,

You, Huron, are not.

Never have you turned

Around, never has

Regret found you

Above sin, above passion

Like being in love

With a marble

Statue

And I love you.

Sincerely, I do.

Steel Water

Steel Water is a fresh water poem.

So much is now known, my love

Your hand upon your chair

Your gaze focused on the distance

So much is now known my love and yet

So much remains unclear.

 

Often you left to roam so great an unknown

Your hand upon my hair

Your gaze focused on my face to memorize every trace.

Often you left me to make

Known the Unknown.

 

Weeping and lonely through

Childbirth and longing you left me.

Your hand upon the great wooden wheel

Your feet firmly planted on waves of fresh water steel,

So much of it is now known.

 

Every piece of land only an inlet or peninsula

The creak and moan of our home just a reminder of

Launch and storm.

Buffeted by wind and ice, your back straighter

Only I am frailer.

 

Now sit upon your chair

Less weathered than mine.

You sit and gaze upon fresh water, fine sand

And sip wine.

So much, my love, is now known, but who am I?

 

Slowly you approach your hand slides along the small of my back.

“You are the steel water, you are my sight

You are my freedom, my longing, my right

To sail the fresh water.

Come to me, my love, and make yourself known.”

School Girl Crush

I feel the creep of age and miss the one who kept me sane

When is the sun an untruth?

Untruth?  Not to be confused with recline, relax, but everything to do with solitude when a truth is proven.

Not to be confused with the decline we all know is coming (are you sure) or nothing, but everything to do with solitude when a truth is proven by being unprovable.

The sun is an untruth when we can’t see it. We are not intruders here.

“Prove it,” he said all alone, spotlighted and mad and hatless, no small child to impose upon or to frighten.

“Such a vast universe, we are insignificant in comparison,” said they to him

– “prove it,” he said, “prove ‘insignificant!'”

and they proved it to themselves by laughing up their sleeves.

I followed him about while he scowled back at me.  “Go away.”

So I did but came back again.

And little by little he spoke less and less to me.  “Here, read this.”

I did and returned the words to him wanting to hear more, all I heard was, “no, no, keep it, take good care of it.”

I see him now everywhere and nowhere.

The librarian with no roof, no walls, no plastic to protect what paper remains,

and me with this ridiculous schoolgirl crush.

“Here read this,” he told me and now I do really read it and think –

prove ‘insignificant’ to me, prove it.

Sky Dive

There are certain moments when you know there is nothin’ for it but to fall

Catapulted

Right off the ground

I knew straight up

There was nothin’ for it

So I spread my arms

On the ascend and lifted my chin

And while the numbing wind

Blew through my hair

I thought I’ll take a moment

To just forget.

I’ll forget the memory of

The smashing that is coming

The splat on the grass

And the certain tumbling.

I’ll forget the fact that

Being screwed over is

My own fault here in

The twenty-first century.

There is no excuse for tender

Moments and forgetting

The power of lust.

My eyes wide open and

A surge of adrenalin

Blue sky and white cloud all

On the horizon

But here it comes that

Mild descent.  I guess I’ll

Just close my eyes, pause

And dive.

If I Entered Hell

My Beatrice would be a monk with whom I would never confess I was in love with

If I became the female self of Dante

I would hope that Hans Rookmaaker would be my Virgil.

Hell then would be a circular art gallery, a gradual, seven story spiral ending in an ice box.

And within the ice box perhaps Monet, paint brush in hand.

Frozen in the act of painting light, a perplexed look on his face.

“Where is the sensation?” — his eyes would ask; sensation being the only reality of life

for him.

I would ask my guide if I should tell him that he is dead — and my guild would shake his head,

no.

‘Monet lives at last, he feels the cold of his encased death.’

And my guide would pity me, and take me to my Beatrice — a monk who writes the classics and beautifies the deep well walls of knowledge.

There I would stay never saying I was deeply in love with him.

 

Photo by Ashim D’Silva on Unsplash