Fortress

When I was a child, I liked secret places.
The Pantry under the basement stairs,
As high as I could get in the cherry tree.
I even hung fabric around my bed.
I liked places where I could be alone to explore me.
I wanted to have places where no one else went.
Where I was safe and invulnerable.
Some might say it was a freudian desire to return to the womb.
I think not.
I was simply overly sensitive, and needed a place to not be tense.
Somewhere where my unfolding self would never be judged or ridiculed.
Now, I try to be that place for other people.
It isn't easy, and I fail a lot.
But I want to let other people be safe around me.
I never want to wound the the tenderness of newly revealed self.
For that is the greatest crime of all.

I find status reports on social networking sites a rather fraught exercise. Attempting to render the essence of my being in this moment into a single sentence in such a way that won't be misinterpreted is scary. And yet, what is this blog? A compendium of the results of that same exercise more or less. And what about my fear of misinterpretation? It's not like I psychoanalyse my friends status'. My fear is silly and irrelevant, an outgrowth of my fear of judgment and inadequacy. Really it doesn't matter.

Visions of someday

I fly to you
In dream fragments.
Shrapnel of my
Exploding imagination
Piercing the armor of my soul,
Showing me what I dare not show myself;
The deep hidden desires from the wellspring of myself
For someone to talk to in my quiet moments
When I ponder the most delicate questions of my being.
Someone to shelter in return,
From the stones thrown by an unyeilding world.
Or if not shelter, ease the burdens,
By bearing part.
Desiring to bear all.
Finding in myself the highest aspirations
Of sacrifice and love,
Turning my face to the warm, bright sun
Christ, my savior,
And understanding even more his love for me,
Seeing it mirrored, if only faintly,
In the brightness of our love for each other.

Missing

You wake up sad
Because Mom is gone.
I pull you out of your hole
And hold you in my arms
While you cry.
Nothing more.
Just you and me and your sobs
Until your done.
Then we roll cars down a board
And you are happy.

Summer writing

Sweltering, hot, in my sunlit room
I ignore dread thoughts of failure, doom
To focus on the screen.
Characters dancing Corps d' Ballet
I watch them as they, saucy, sashay
In lines upon the screen.
Puppets controlled by pale, quick fingers
Telling this tale like Opera singers
Telling it from the screen.

History

Singing through a shrouded room
Untouched by sunlight's gaze
The music of a culture dead
A sadly ruined maze.

Writing

I feel the story flowing from me,
A part of me,
Apart from me.
In me
And in others,
A piece for all to see.

Obssessing

Plummeting down
Into angry depths
Where I seldom please to play.
With bitter thoughts
That entice me in
To a sick buffet of hate.
Where I ponder
Long past slights and wrongs
And twist them out of their shapes.
Grossly bloated
They poison my mind
Until I thrust them away.