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 Apr 2021 Stabitha
Paul Hansford
There are journeys from which for all practical purposes
it is not possible to arrive anywhere
except perhaps, after considerable stress,
the place where you started from.
The value of such journeys is not related
to their length, nor even to their difficulty,
though they can be very long and extraordinarily difficult.
It lies rather in the fact of having set out
in the hopeless hope of discovering
but most of all in what we find on the way,
even if it is on the way to nowhere.
 Apr 2021 Stabitha
Paul Hansford
I wanted to write a poem with its own
self-contained harmonies, like the counterpoint of Bach,
half a dozen instruments playing at once,
each one retaining its own
purity while contributing to a pure whole;

or one that should summon up Provence,
with its olive trees, cypresses, and sunflowers
(after van Gogh), and somehow convey the heat
and the perfumed air and the sound
of cicadas;

or one that, like a jewel,
small but perfectly formed,
refracting the light of experience
through each cunningly crafted facet,
might return it in flash after dazzling flash
of inspiration.

I have no ambition to write
the poetical equivalent of the Sistine Chapel,
but I have envied Michelangelo
(Superman of the Renaissance)
his X-ray vision.  He could see
the statue inside the stone.
Why must I so often fail to see
the poem for the words?
 Dec 2020 Stabitha
I miss him
 Dec 2020 Stabitha
His soft touches
with warm embraces,
turnt to bruises and scars
all over her arms.

His sweet lies
full of warm sugar,
stuffed her throat with honey
till she's was gasping for air.

His rampant insecurities-
the way he made her wear them,
like a shield of armor
bore to protect him.

But most of all she misses
the way he played with her.
For now all she feels is numbness-
where once was her heart.
It is a twisted thing-
to miss the one who made cry-
but at least then you had someone to blame
 Dec 2020 Stabitha
the idea is so foreign to me
so unaware, so pure
so *****, so clean
under the starlight which she praised
on sunny days of nostalgia and honey
she came to me the next day to say hello
but she never said good-bye

and partially it was my fault
but partially it was her's
everyone had their beautiful intimate moments
everyone I knew
they all complained and cried
and some of them said they would even die
but who am I to judge
the closest thing I ever had was far away
and now she's even farther.

when I think about going back in time
to change so many little things
I think of the sad times
the crippling times
since they've been so abundant

and maybe the idea is so foreign to me
that it's a dream I cannot remember
that it's in a place unrecorded
not written down
a town in the middle of nowhere
somewhere I need to disappear completely
somewhere I finally need to see

a few years ago I'd breathe in the sea
and the sea would breathe in me
when I believe the time has come
I will think of her and colors
caused by oil on the pavement
explode in my head

and I dream forever, and ever
 Dec 2020 Stabitha
hit me in the face with your shovel
your words burn
(I'd rather have the oven explode)
I'll choke myself on a whole pack of gum
while I think of her hands,
dripping like rain,
the rain that I have forgotten
the rain that has been abandoned
by God himself

every drip was one that believed it was important
or at least someone did
but it hit the ground like my tears late
at night so I browse whatever
I can to find people more upset than me

whether it's some sort of catharsis
some sort of coma,
I sit down and contemplate,
breathe in, and breathe in, and breathe in
don't sit back,
acknowledge me the way I wanted to be ignored

there's no shame in giving up,
everyone does one time or another
are you worried?
are you crying yet?
I keep telling myself I did nothing wrong
move away
I have a pair,
I promise
I won't give up this time
I've tried as hard as I could
(you have nothing to complain about)

one day you'll throw me out, like how
they always throw me out
and I will fall from the sky
even if you want to take me back in
 Dec 2020 Stabitha
If I'm the first one out the door,
will someone stand up and say they love me?
I have been here many times before

I beat my self, emotionally, sometimes physically
what have I done to myself?
I scratch my hair and sigh a little

If I'm the first one out the door,
can I look at you, and smile?
"Stay a while," I'd hope you ask
if I could only bask in your water
but instead I float inside my own tears

I will be the last one out,
because I'm too afraid there are people who
truly want me in their life
and through all the pain, and all the grief,
maybe it's ok, maybe it's alright
to go out on a walk at night
search for headlights in the distance,
since stars are covered up by clouds
and I am no longer illuminated by the moon

and maybe soon I can go home
where all the dogs and humans roam
just in case I'm the last one out,
and no one will cry in their sleep
I'll step up where I don't believe,
and no one will remember me
because they told themselves that this is not real
and I want to believe them
I want to believe them
but this is all too real.

— The End —