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AwakeningPoems
I am not the things that have happened to me. Let those words stand like a cup on the table, plain, chipped, steadfast ... waiting for water, or wine, or the small rain of morning. I am not the locked rooms or the winters without windows. I am the window that learned to open. I am the hand that finds the latch in the dark. I am not the hands that unmade anyone else at all. I am the hands that braided their hair before their eternal sleep, the hands that placed gently those bowls of water onto their chests, that said die, and yet live, and "go on flowering, my flowery ones". I am not the night that tried to live inside my name. I am the name spoken back to me, syllable-by-syllable, until it shone. I am not the broken mirror. I am the face that leaned into the shards, took back the mouth, the eyes, stitched them together with breath. I am not the tally of loss. I am the tree that would not stop leafing, even with lightning in its bark, even with smoke in its rings. I am not the doors that never opened. I am the door that remembered its hinge, that swung for a near-stranger's kindness, that let daylight find the floor. I am not the voice that said hush, disappear. I am the other voice ... quiet, stubborn ... the one that says witness, not verdict, and keeps a lamp by the bed. I am not the winter river under stone. I am the loosened thaw, the sudden traveling water, the brookie learning its silver and bright spots again. I am not the questions that burned my sleep. I am the answer of a body standing, feet on the good Red Road, counting: this, this, this ... I am here. I am not the mouthful of salt. I am the kitchen after tears, steam rising from bread, forgiveness of others & self in the butter. I am not the wasted field. I am the seed that refused to hear it, the green rumour under the crust, the first plow shouldering aside the dirt. I am not the bruise of yesterday. I am the colour returning, the skin learning sky again, the laugh that arrives without apology. I am not the map of harm. I am the road that leaves the map, a red thread over the hills, a path that was always mine. I am not the things that have happened to me. I am the keeper of small rituals: tap my Shure mic twice, speak: witness. Touch the window, and open it. Name five honest things in the room, and let my senses keep the truest one. I am not the shadow that mistakes itself for me. I am the body that casts it ... rising, going to the door, stepping into whatever light there is. And if the old weather returns, let it come like rain on a tin roof: loud for a while, then soft, then gone. I will still be here, drying the plates, humming the mirror’s song to myself: I am not the things that have happened to me. I am the one who happened after ... the fruit of my own stubborn tree, sweet, bruised, and allllll mine.
0
6d ago
May 29, 2026 at 10:24 PM UTC
The Things I Am Not
I am not the things that have happened to me. Let those words stand like a cup on the table, plain, chipped, steadfast ... waiting for water, or wine, or the small rain of morning. I am not the locked rooms or the winters without windows. I am the window that learned to open. I am the hand that finds the latch in the dark. I am not the hands that unmade anyone else at all. I am the hands that braided their hair before their eternal sleep, the hands that placed gently those bowls of water onto their chests, that said die, and yet live, and "go on flowering, my flowery ones". I am not the night that tried to live inside my name. I am the name spoken back to me, syllable-by-syllable, until it shone. I am not the broken mirror. I am the face that leaned into the shards, took back the mouth, the eyes, stitched them together with breath. I am not the tally of loss. I am the tree that would not stop leafing, even with lightning in its bark, even with smoke in its rings. I am not the doors that never opened. I am the door that remembered its hinge, that swung for a near-stranger's kindness, that let daylight find the floor. I am not the voice that said hush, disappear. I am the other voice ... quiet, stubborn ... the one that says witness, not verdict, and keeps a lamp by the bed. I am not the winter river under stone. I am the loosened thaw, the sudden traveling water, the brookie learning its silver and bright spots again. I am not the questions that burned my sleep. I am the answer of a body standing, feet on the good Red Road, counting: this, this, this ... I am here. I am not the mouthful of salt. I am the kitchen after tears, steam rising from bread, forgiveness of others & self in the butter. I am not the wasted field. I am the seed that refused to hear it, the green rumour under the crust, the first plow shouldering aside the dirt. I am not the bruise of yesterday. I am the colour returning, the skin learning sky again, the laugh that arrives without apology. I am not the map of harm. I am the road that leaves the map, a red thread over the hills, a path that was always mine. I am not the things that have happened to me. I am the keeper of small rituals: tap my Shure mic twice, speak: witness. Touch the window, and open it. Name five honest things in the room, and let my senses keep the truest one. I am not the shadow that mistakes itself for me. I am the body that casts it ... rising, going to the door, stepping into whatever light there is. And if the old weather returns, let it come like rain on a tin roof: loud for a while, then soft, then gone. I will still be here, drying the plates, humming the mirror’s song to myself: I am not the things that have happened to me. I am the one who happened after ... the fruit of my own stubborn tree, sweet, bruised, and allllll mine.
Awakening - Solsbury Hill (P. Gabriel) https://tinyurl.com/TheThingsIAmNot
Awakening
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Awakening
6d ago
May 29, 2026 at 10:24 PM UTC
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