clmathew

clmathew May 2021

I write myself
written March 29th, 2021

around the cracks in a window
through the looking glass
reflected in a tarnished mirror
sideways and from a distance
right onto the page
I write myself

in every tree and golden hawk
every person seen with my soul
every poem read and reflected on
I write myself

re-membering the dead
and secrets long kept
that I now declare out loud
I write myself

the lost-forgotten-sleeping
the denied-angry-hurt
the joyful-******-loving
I write myself

my present - my world
my head - my heart
that I hope nobody will understand
(or that I want them to understand?)
I write myself

a future healthy and whole
that I am scared to imagine
afraid to hope for or want
I write myself

connections to the world
physical - spiritual - natural
me reaching out to touch you
I write myself

My blood - My beating heart - My breath
all of my all
all that I am - was - might be one day
I write myself

I write to make solid
all those nebulous things
floating around and about and in me
I write myself whole.

clmathew May 2021

Blaze

~Life looks like a white desert, a blaze of today in which nothing distinct can be made out, seen.
—Marvin Bell, "1. About the dead man", Gift of Tongues

Blaze
written May 2nd, 2021

I long to blaze
to be white hot fire
burning fiercely
without limit or restraint

take as kindling
all these collected seconds of tedium
the moments of curling into myself in pain
the flares of white hot passion
the kisses of comfort on the forehead

spark my soul
start the fire
watch me blaze so bright
you have to look away

wait until the coals cool
so you can sift through
the ashes that were me
looking for treasure

I am no longer there.
I have moved on and am
collecting the kindling
for the next
glorious
blaze.

I hope this title wasn't a mistake. I know it means other things. The intent here, is a fire burning bright. I also love the word glorious! Maybe you can feel what the word blaze means to me in this poem, or maybe you'll feel what the word means to you. Thank you for reading me.

clmathew May 2021

Walls

Walls
written November 27th, 2020

I've built walls
rigid strong and nearly impermeable
forming this fortress around me,
nothing gets in or out.

Every sortie against them
leaves them a little stronger,
and me inside
a little more isolated.

Over time I have
grown into and through
my walls safe
from a war
that is long over.

Some poems I just don't know what to do with. This has been in my notebook for months. It goes on for pages with different themes related to walls. I page past it every day, and think it needs more organization, some shape, but I don't know quite what, so I page on by. Today I'm posting one version of it. Maybe in the future I will write another poem about walls that feels more complete and finished.

I love the last stanza, it was originally:

Over time I have
grown into and through my walls
safe from a war
that is long over.

It's the same words, but that line break in the posted version, is it me or my walls that are safe? Thanks for reading me!

clmathew Apr 2021

Brave

Brave
written January 20th, 2021

What is it like
to see the world
through your eyes?
to actually
live
in the world
the way you do?

I ask you, green beret and swat,
about your experience of fear,
and we are so different
you don't even understand my question.
"It's not brave to jump out of planes
if you aren't afraid of it," you say.

(A small voice inside me asks
does that make me brave?
Because I am afraid all the time,
or is it only what you accomplish
in spite of being afraid
that counts as bravery?)

You face the world head on
walk through heaven and hell,
air and water part for you
and you know that they will.

What is it like
to own the world like that,
to see the world
and not be afraid?

This poem is about a friend of mine. "Lucky" is also about him. Some poems are so personal, I think they will never be done. Eventually some of these, I just decide to post.

#brave #fear

clmathew Apr 2021

Just write

Just write
written April 25th, 2021

The first
is relatively easy
just get thoughts on the page.
I repeat to myself - no past -
no future - no pressure -
just write.

Coming back
can be more challenging
to words that flow and stumble
down one side and up the other.
I reassure myself - it is ok -
it will be ok - there is time -
just write.

Some poems
seem so weighty
I don't want to start them
or work on them once started.
I tell myself that
one day will be the right day
to work on that poem
but for today -
just write.

Many days
I want to make excuses.
I say I just wrote yesterday,
or I will write tomorrow,
or I will read someone else's poems,
but my work is my self
and I find my self writing poems, so -
just write.

It doesn't have to be right -
just write.

I love books about books and poems about poems lol. I like dashes. I like symmetry. I don't rhyme, except at the end of this one I just had to. A bit too expected, but what the heck.

I've commented about wanting to be a better poet and things like rhyme and meter. I will never write in a formal style (I expect), but I do want to make my poems a pleasant reading experience. Some lines just feel so nice when read aloud. I suspect that relates to meter, rhyme, and word choice. I want to keep improving at writing that flows, without focusing on mechanics too much. My poems are about what is on my mind, and there are always things on my mind. I hate writing prompts!

clmathew Apr 2021

Pieces - poem fragments

Pieces - poem fragments
written December 5th, 2020

things broken
in pieces
not finding peace

*****
shattered glass
shards reflect
the sun

*****
minnows dart
through shallow streams
as bright sun pierces

I like these. More "not haiku". And I hate the formatting style on here. I can't put a line dividing these, or it turns things into italics. Giving up and leaving it this way because I've tried about 10 things and none have worked. So many reasons to move to another place to collect my poems at some point.

clmathew Apr 2021

One of these

One of these
written March 7th, 2021

One of these
is not like the others.

That one flower off to the right
in the field of flowers.
Do you see her
aglow with a quiet intensity
among all the others?

Always different-alone-apart
holding so many secrets.
What can she say?
What should she not say?
Can she really say
anything at all?

So she holds inside
all the things that burn
in the sunlight and the starlight,
buried so deep in her soul
even she doesn't know
some of them.

One of these
is not like the others.