the more personal your poetry
...the more public your audience
You were always very young children,
always waiting for a story.
And I’d been through it all too many times;
I was tired of telling stories.
So I gave you the pencil and paper.
I gave you pens made of reeds
I had gathered myself, afternoons in the dense meadows.
I told you, write your own story.
After all those years of listening
I thought you’d know
what a story was.
All you could do was weep.
You wanted everything told to you
and nothing thought through yourselves.
Then I realized you couldn’t think
with any real boldness or passion;
you hadn’t had your own lives yet,
your own tragedies.
So I gave you lives, I gave you tragedies,
because apparently tools alone weren’t enough.
You will never know how deeply
it pleases me to see you sitting there
like independent beings,
to see you dreaming by the open window,
holding the pencils I gave you
until the summer morning disappears into writing.
Creation has brought you
great excitement, as I knew it would,
as it does in the beginning.
And I am free to do as I please now,
to attend to other things, in confidence
you have no need of me anymore.
I'd find new ways to show him I love him and remind him his worth
I'd tend to my garden and fill every last space with leafy renewal
I'd bake once a week, never the same recipe twice except Gran's shortbread of course but that's an add-on
I'd tend to my herbs and mix up new gin cocktails on Fridays to welcome the weekend
I'd find a cafe to become a regular for casual routine
I'd continue with therapy and heal in my own time with no fretting over consequences or impacts or delays or coherence
I'd sit in the sunshine with podcasts and laugh freely, learn hungrily
I'd read books with soft characters and squishy middles and happy endings
I'd be insular and reach out and hibernate and flit as my needs ebbed and flowed with the social tide
I'd carry notebooks and write pen to paper with every whisper of inspiration in the brickwork and bird chatter
I'd touch the sea everyday no matter the weather
I'd accept the rain, welcome the blue skies, learn to roll through the thunder
I'd be still awhile and move and grow
I'd be free
What would you do with a year of no commitments except to yourself?
upon the afternoon of snow..of his wandered love
he sang his blue guitar into the wintry sky
life burst into snow
the falling snow
...towards dusk he gathers the fallen sky
piling in her heart
and walks her home
and all at once
i held my blue guitar while it snowed
the landscape felt like mine
i stepped slowly towards the dusk
playing a blue guitar while i strolled
the edges of my mind obscured
i played my blue guitar for sanity's sake
music unfolded like a gentle blanket
covering everything with fresh fallen snow
whispering the way home
...i find my way home
i am course, blemished, unfinished
***** hands, fingernails playing through broken strings
a child's small fist
often a rage
often alone in the dark
vulnerable,moving through the mystery
reaching my end in silence
...a myriad of cobbled pathways that once led to castles
i hear the stones begin to sing beneath my feet
and cross threshold after threshold
all manners of visions and awakenings
....sight of you engraves my soul
i go to the one who goes to the one
consider the pale floor
covered cold with candle wax
and other moments lived through
splayed openly upon other cold surfaces
the irreparable stoved hours
when nothing could exist
not time, nor god
..consider the frame of mind
framed within that room
its slight figure contracted
into something further, much smaller
sitting on the floor
covered cold with candle wax
desperately pulling herself tightly up against the wall
...just bits and pieces
just remnants,just shreds
the remaining moment left
lives now onward
but only from behind
..now vision blurred, vision dimmed
or else vision turned completely within
all outward vision gone
i do no better
diasporadic and vanquished
i'm no less a shadow
than you once were
..but your shadow once besides me
and i'm left to walk the same featureless shore
as you once did
this time alone
i can only mark the tides
and carry on
...rest in peace Katie