"confidante" poems
Everyone says
That trust
Trust
Is a hard thing to earn.
But really
When you see someone for the first time
Your mind
Tells you whether
Or not
You trust them.
Trusting someone is easy.
Knowing someone is hard.
When I met you,
My dearest uncle
uncle
I knew
Right away
That you were
The greatest
Man
I
Had
Ever met.
I am glad I met you.
Blessings to you, my writing confidante.
When I finally
Compile
All of these thoughts
Into a book,
The book will say
Three pages in
"To uncle Percy
"Thank you for believing in me."
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
by: MissPine
Confidante — that's what I am seeking.
Over a thousand tears are still falling.
Longing for what they called love.
Only time could tell how it is tough.
Rollercoaster rides of painful stuff.
Come to me, Oh Clementine!
Omniscient I may be, but I am just a teen.
Dry my eyes as well as this heart of mine.
Empty my mind from thoughts once hide.
Dream about love is just like a tide.
Confident I am in this journey called life.
Rushed imaginations end not be by knife.
Unveiling on what I always been aiming.
Stop for seconds, guess I'm still dreaming.
Hope this be the last game I'm playing.
Who is that confidante I am looking?
The 'Color-coded Crush' who I'm loving.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
who created the hole in my soul?
it never was me
tell my why does it hurt so much?
mama said just because
who created the hole in my soul?
life’s supposed to be full
why am i feelin’ emptiness
he came along my heartstrings pulled
he fills my heart and my soul with his
don’t know why i felt alone
he’s my lover, friend and confidante
i swear to god i’m finally home
who created the hole in my soul?
do i wanna to fill it up?
it aches until i have him back again
finally full my empty cup
i gave myself to him and was complete
he took me in and we were whole
but he left forever, he was gone
torn in half he took my soul
who created the hole in my soul?
i have to find what is lost
god i’m beggin’ put it back again
my life is gone and that’s the cost
i was fraught woulda done anything
drownin’ in pain, i hurt so
i had to find myself inside my heart
it was me i sought to know
i gotta fill me with what’s within
never was i incomplete
seeking outer things to fill me up
a sure way to defeat
then i met yet another one
now my spirit is complete
lovers united and whole again
this time we won’t be beat
who created the hole in my soul?
not god but life’s hard blows
put the pieces back to mend my life
now i’m healed and that i know
if you find there’s a hole in your soul
don’t seek that’s in the past
then you can be and take what comes
cuz you can be with you last
yeah, you can be with you at last
©2016janetaylor
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
you needed each other
though neither of you yet knew it
each ingesting what each season offered
growing beyond near defeats
each winter bare and shivering
each summer consuming broad and open
laughing all the while
showing bridges
between deep past and next season
neither existing without the water
the other poured willingly
one for the blinding yet nurturing
impending solar singularity
and the other for the pleasant aroma
and the welcoming blossom
and the predictability
the companionship
and when you
our beautiful ample matriarch left us
so did your sister
and her leaves fell
and then her petals
and her pistol
stamen
limbs
as if weeping for the loss of her confidante
when you
my mischievous sponsor
when you fell
so did your rival in beauty
i used a chainsaw
i tossed away her lifeline
turned off the faucet and tossed the hose
stacked her limbs on the curb
for the garbage truck
they wont let you
bury trees at the cemetery any more
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
—Flash Forward—
A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.
“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”
—Flashback—
General.
Colonel.
Aide-de-camp.
Immigrant.
“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”
—Stepfather of the Union—
Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.
“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
corrected it.”
“The Federalist: Addressed to the People
of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
of government.”
—Family and Marriage—
The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.
“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”
—Why, How, How long?—
Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”
‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
Hamilton: The Revolution
*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
With credit to the book:*
Hamilton: The Revolution
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
Welcome Sorrow
no need to seek forgiveness
for not knowing me by name
i've waited long and lonely
to feel the touch
of such desolate company
tell me then
are you here to show me
all of my tomorrows
reflected in a deep pool
of tears from yesteryears
show me that i can be a lover
but can never be loved
show me that i'll still be here
but never will i belong
that these are not my people
these are talents
to which i'll never possess
so stop whispering
stop whispering
come closer my friend
show me that nothing exists
over those grey foreboding hills
show me that nothing survives
at the end of a fractured rainbow
show me that the rivers and oceans
are but a flow of tiny tears
show me that all the dawns and the dusk
of this world to you belong
show me that the only peace to be found
is in a black dogs stare
come now my confidante
wrap me in your arms
so tightly once more
let me see through your eyes
feel through your veins
speak through your wisdom
emasculate in your reign
but go now my lover
my temptress go
place these words so delicately
on your parched and wretched tongue
from a kiss
to a whisper
to a shattering scream
that this is my goodbye
this is my goodbye
that this is to be
Your final Goodbye
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
You remind me
of a wet New York,
a summer of oily
lights on the roads,
of concerts in the park
and the white, loving claustrophobia
in the sky,
you remind me
of standing at a window
fourteen floors up
watching cars on FDR
in the darkness,
hoping that one of them
is yours,
you remind me of
sirens
always, you remind me
of
a confidante
in an alleyway
stale with garbage
always,
you remind me
of subways
and dark knowledge the length and width
of a city
always, you remind me
of crossing a bridge
over grey water
and pewter boats.
It is hard for me to let go
of the city
even as it dampens
in the slate rain;
and the stretched clouds
are pulled down
over the highrises of love.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
im a shell of a lighter baby
not used for the flame but for the pretty picture on the side
im a scaled down turnaround mama
watch me do it again
im a defiant defect sister
you dont know the metaphor youre messing with
be my sidekick confidante
match my song and dance
pray for bread and butter
they never had a chance
entranced by all the little lines
anything for some piece of mind
im a knowitall grassfire honey
turned around by the wind
im an everloving choo choo train
believing the things you say
im a lost and broken soul sweetheart
give me tape or give me death
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 5:59 AM UTC
Where I go to escape.
When I begin to feel my body broken to the core and my mind shattered into pieces, this paper serves as my bandage and the words serve as my scars.
Words are my escape. I could write till the world ends. I write poetry when the mood strikes and the words just flow and I, unable to control the way my fingers move loosely stuck in a beautiful trance. Whenever I feel I need to get the feelings out, my writings and rumblings are how I escape reality. The words are the little sparkling stars that people think I would not have the courage to express.
My pink journal, filled with words and phrases help me to escape the violence that is life and it becomes a sanctuary where life's troubles and woes slowly drift away. Where I go to escape begins in my bedroom.
In my "haven" there are no rules , I simply say what I want, whenever I feel. My canvas becomes my paper and each word a small fragment contributing to the final image. It has the potential to create beautiful things out of scrap pieces I call my emotions. My ideas pour out on me with the intensity of water flowing through a newly broken dam.
The place where no rhyming, metaphors, or similes are needed. Just thinking, breathing, living and most importantly, the words.
My escape becomes a lens as It is a way to see the world from a slightly different perspective. My escape is part of an expression . When my family and friends turn their backs on me, poetry says: " take a pen and paper and write how you feel." Poetry is my therapist.
Poetry, for me, is all my thoughts. My heart belongs to poetry. It is my confidante, my best friend and the one thing I can turn to when everyone is sick of me. I tell poetry everything; and poetry tells me nothing. I am dependent on poetry.
My escape on pen and paper, emotions poured onto a page because poetry says: " what you feel is what you write, it helps to let it out." It is a perfect outlet for those who don't scream or like shout but rather engage in their silent cries.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Staid solitude and silence lend me ease
from mind’s congestion, tongue’s propensive burl
toward chatter’s looping, irritating whirl—
exchanging dervish dust for bonny breeze.
My soul may sing and soar from quiet’s nest
or sit in stillest calm without weight’s care
within the waiting, because God is there
who knows me, hears me, grants me sweeping rest.
The Everlasting God, the LORD o’er all
who understands me, loves me with no end—
most faithful, fervent Confidante and Friend—
pervades the sweet quiescence with His call,
“Here in My peace, come find your heart’s desire.
Serene in Me, soul catches My love’s fire.”
May 23, 2022
May 23, 2022 at 10:34 AM UTC
To the man who raised me where my own father couldn’t,
Papa… where do I even begin?
I love you more than words could ever express. I will always cherish our time together- even though I will forever hate that we could not have more- and all the lessons you taught me. You were the most sincere, hard working, admirable and loving person I will ever have the fortune of knowing.
You were my protector, my knight in shining armour, my superhero, my rock, my anchor, my confidante, my defender, and my best friend. There will never be a man in my life who could ever measure up to your strength, love and kindness.
I’m sorry I’m not ready to let you go… nor do I think I ever will be. I guess part of me just thought you would be here with me forever. I really wish that were the case… but if it’s time for you to go, I guess I can settle for you being my guardian angel instead.
I also just want to thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for always being there for me without ever questioning it or wavering.
Thank you for holding my hand and guiding me.
Thank you for wiping my tears, hugging me tightly and always knowing how to comfort and cheer me up.
Thank you for protecting me.
Thank you for always having my back and supporting me.
Thank you for all the times you soothed my anxiety attacks growing up.
Thank you for all the nights you spent up with me when I was afraid.
Thank you for your undying love and support.
I can’t ever thank you enough for everything.
I miss you so much. I wish I could talk to you once more. I wish I could tell you how much I love and miss you. I wish I could thank you and apologize. I wish I could joke around with you.
I wish I could have you sing to me- in that god awful tone-deaf singing voice of yours that always made me laugh. I’d even put up with you singing Chicken Talk.
I wish we could have had more time, but I know that no amount of time would ever have been enough. I got you for almost 25 years and I guess that will have to be enough.
I would give anything just to be able to tell you this and for you to be able to hear me and respond. I know you’d tell me not to cry and not to be sad. I know you would tell me you love me and always will. I know you’d also tell me to take care of Nonna and Callisto, Nova and the kids.
I just wish more than anything I could actually hear you saying those things.
You are my sunshine, papa…
Always, your little girl.
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 3:51 PM UTC
I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks
I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me
Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper
Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.
I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or arse-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.
© M.L.Emmett
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Paul Wittgenstein returned from war,
feeling half a man.
He had fought his nations’ battles
at the cost of his right hand.
The loss of an appendage
scars anyone, its true.
Paul was a pianist-.
With just one hand what could he do?
Paul Wittgenstein was fortunate
Having Ravel for a friend.
A confidante of Gershwin,
He said Paul would play again..
He wrote a sweet piano piece
To be played with just one hand.
If you close your eyes and listen
You would never guess his plan.
A composer of precision,
With a jazzy playful side,
His left handed concerto
Was one to make the angels cry
Paul Wittgenstein took to the stage
A sea of faces looking on.
He played the piece so brilliantly
None guessed his hand was gone.
Not until he left his seat
To bow to their applause
Some gasped in their astonishment,
But most just cheered and roared.
Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand is one of the most brilliant and important of 20th-century concertos for any instrument. Composed for Paul Wittgenstein, a pianist who lost his right arm during World War I, there is no way by simply listening that you would ever know its secret. Both of Ravel's concertos were heavily influenced by jazz--possibly also by his acquaintance with Gershwin--and successful performances must combine his customary precision with a certain ability to "swing" the tunes. --David Hurwitz
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
It was December and warmer than usual
when I cried my eyes out.
First I thought of my father, who died when I was seventeen
and I cried for my lost confidante and my mentor,
Then came my children and my gentle breeze,
and I cried for dreams unrealised and a death unexpected,
Then came the vision of my Father-in-Law
and I cried for the theft of a beautiful, gentle soul,
Then came the loves I passed in my cold and confused youth
and I cried for what was, could have been and simply imagined,
Then came the poor and the desperate strangers
and I cried for the injustice and the severed cord of humanity
Finally I sobbed for myself
for the sadnesses I endured and the failings that I am.
oh how I cried.
I cried with wine and without,
tears salty with the grapes of Spanish hillsides
I cried with tears so hot they steamed my glasses
with a fog of self loathing.
I cried until my tears were all but gone
until all that was left was me
and all my flaws and my humbled greatness.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
My life has changed... I feel cold... Alone.. And upset... I cry silently.. I dont know how to move on and im trying i really am but i just dont know how. I feel something in my heart that i cant explain. Its like a physical pain but medicine doesn't work. My birthday is coming up and its hard to picture any celebration without you.
My head hurts from missing you and sometimes crying. I know time will make it easier but noone talks about the "right now"... Part of me was amputated the day you left
My heart weighs a ton yet its empty. Losing you has been tough although thats an understatement... Its been less than 48 hrs and i have at least 3 things to tell you already.. Who do i tell? I re-read our texts over and over and i smile because i have no regrets. You kno what you mean to me and i sure know wat i meant to you. I even have u tatted on me forever. We did so many firsts together and this.... This right here we were supposed to do together too... But you left me...
You never think that the last time is the LAST time. These emotions come in waves. One minute im okay the other minute all these emotions come rushing and its overwhelming. The minute i think im alright it just starts all over again. I dont know how to handle it but i do know that time will make it easier to cope with.
Some people know what you really meant to me. Others may say she was just your 2nd cousin. But... I've lost my best friend. Yes she was my cousin but thats at the bottom of the list bc blood couldnt make us any closer. She was my ride or die. Usually i was the one always arguing on her behalf tho bc she didnt have a quick enough comeback ever. My partner in crime, My confidante who knew everything and i mean everything even the TMI stuff. My comadre, i still dont kno what to tell the kids... And they just mentioned you today. My heart shattered in that moment. She was just my person...
I can only wish everyone in this world can experience the bond like the one i had with her. The ties that bond us are impossible to explain. Our bond defied distance, time, or location because we were just meant to be.
Because you are my person and will always be my person... I love you
Me duele el alma..
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
Your Wreath, Un-Thrifting Essence, bears his Name
And Fine be your Acts soothe such Heavy Hand
Which Time boost as his Protector and Sage
Skimming the Dirt infect his Rising Sand
Though one would Wonder why such Blogger speak
Of Secrets known must bequeath to the Few
Though in your Boy's Best Fate subdue the Meek
Out of Best Concern his Wild Growth does stew
So persistent be our same Wonder at
Those Keys deserved should never be Endorsed
For his own Respect; As ours Mature that
Let the Gentleman go if his Plays be Forced.
My Loyalty, still, Un-Conditioned will be
Though Swords still stab on such Smile you Reprieve.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
My diary bit me last night
It bit my hand then lunged for my throat
So I tore it’s pages to shreds and lit fire
My memories, some not missed, but most will be.
It screamed and cussed as it burst into flames
Thrashed and trashed its outer cover
While still aiming for my throat
I sat back and found another book
As I wrote I promised I’d come back when the flames died
The diary still wearing itself out
Other books said I lie, but my promise I would keep
No matter how scuffed up the cover turned out
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
That Pillow...if it could speak,
would have all too much to say.
It would drown your very ears
with stories of fears.
It would count, for you, the lost numbers
of tears that have been shed,
but never wiped away,
just dried up slowly, instead.
That Pillow...if it could speak,
what would it say?
How many dreams and secrets
would it betray?
Ahh, but that tender Pillow of mine,
it would never cross that line,
For it is always there...eager to bend...
for me,
and always to lend...
itself, as my friend, you see.
That Pillow...it serves me quite well,
and though there is always much to tell...
I know it will never sell...
me...out like that.
Discarding judgement, it takes it all in...
both virtue and sin.
Soft confidante as well as confessor,
putting up with the aggressor.
Never questioning a word or thought,
or the torment of inquiries sought.
Oh...that sweet Pillow; it knows me too well,
And a true friend indeed;
veiling inner stirrings and secret stories...
and it shall never tell.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
She wrote down her thoughts
More than she said them
The paper was her confidante
And her mouth the pen.
She wrote in prose and rhymes
In words of grief and pain
Sadness was her mother tongue
And joy her only bane.
She wrote down the cruelty
Of love and of art
She fed on broken promises
That gave her a shattered heart.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
I thought if the moon turns away,
I’d put an ear to the ground
hoping to hear the earth’s heartbeat.
I thought if the earth revolves
without a whim or a care,
I’d walk with it
so I could confide in the stars.
I thought that if the stars
don't listen,
maybe...
Just maybe you would.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
you are the tiniest of scattered things
remembered in the cloudiest of dreams
so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or
fly high into my head,
you are the characters in the books i have read,
the heroes, both living, and dead,
you are among the greatest of my ambitions,
you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission,
but you are missing,
you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor,
confidante,
you were there when i was in the room,
but i was not,
when i broke into two,
a shell of me, and i,
wishfully, blissfully,
irridescent moon,
you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms,
the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune,
you are sometimes the songs you sang,
sometimes the silences
sometimes the gentle rain
sometimes my tears, or violences,
the woods we walked, the talks we talked
the cluttered house,
faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls,
in phonebooks, and on all
of my cards,
you are often here
when i am gone
and i am often gone
when you are near
it is the reuniting that i long for,
it is the forgetting that i fear.
you are all around me, but fading,
you are a pencil drawing,
losing its shading.
a perfect snapshot, on aging paper
once and only once a perfect snapshot, later
smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten,
burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths,
found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten.
Returned to earth, or dust, or ash,
and though i long to hold you in a perfect memory..
time...
must pass.
i miss you.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
The marvelous thing
is how I hear this bird
sing,
from morning to night
and from winter to spring.
It happily glees,
never sad, never in fright.
It glides with purpose
from darkness to light.
Aggression it welcomes
from predators (weak)
for its mind is superior
and respect it will seek.
Underestimate, only a fool
will dare.
With intellect,
vibrancy,
and vigilance
there
will be a surprise
-- most minds will be blown --
with glory it ravages,
but dignity shown.
Above all else,
I prefer to mention,
something vital
to bring to your attention;
you must look beyond
my observation
for all things beautiful,
in adoration
this bird holds dear
to heart and mind
a one true love
its meant to find.
The heavens,
the sea,
the corporeal plains
it tours the earth,
again and again
but never alone,
but with another;
one’s promised,
confidante,
Jay’s one true lover.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Art. Rooms. Community. Eyes closed, I walk through it's entrance way, trailing my hand along the smooth wood of the wall; the hallway feels like a return to earth.
Light filters in through eyelashes and I step out of a close space into the heart of the centre - a domed, organic gallery, glowing peace; staircase to heaven spiralling out of it's core; up to studios and therapy rooms, a rainbow of colour encompassed by their interiors; soft space held by life.
The gardens sway in soft sunshine; herbs and flowers that lean towards the kitchen; a small cluster of tables basking in the scents of earthy, homely food; our chef at the helm, friend and confidante to all.
A circle of the smooth outer wall brings us to rooms alight with creativity; soft sweeps of brushes in silk and the dampened buzz of ink on skin; the gentle embrace of care and understanding, time within time. A room, full of messages, enriched with thanks and awareness and focus, for all of the experience that has helped us to feel our way to this place. We are a team, though we have not yet met.
In my head, there is a centre and it serves as the foundations for a community of those who feel. The idea grows and multiplies and I try to keep up and I hope that it is a dream that will support me with its curving, caring walls. I hope and I hope and I hope to be able to meet it, to be enough for it, to have the energy it needs to be brought to life. I hope and I dream and I trust. I let it keep me from despair, when all has gone black and full of nothing. I don't know how to get there but I am drawing the map every day.
With love and thanks for giving us this space.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
the first time we passed in the hallway
our energies awakened
to the presence of a like spirit
it was that instant that you
became my friend
although neither of us knew it yet
a year later, mouths and hearts opened
empathy
spirituality
humanness
and humor
linguistic nuances and predilections
sing with ease and asylum
the enlightenment and
liberation of being heard!
for this, i vow my loyalty
years, miles, and actions
are inconsequential
here i stand
confidante
encourager
synchronicity
how much you have been
to me is fathomless
the who you are, is soil under my feet
your words breathe air into my mouth
your kindness anoints my head with oil
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC