"unabashedly" poems
Closing Love Letter Salutations
~~~
Hugs, kisses, and broken fingers,
Love you now and forever,
Always and truly,
Forever,
I'll love you always,
Longing to see you again,
Thinking of you, unabashedly,
Missing you every moment,
You are My Best,
My heart belongs to you always,
Patiently yours
Patiently, us,
Remembering, us,
Remembering us the way we were,
Written hopefully,
You have all my love,
You know I love you,
Your darling,
Your devoted lover,
Your endless love,
Your eternal,
Your love always,
Your loving,
Yours always
*Yours and only yours,
Always...
~~~
http://www.writeexpress.com/letterclosings.html#Love-Letter-Closings
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
(I love) Dignity
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly*
knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age
this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step
I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond desperately
yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum
Dignity.
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely*
dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled
to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.
all else will follow
the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework
now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,
in a manner most
undignified
still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out
and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,
forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.
it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing*
I love dignity.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
I should speak what’s on my mind
And yet you censor what I say
Conformists following their set way
Unabashedly blind
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
Thoughts leaping through my head like a ballet
In an elaborate design
And yet you censor what I say
Follow the script “Hello” “Good day”
Nothing new and all will be fine
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
My words are clay
Moldable, unconfined
And yet you censor what I say
This world goes by in shades of gray
My rainbow is maligned
You tell me nothing should ever keep me at bay
A̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶e̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶e̶n̶s̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶a̶y̶
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.
He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure
I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”
But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
It's another night where I feel
Like I need someone to understand me.
I can't contemplate any
More of my life.
I've tried to live, I've tried to die...
I'm still so cold inside.
I"m bitter, I'm bored.
I'm lonely, I'm sore.
I'm crying, I'm trying.
I'm lying and I'm sick of it.
Can we all just stop?
Why can't we stop?
Will we just stop...
This pointless existence
Faced for masses,
Yet blinded by adversity
And wills of actions.
Can we all just stop?
Why can't we stop?
Will we just stop existing?
I have.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
to feel your embrace is heaven on earth
your caress, your gentle aggresiveness
the deep pleading in your eyes for my body to be intertwined with yours..
we melt into one another
our souls connecting, our skin vibrating
pleasantly awaiting that moment of complete serenity
that bliss
the trembling of our tender quakes, lost in submission..
heads in the clouds, counting wisps of broken dreams
carrying the weight of the world in our hopeful hearts, beating together as
o n e
a solid entity
i stroke your cheek, imaginging for that moment that we are the only two on the planet
far-stretched across the galaxy
our very existence shedding light throughout the cosmos..
you wink, a guilty smile
knowing the thoughts floating thru my mind
ever-dreaming, lost in space & time with you..
we shed our skin, glowing in the naked vulnerability of our souls:
on display, for only us to see
a cloak of protection surrounding each other from the outside world
our love a vast secret of hope for all the jaded souls who hoard away their love
buried under heartache and unforgiveness
relentlessly hiding their shame
an atrocity to all those who've cast aside bitter memories
grasping at the void for acceptance and bliss..
the stars shine bright in the night sky
overwhelming me with their capacity to give and give, and never take
they shed their light over our swelling hearts, catering to our every wish
a beautiful gesture of pure loving kindness
a feat i will cherish for all of my days..
you stir slightly, not wanting to jolt me from my peaceful reverie
nonetheless, unabashedly watching me delight in the unfathomable universe surrounding us
your half-cracked smile says it all, as you glow with admiration
or is it my glow that is pouring over you?
quietly, i take your hand in mine, smoothing the hair on your neck
i rest my head in the crevice of your shoulder
thoughts drifting in and out
only heaven on earth remains
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
I should have lived to thank you more,
where the blue dots and the green dots
met on a stormy porch-front streaming
crack-paint, blank and dirt from years
of games on the blurry tabletops.
Years of games.
We should have walked in the fields,
you the tide swelling and falling and
ultimately disgorging universes of all
you used to know: the good and the small
and the stern and the silly and the cruel.
The good and the small.
He will take your place in the shows,
in all the nightlies and the dailies,
grey hat and black sash. He is taller
by far, and you can't look up to someone
that unabashedly taller than you.
Grey hat and black sash.
You would have made time for me between
strides on the honest diamond of the sky,
and I? I might not listen at all, but
the pearl in the glasses, those awful
brown glasses would stay with me.
I might not listen at all.
She sat with us many evenings as the
winds raked the small lights of our speech.
What has become of her, I wonder more
frequently, but sleep with my head
on my hands all the same.
Sleep with my head on my hands.
They call me under the door, they call.
They fill me with themselves until I'm out.
Just what they want from me and less. Still,
they can't tell me the good and the small,
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always tied up.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.
They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.
A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Before I begin, let me make one thing perfectly clear:
Everything I’ve ever given a **** about, I’ve been unabashedly critical of.
So believe me when I say that I appreciate ever word out of your mouth I’ve spanned the distance to hear.
You have all these years that you hang over my head, dangling them, subtly mocking from the end of a thread.
Yes, darling, you’re well aged and well-read but I’ll be ****** if I will let my experiences be invalidated by a few years and your fiery, well-meaning arrogance, let that be heard as it’s said.
It’s true that you know me better than most but don’t get it twisted. You sure as hell don’t know me better than me.
Pretend all you like that I’m buttered-up and convinced that your life lessons and late night calls have set me free, but you know as well as me that’s a lie fed through your precious mind’s teeth.
I boil and I freeze so I know I can stand the heat, but just remember one thing:
You’re intense and addictive but baby, the scorpion still stings.
And one twin will **** well bite while of your praises the other sings.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.
Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***
along on every page.
****** and ***** gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.
So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.
Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
_Marge_ retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.
SNAP-AP
Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.
SNAP-AP-AP
Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.
SNAP-AP-AP-AP
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 7:01 PM UTC
- I will always be willing to listen to your
stories, and will forever want to hear them.
Your words are as good as music to me.
- There will be days where the sun feels cold to
me and I am made a prisoner to my deepest fears.
There will be nights where I wake up sobbing,
just as much a prisoner as I was during the day.
Be gentle, be patient with me.
- I smile at everyone I make eye contact with on the street.
- I love in an earnest manner that can be
overwhelming. I am not malevolent,
but rather I have spent years being told
that my feelings aren’t worth listening to,
and I just have a lifetime’s worth of love to give.
- If you manage to hold what I can throw at you,
you’ve found someone in your
corner that won’t go without a fight.
- You’ll never see me fighting anyone.
- I’ve worried I’m too vulnerable for far too long;
I am raw and unadulterated and unabashedly so.
I refuse to inhibit what I have to say.
- I will give you all that I have and more;
please don’t take advantage of this.
- I will write about you, I will write about how
I feel, I will write about someone I once loved
and about how I once felt. Words and feelings
are fleeting, but they are also powerful.
- I will ask you questions until I’ve found out
everything there is to know about you-
including things you never thought about.
- I have friends who will call me in the dead of
night; I will answer the phone, I will drive to
their house with their favorite dessert in tow.
- I will pull over on the side of the road if the
clouds are compelling enough. I can sit for hours
watching the sun set or water fall. Either hold my hand
and join me, or let me be overwhelmed by something
greater than myself in peace.
- No one can or will love you the way that I do;
take that as my most horrid vice, or my most endearing virtue.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Imagine 💭
I had a dream where my mother mustered the courage to own her truth; unabashedly and unapologetically. In that parallel universe, she owned her own identity, and not being defined as someone's wife or daughter. She never fell for anyone where she was obliged to stay, rather she dared to leave. Pursuing her dreams and travels to places she has never been before, chasing sunsets and dreams. Like the Phoenix from the ashes, she rebuilds her life from the scratch.
In another life, I don't wish to be born so that my mother can reap the benefit to live, laugh and love.
~RitzWrites 🥀
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 4:10 PM UTC
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain
the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root
the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan
genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all
no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food
mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition
each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish
asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,
"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"
and she, burst out loud in laughter
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC
pineapples.
why do we like them?
i don't know.
they are prickly
and pokey.
and kind of ugly.
and man, are those things ******* hard to peel.
apples.
why do we eat them?
i don't know.
they are shiny.
and kind of boring.
and you can't eat half of it anyway,
because it's too close to the seeds.
strawberries.
what kind of fruit are they?
their seeds are on the outside.
and their flavor of starburst doesn't taste anything like them.
and sometimes they get really squishy and covered in mold.
bananas.
why do we eat them?
i don't know.
maybe because they are yellow.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
I thought
my thoughts
were bigger than anyone's.
Maybe I was bigger than anyone.
This served to isolate me
from the fact that I am small, not bigger and I am okay
with that.
When did it begin? Why would I need this mechanism of living?
Did it start at birth? Or when my cat died in our house fire?
Maybe...
When I lost my father to his mental illness? When he was taken away?
Maybe the ****
When the trauma set in?
If I am a mass of cells, a living organism,
vulnerable to this world of others.
I need protection. There was none when little. Children need protection.
I developed my bigger-self by watching others. I learned to protect.
I learned to heal. I learned to forgive, but always, my thoughts
were bigger than yours. You didn't recognize so I appeared
aloof, angry, bitter, warming, smarter, friendly, volatile, politically correct, patient, intense, stubborn, caring, wistful, shattered and put together again. I was all over the map. I couldn't find my waypoint, until now.
This is life's way. Our vehicle is our thoughts.
I am not bigger in thought, in action or in self. I am tired of running away, of blaming, of being ashamed.
I no longer need protection other than from myself.
I am now relaxing in the part I could not have been taught. The idea that even experiences, over and over and over again, would teach me my lesson. You ask why people keep repeating
mistakes. This is our allotment. The price each of us pays.
It is my thoughts that save me now, wondering about my son, his illness, about my predicament
after years of hard work, unabashedly independent, procuring mindfulness, deliberating the Buddhist way, meditating on thoughts,
through a maze of my twelve steps
that I now for this moment am alone in. My thoughts deconstructed. More connected, but not bigger.
My shoulders drop, my face unfurrows, my heart slows, a tear begins if I let it. I am released. I will not suffer further.
How can I tell you, I am not bigger any longer and I am at peace.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
There stand the gates.
Massive and made of the highest quality oak. Ornate, covered with runes of a forgotten language.
In front of this gargantuan doorway stands its guard.
A black-faced lion with a rust colored mane, a man's body, full armor, and a long halberd.
The Gatekeeper
"No man enters these gates except through me," he says,
"You would be a fool to believe you'll walk through alive.
I will not simply **** you,
Once you attempt to pass this line."
he points at a faded gap in the grass in front of him.
"I will break you.
I will annihilate you.
I will devour your soul
Slowly."
He begins to pace back and forth while hungrily looking you up and down.
Despite his having the body of a man, he still looks very much more like a predator.
"I have no need of meat.
I will leave your body for the vultures!"
He gestures to the pile of bones off to the side of the intimidating gate.
Picked clean.
"Your mind and your,"
he inhales deeply as if he were trying to sniff out a savory dish,
"Spirit!
Are what interest me.
When I am finished with you,
You will be mine entirely!
I will enjoy every morsel of your being.
But my mouth grows weary of speaking."
He looks you in your eyes.
"It wishes to eat."
He unshoulders his halberd and takes up an offensive stance.
The long shaft ends in a finely sharpened point,
Unabashedly aimed in your direction.
"Will you feed me?"
He asks,
"Will you risk these teeth for a chance at these doors?"
You clench your jaw in determination,
And take a step forward.
He smiles.
His razor sharp, impossibly clean teeth shine in the sun.
"Excellent."
he licks his lips,
"I do love a good meal."
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Pitter patter raindrops gently sprinkle my windows,
Thunder rumbles again.
Sky’s are dark, darker, glooming happily,
The day meanders, hiding and seeking,
and the sky starts pouring its heart out .
Pale silver threads, navigating their way down against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June.
And my day of revival, birth and reckoning.
Only a day away from the solstice.
Here in leafy, caressing, sleepy Goa,
the dusk will soon begin its slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
In my secluded, fragrant, verdant labyrinth,
I sip coffee,
I notice the lone squirrel scurrying away to find shelter,
and listen to birds chirping, bees buzzing, the gurgle of water,
and to an insistent song in my head that just doesn’t stop playing but too spellbound to put pen to paper right now.
And now, as I go for a drive on this quiet, directionless, mellow afternoon,
I cannot remember the word I want to write,
I think I have no words.
The thunder is closer now.
It sounds like drumbeats , the rearranging of celestial furniture, like our transit to this beautiful abode we call home now.
Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all unabashedly.
I think about the past.
Not in any structured way. Just people who have come and gone, who linger, who stay and who have left their indelible fragrance around me.
For a few moments, my mind wanders down the past and I sigh at my own predictability.
The thunder is passing. Grumbling and groaning in the distant now.
Each leaf looks freshly washed, scrubbed sparkling clean and shades of green hold my gaze.
The paddy fields look abundant and satiated.
The single bird has become a small chorus, a full roaring celebration on.
I stare at my page. I have still written nothing.
But, sweetness,
I just experienced divinity,
I feel blessed and just absorb the present.
I am the road and the paddy field,
I am the bird, the squirrel and the bee,
I am the thunder, and the rain,
I am the song and the quiet,
In the abundance ,
I am me, what I want to be❤️
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
**Poet took a grandiose leap of faith,
amid a big swig of moonbeams
dabbling toes beyond starry galaxies
Milky Way spun in translations
Pluto still looked perplexed,
Big Dipper gave a smart **** grimace
wondering what the hell was
going on 'neath the stratosphere
when human beings can't keep
their heads above ambiguous clouds
feet firmly planted on ground,
delving lofty heaven's bliss
escaping the wrath of hell's fire,
aggrandizing endless poesy that
absorbs sparks of a universal desire
never phasing sun's obstinance,
but, if you believe in poetry
there's no telling where
boundless skies will surrender**
...and the man in the moon tilted on his axis in a
backward's spiral and unabashedly winked
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
I feel
Used up
Cleaned out
Thrown away
Cast aside
Discarded
Exploited
Exploited
Exploited
Like twenty-two years
Of making myself a beautiful person
Was only for others to grab at
And pilfer
At will.
I never knew my pleasure
Was at the whim of animals
Of worms and wolves and vultures.
I never knew I had to ask
Permission
To live my life unsoiled.
May I?
May I be loved?
May I be appreciated and accepted?
May I trust?
May I have sole ownership of my body?
Someone pillaged my temple.
It is now closed
For demolition
And subsequent reconstruction.
It will be rebuilt
With steel bars and security guards.
No longer do I love freely and unabashedly.
No longer do I trust others
Or myself.
I have sewn my own head
Back into place
To stick my neck out again.
I now wear the stitches
As a trophy
As a medal
As a warning
As a threat
That I will never let you befriend me
I will never let you touch me
I will never let you in
I will never let you close
I will never let you hurt me
I will never let you **** me
Again.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Listen. I'm not silent.
In fact, I'm immensely talkative.
I have a loud mind that produces battalions of statements daily.
I am talkative.
Words egress from my lips like rivers flowing to vast seas.
I speak of my aspirations, dreams, and visions for the future.
I brag about my strengths and feats that I have achieved.
I impart my knowledge and discoveries to the curious.
I am not silent.
I share my experiences and learnings to elicit self-reflection.
I exclaim my inspirations and interests with much enthusiasm.
I was never silent.
I admit my weaknesses, insecurities, and fears with difficulties.
I enumerate my quirks and oddities despite hesitating.
I disclose my secrets and sins that marred me.
Why do you call me silent?
I elaborate my thoughts and my whims on the spot.
I sing my favorite rhymes, lullabies, and songs that are more than just mellifluous melodies.
How can you call me silent?
I utter peculiar lines and cryptic metaphors in varying tones.
I narrate stories of friendships, love, romance, and passion in diverse forms.
I spit verses of hatred, greed, atrocity, and apathy with vehemence.
I scream what's taboo, ****** unconventional, and abhorrent unabashedly.
There is absolutely no space in my mouth for silence.
I am not silent and my lips are not closed.
Your eyes are just covered, and you do not know how and when to listen.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
In these stuck between hours
I discover the noise of being
that comes from an atmosphere
not used to being heard
The warping of the wooden doors
goes on unabashedly.
Like animals in untouched climes
they scurry along unaware
of conscious eyes that stare
only for selfish reasons
The observer adulterates
a once selfless night
Nowadays the timbers under
the floor have lost their
native timbre, taken on
a softer echo of carpet covered servility
Even after mistakes are recovered,
these once savage floors can no longer reclaim
any primal creak after being tucked into
domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children
paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults
left cold by countless other floors never once
imbued with the life of a home.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
I sit quietly and watch as they all pass by
Strange strangers of every shape and size
Wondering what and who and how they are
Wondering how they've all come this far
There's the short man with shoes too small
The old woman, under her arm an old doll
The young man who always wears pink
The woman whose fingers are covered in ink
The man whose face is sprinkled with pimples
The little girl, on her left cheek one dimple
The gray haired woman singing under her breath
The man with the face anxiously waiting for death
The young woman hiding behind her dark hair
The albino man sitting while enjoying a pear
The woman standing rigid, who silently cries
The tall man standing near, eating her with his eyes
The lady wearing too much makeup, always bored
The father with his son whom he simply ignores
The crumpled man begging for food with his words
The blind woman who instead feeds the birds
The little boy with the white balloon in hand
The tallest trumpet player from a marching band
The bald man with the tattoo depicting a shipwreck
The woman in the suit with the scar on her neck
The two lovers sharing their first and last kiss
The man with the rings decorating his fists
The smiling woman whose cuts are apparent
The quiet young man whose arms are all bent
The old man with the bag full of piano keys
The blind old man with the parrot who sees
The young man with his black hat pulled down
The gentleman unabashedly dressed like a clown
The man with the blood shot eyes, scruffy head
The girl with the one streak of blonde hair dyed red
The small woman with the paper bag holding beer
And the lost looking man wondering why he is here
All of these men and woman and more I observe
Always coming and going, their stories unheard
For they are simply strangers for me to behold
Disconnected from me, yet still part of a whole
For among them I have my own story and role
But if only I could heard their own stories told
For then maybe I could understand my place
In a world full of strangers with each their own strange face
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
~
irreverent place
on a laundry room shelf,
his is a figure serene.
source of comfort?
source of peace?
perhaps...
but oh, so much
more than that...
this is a crossroads
where absolution meets
the gritty mundane,
where he became
her source of familiarity.
*"good morning, Sweet Jesus,
i'm just here to wash
my ***** laundry."*
no sacrilege here,
no... nothing profane.
from the hand outstretched
held out for the taking
who is this really,
this chalk figurine?
in tranquility certain,
a doorway between
human fragility and
perfection divine.
in life’s messy journey
our ***** laundry aside
how could one not feel,
more rinsed of life's stains?
Sweet Jesus, of course
divine cleanser, unseen
now, here on my mantle
my house feels more clean!
~
*post script.
when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!” and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus! you are out of the closet... forever!!”*
*no sacrilege whatsoever intended
i dearly hope you'll not be offended!*
:-) Steve
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
I write this not from a lofty place of judgement or from frantic paranoia, but instead I would much rather you learn from any and all of my mistakes before subjecting yourself to future pain.
First and most importantly: you are lovable, you are loved, and you are truly worthy of love and appreciation. This is a resolute fact, an immutable truth that you have absolutely no chance of changing. Remember this in your darkest moments- just because you may feel “less than” your normal self does not mean that you have lost your self worth. If you learn anything from me, please let this one thing be it.
Second, and more lengthy: as well-adjusted as I may come off, know that I have these horrid insecurities and vices about me that I have the hardest time shaking off, even on my best days. I have spent most of my life wondering if I would ever find love, because people keep telling me that you need to first love yourself in order to love someone else; there have been days where I truly don’t love myself. However, I think there’s something to be said about feeling love for someone else amidst all of this wretchedness- I give my love unabashedly, with an earnest conviction that I think comes from knowing what feeling lonely truly means, and never wishing that feeling upon someone else.
Love is something I have fallen into and am currently falling out of, it is something that has kept me up for hours at night but kept me in bed long after the sun has risen; it has brought me to my knees and it once had lifted me up. Love has grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, looked me dead in the eyes, and asked me if I was worth anything- knowing that I would never answer affirmatively. Love has made me sing and scream the loudest my lungs could possibly take, and it has rendered me silent for days at a time. It has fogged my vision and my mind and left me bereft of any sense of clarity. I have lived my longest seconds and my shortest days when in love.
Loving someone can truly be terrifying- you will never be quite so unmade and disassembled as you are when in love. You will have handed someone the pieces of yourself and know that they could very easily unravel the threads of your being you have so tediously strung together; take comfort in the fact that they could very well hold your pieces together when you feel strung out.
*Signed without wax,
Someone Whose Heart
Is Learning To Hope Again*
P.S. I urge you to be careful, and to be safe. There is not a world in which you can have done something and I will not be there to support you unconditionally. I will be here in your corner, ready to listen to your story, ready to congratulate or to console, ready to remind you of your worth.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 1:57 AM UTC