Of personal reflections from 2017; namely poems.
For a single moment, imagine,
You are a sentry
standing tall among the forest.
You see all, but as you look down
on human mistake and folly,
your gaze is gentle.
You release your leaves
to tickle our mind and senses.
To remind us
That we are alive
And you — are not weak or insecure.
You are brave, a beam of light for us all.
This too shall pass.
For you — have triumphed before.
Do you know the ways you wreck me?
Toss me again and again like the waves.
The chaos surrounds me and I can’t breath.
Close my eyes underwater to imagine
slow, calm inhales.
I breathe you in
and this time,
I don’t suffocate.
We paused in the silence;
soft pine needles underfoot
and we gasped
at the end of the world.
A quiet hush spread over us,
velvet to the touch.
And we danced and laughed and cried
at the thought of a world without people.
And slowly, carefully, we turned
back the way we’d come
until gravel crunched underfoot
to see houses, and roads, and cars.
But the silence lingers still.
Let go of the yous from yesterday,
because daily and every day,
you are made new.
You are not the yous of years from now.
No, you are present,
and this small, fractured moment —
It’s done but you’re still here.
Wanted dead or alive — I’m not sure.
God help me with the black and white.
Some days I walk in and expect to find you
sprawled on my couch, or elbow deep in dishes.
Why were you good to me, and absent now?
I know how you spend your days —
but what do you give to yourself?
Do you still call your mom?
You’re not mine —
to ask, to know, to care.
Again, we play the part of stranger.
I might reach out and touch your hair,
or stay for the second hug like we used to.
Friends, lovers, strangers.
Black and white.
The trees, and the leaves, and the rivers —
See how they dance, they react, they nudge,
Even in your sadness, do not say —
you are not alive.
For even the rocks are not numb.
They know the breeze and warmth of the sun.
They know the dust of chalk;
the quick pressing of a rubber sole.
You, are alive.
Why are we afraid to take risks?
We crown ourselves with glory,
with victories, with accolades.
And so — failure corrodes our gold.
But why fear?
Again and again, we have failed.
Again and again, we rebuild.
What do we lament if not love?
And what is worth risk that is not love?
And to what shall we give ourselves if not love?
For we are nothing,
and yet everything, with love.