A Poet?

The problem with knowing someone for 20 years, is if they love you? They keep tabs on you. They remember the small moments and the big ones. This morning, I had something handed to me that I wrote almost twenty years ago.

A disclaimer: I am not a poet. I do not write poetry. I was, however, 24 at the time and I wanted to be a poet. Please forgive the earnest attempts.

The reason why I'm posting them today is that I know when I wrote them? I was writing about other people. I was not psychologically savvy enough to understand "projection."

Thoughts:

Sparks that
dance and dart
like tiny atoms-
causing friction in the body;
an inferno
in the soul.

I'm not a therapist but I think I understand where that came from. At the time, I was harboring a huge secret.

And I had no idea what a feeling was.

Truly.

Softly, She Weeps

deep, dark circles
hound the eyes,
in the bandaged rocking chair-
Wind whips the cotton housecoat
about the knees,
calloused by an eternity
of marble, wood, linolium

softly, she weeps
'ain't got no more to give,
jus' ain't got no more.'

a picture,
uniform and flag,
worn from the thick hands
stroking, caressing, loving-
after a black car
with two black overcoats

softly, she weeps
'ain't got no more to give,
jus' ain't got no more.'


That was from the first Gulf War. Ok, a little earnest and I was reading a lot of Zora Neal Hurston at the time. I did, however, understand the enormity of being empty inside. Of being drained of all that you have and not knowing what else to do.

I won't torture you with the others. They don't get any better. A poet, I'm not. But it is a wonderful treat to have someone know you, remember you, and love you enough to keep something like this for twenty years. It's like being handed a time capsule.

Thank you.