Finding Self

Where is self?

The pain, emotional and physical,
has shown demanding intolerance,
there will be no denying its existance,
pain’s presence invokes omnipresence.

Aroursed to fight… or flee,
loosed demons that betray,
voices, internal dialogue,
unvanquished torment!

Survival’s demanding sources,
doling out more pain… persistant
tolls on body and mindfulness,
dampened soul, like deadened sound.

The silence hurts beyond limits,
hurling to our body memories,
flashbacks, dissociations
intended survival, walls to self.

Where is “self” hidden now?
In what room of the fortress?
Will doors be opened upon request?
Go seeking, a journey, a quest to self.

Sad Poem

The hot height
swirls smoky mists
near, never return ridge
seeing severed rock
crags created, fissures
thrust, broken, tangled
the light reflects on tiny micca
quartz or shiney surface
on walls defended by sheer
strength of impassable sharpness
falling away from the edge,
the ridge. never. return. ridge.
Stand to face, the sun
in the misty swirls
of hot heights
and there, there is no comfort
never comfort, only the constant!
The brain that never settles,
the brain that fights,
and fights for what?
To have some time alone,
to wish, not to be alone!
And know, even if out; There!
Then what… then who… what to do?
What to say, on. that. day, evening, night?
Will I say hi with a faint smile,
embarrassed of my style, the sad eyes,
the wistful pain, trying so hard to hide?
Who will listen, who will want to, why?
Why care, if I dare. to. try?
I might burst into tears, I might cry.
Like I do every time I think about this.
Every single time…
The sad, tired thoughts stop me
stop it all, and…
nothing.

Thinking out loud…

Should I describe myself, on this International Women’s Day, 2018? A cis, white male, with so much to say, and writing the outlet? I write that and it feels right, the words are truth, but I ponder the necessity of “cis” and “white male”? They’re part of a lexicon I’ve found in posts, and blogs, other’s writing, where pronouns and description are nuanced in our spectrum of humanity. That’s a humanity I desire deeply, having inclusion, where being we is normal, any way we are. I am someone more than the perceptions or norms of society, but to be and be known for these words, and not first sight, or even an awkward moment first meeting.

 

Meeting? I must work hard to manage my state of being, in order to be more outgoing, to meet friends, family, someone new. I don’t really do very much with others, and when out alone, I notice being alone. I wonder if others ponder their alone time like that? I wonder how many feel alone most of the time? Then that seems an irony to me, in that I do go out a bit, and I do see people and know a lot of people. What I mean, is that it seems none really know me, and I really don’t know them. I have learned about impermanence, and that’s such a long story, I’ll bore you with it another day.

 

I know I’m writing without purpose, I’ve declared nothing and am supporting nothing, in essence, I’m just talking a bit, it’s boring, and I’ll end with a poem.

Did you mean it?:

When we meet,

and greet

with casual

‘how are you?’

be ready to walk

and talk.

 

What ?!


What ?!
There he is listening
to you, to sounds, thoughts
Sometimes a river of thought
flows down deep ravines
carving intense, lush valleys
Versus, dams, holding back
an eventual overflow
perhaps deluge of what
reflects ages of images
Seen in a flow, rushing waters,
filled with mature bent grass
sometimes images, reflection memories
pics as clear, as looking into a mirror
though frosted edged, altered, aged
Joined together, fueled and urgent, rushing
barely a moment passes for what
revelation, affirmation of unfolding truth
mingles inward where energies behold
No more fear, dear freed dependence
to hold what is now related, Hope
Love

To Be

4th-ave-s-and-franklin-at-35-in-front-of-elec-fetus

 


To Be:
walking, wistful, wondering why
A far away look, wondering– why
stop to see, to see you — around me
you’re there, walking, sitting, talking
walk on by
walk on by
given my privacy, alone to be
we’re a society of spaces
of boundaries, alone to be
we’re a society of spaces
and we’ll crowd each other
to be in our society of spaces
alone
to
be

The Song

To the reader. I don’t write music, I don’t know anything about it. I do like poetry and maybe this is a song, maybe not. To me it is a poem, and lyrical to me.


When I take the time
to get into my mind
it feels so lonely
as one slips down slowly

one among whom have to be phony
one among whom need no glory
one among whose still and sorry

There’s always wonder, of the fit
where love takes a respite
round and round, love to be
to be found, special to me

one runs long and tells a story
one runs long and feels a ceremony
one runs strong and knows modesty

Some say, all along, we’re here and fond
stretch out, your hand we take, you belong
so, you see, it’s me unable to be free
it’s the way, the mind is set to believe

I saw that Zine

I didn’t know it at the time

while sitting with a friend of mine

how that was the time

that I let get behind.

Do you know what I mean?

To sit and wonder, but not dream?

Wanting to ask, “what’s this”,

and

you’re an outsider, unknown, and the question is dumb.

To them you’re sitting in space,

taking up space

wasted to their version of life.

But, what was their life, to belittle my own?

Was I so useless to be alone?

So alone, yet sitting there, with my friend.

I think that time, I knew of this friend,

an important friend, let me be me,

let me try to see, I could be, if I could see….

I didn’t see much, too much stuff in the way,

inside, outside, every time I tried, it was more,

a lie.

I didn’t lie, I lived as a lie, to hide, to deny my brain,

and time to think of its next refrain

it was kill it or be with it, and the later was not to be;

To be, and miss the Diet Christ latest….

Tangents come often, as so much spills out,

so much to write, and if it could be said, I’d write

all the time, more of it than there’s time, and get it

out, as a regular I am, or want to be,

Then angry I want to smear the page, go back

delete this all… waste it, don’t see it, feel it,

believe it. It’s little bits, bites of the life.

What life it was or is, or will be.

So much to say, so much to say….

No one listens, it’s very lonely, you know?

Do you know? I really doubt it, though I can’t be the only,

to be so lonely!

Soothed Presence

For my first post, I wrote this today. Today, it’s what it is.

Settling, deep into comfort

a bed as moss,

your breath on my skin

and listen…

rustle of leaves

and brook bubbling

welcomes a body down

multiplying senses

into and around caresses

soft smooth and sensual.

Love making embrace

pulling close

flexing muscle and sinews

together, warm together

our soothed presence.