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Sunday, August 11, 2013

To The Depths of Whatever I Am

I can't remember
the first time I was called a poet
or by whom;
Though I do recall
something within me sank
to the depths of whatever I am

That's an intense responsibility,
you know...
Do I even have a choice in this matter?
Or is this like a given name,
stamped on my birth certificate?
Did I check the box on my driver's license:
"Will donate organs, blood,
observations of life and the human spirit"

If this was given: Why me?!
If this was chosen: Was I drunk?!

We won't even discuss
whether or not I must
or must not be great--
Or if I can just keep it simple
on the surface,
and rhyme about the food I ate;


All that, and my pride aside--
It doesn't even matter.
Someone pushed
a roller coaster ride
Straight through my chest
and my heart is alone,
screaming in the front seat--
strapped down
by a lifetime of words

First words
Last Words
Words soaked in late evening summer sheets
Words stuck in traffic
Words naming babies
Words Coming Home
Kind words, apologizing
for the wrong that other words have done.
Words needing someone.

Some frogs complain about being green
So I shoved some black and blue pens
in a bindle,
and headed out to trade them,
with hopes that I can leap over this crazy scene

Do you know how many poems
a poet can give birth to?
And some don't even grow up to fit their name.
I never got my body back
after that first stanza.
My head feels like a thesaurus's bloated twin.
And I'm poet-tired
from all these early lyric cries
and midnight feedings.

Sleep doesn't call me anymore--
won't even spend the night on a weekend,
or admit that we had something once.

This is rarely a day at the beach
But I'm forever shaking off the sand,
And even if I don't leave my pages
out in the sun--
aging lines appear,
and rhymes form
like freckles everywhere.

Staring at this mirror,
through young, but weary eyes--
I can only surmise,
that one day,
my hands will cramp
and not recover,
finger tips still stained,
prints leaving evidence of passion,
 and the tumult of a mind gone mad;



And there is very little doubt,
that on their way out
those final words
will read:
Oh, God! Why me?

But there is fire in fear;
A bright secret
slips through parting clouds,
and a voice
cowering beneath a soft sheet of breath,
whispers...
"Thank You!"




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23 comments:

  1. You've captured so well the grace and lament of the creative soul. But then, I suppose you would, now wouldn't you? ♥

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  2. It is definitely wonderful to be called a poet, isn't it? And you certainly are. And truly I doubt your hands will ever cramp. And a poet can give birth to decades worth of poetry. Trust me. I have. Ha. Claim the title as your own and wear it proudly.

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  3. Nice musings of your true vocation--I chuckled at the checking of the box on your license. Enjoy, while the words flow.

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  4. you are a wonderful poet! The way you describe this sometimes tortuous vocation that I believe has chosen us, is truly remarkable!

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  5. Poet no doubt brilliant. Tortured no doubt there either. But the gift you were given is endless for even if the hands won't produce, the mind shall.

    I know your pain, your heart and your head. Poet. Yes. Thank you.

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  6. smiles... i like...i dont take the moniker poet lightly in som regards though i do think anyone can be one if they want...it is a responsibility...a blessing and curse at times...ha....checking the box on thelicense was funny...smiles

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  7. OMG I love this so much!!!!!!!! Smiled all the way through - especially love the image of the poet sitting in the front row of the roller coaster, screaming........and the head stuffed like a thesaurus......the Perils of Poetry!

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  8. I never got my body back
    after that first stanza.


    Sleep doesn't call me anymore--
    won't even spend the night on a weekend,
    or admit that we had something once.


    and on and on and on... pure pearls - you know how to get to me, Poet.

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  9. It seems that we are born poets, a natural vocation ... there is no stopping us. We live in words, words live in us. It's so fulfilling, isn't it? Creativity is truly empowering. This is wonderful ... from what I've read so far, you're a poet at heart :)

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  10. Hey, Missefin...I love your poetry! I never know where you're going with it and I can't stop reading because I want to find out. Creativity does come from the great depths of the soul. I too feel that way when I write poetry. Beautiful poem! :)

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  11. The last little stanza brings all those ideas together with a marvellous "crash of cymbals" - "there is fire in fear" + breathless murmur. Delightful.

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  12. so honest expressions.....but the problem is you can't live without words...words will flow....and the good thing is we will read those wonderful write ups. have nice poetic moments....... :)

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  13. What a great piece of artwork. Just lovely.

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  14. I loved this so much. Yeah, seems once we put a label on something, it grows a weight. You captured what it is to be a poet brilliantly.

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  15. I so relate to this awesome writing....you put it perfectly together with your words.

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  16. wow.....long and very very nice....thanks for sharing your words

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  17. This is just a whole lot of brilliance--I want to laugh and to cry and to cheer out loud--certainly for you and this big ol honking truth--and for all of us---

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