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I catch my breath when
I find these spaces,
the ones opened
in my soul by
all the ways in which
I am irrevocably flawed.

They no longer frighten me
as they did when I
pursued perfect,
yet I’m careful not to dwell
too long.

I pause
to take notice of the contrast
between all that’s there
and all that others see
and all I want to be.

Then I exhale
and resume the search
for truths that
transform imperfections
and illuminate the way.

When Words Are All I Have

There are times in life when words fail me.  Sometimes they fail my heart.  Sometimes they fail my mind.

When it comes to interactions with others, it could be for any number of reasons – from physical distance to overwhelming circumstances.  Whatever the reason, I often feel that letters and syllables cannot possibly encompass all that my heart wants to express.

If I’m lucky, life allows for alternate methods of communication, like physical presence or standing in or helping out.  A way to show, instead of say. A way to shift the balance to hope, to life, to good with action instead of words.  These opportunities should not be wasted.  I know from experience the regret of letting such an opportunity go by without seizing it.

Yet, sometimes, I can’t be there and there is nothing I can do, no matter how much I care. This is more reality than a matter of missed opportunity.  Life and circumstances can be too messy or too limiting or too distancing to allow for action or presence; all I have to offer are words, when words seem useless to my heart.

I'm learning, however, these are the times to stop trying so damn hard to find exactly the right thing to say and let my heart figure out the words.  Yes, it is incredibly frightening to be vulnerable and to risk saying the wrong thing.  I do worry that the words will come out wrong or be taken in a way I don't intend or ultimately won't communicate what I actually feel.  Yet I'm striving to discern the times when keeping the words in my heart to myself is another form of missing an opportunity to shift the balance.  I'm trying to make myself let my heart speak despite my uncertainty.

Words can also fail me when I try to explain what's in my head and come up short. This can happen when I'm trying to explain something to someone else, but also when I'm trying to work something out in my own thoughts to gain that elusive prize of understanding – a deeper understanding that can be defined and set to words instead of remaining a half-formed gut-feeling I don't fully comprehend.

Considering my limitations when it comes to words, I realized that as I figure out what to weave, words have to be my partner as I sort and separate.  Once I begin to weave, words will help me avoid relying too heavily on emotions I can’t articulate and which can be easily swayed or disturbingly fickle. Focusing on getting the words right will help me stay present and focused.  Of course, I can't entirely ignore the words from my heart, the ones I need to sustain my hope of shifting the balance.  What I weave must come from my heart as well as my mind and it will come to life in letters and syllables and sentences.

I'm still not sure I will be able to live up to these expectations I've placed on myself.  I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to strike the right balance and find the right words.  My baggage, my unraveled mess – I don’t know if I can make them make sense to me, let alone to anyone else.  But I think that if words are all I have to work with, they have to be enough.  I have to keep trying.



cast aside
the filters
and the synonyms
to let the
words
tumble
out
as they form.
discard
facades and
string together sentiments
from where they exist
carefully guarded.
erase
the space between
with honesty
and fragile thoughts.
when
words are all you have,
you must speak your heart.
uncensored.

Reflection

All this thinking and sorting is a bit overwhelming.  I believe it calls for some poetry.



Reflection

Bandages
ripped off,
exposing wounds
to salt.
Disregard the
impulse to
hide the
scars
as they resurface.
Don’t
avert your eyes.
Gaze
unflinching
in the mirror,
and
do not
dim the lights.

The Road Home

So, poetry.  I used to write poetry all the time.  The first thing I wrote that I ever shared with anyone outside a writing class was a poem.  Would it be too cliche to spin a woeful tale about how I've somehow lost the poetry in my soul?  Probably.  But it has literally been years since I've written any poems.  I honestly don't know why, but I can feel the genre beginning to rattle around in my skull a bit.  I think I should give it a try, even if I'm so rusty that I'm unsure of where to start.  I miss it.  So here goes.....


Something about
that stretch of road
overwhelms me.
The way the fields
illuminate in the afternoon
sun is so
familiar and also
strikingly glorious.
A feeling
like homesickness
creeps in and
brings to mind carefree
summer joyrides and
treacherous winter commutes.
My mind wanders
to mostly forgotten memories
and the fragility
of life.
Anything
can happen.
Yet,
on that road,
I'm
going home.
And everything,
if only for a moment,
is going to be
okay.

Ambiguity

Dominoes falling.
Heard, yet unseen.
Sunlight concealed
by invisible clouds.
Ambiguity
without cause.

Lines

I took a much needed break from the boys tonight and spent the evening with my very dear friend Denna. It was exactly what I needed, despite that it is absurdly late and I should now be asleep. This is all I have for my next-to-last January post.

Standing.
Staring at the lines.
All the lines I see there
contrasting each other
and yet blurring slightly.
I want to reach out and smear them around
and feel the mixture
on my fingers.
New patterns from all those old lines
could be beautiful.
Or possibly
spin me out of control.

Tangled

I finally got a lot of that craziness out of my head, but now I'm sick and still have two sick kids. Goodness... what a week. So for now I will post a poem I've been working on. I'm not exactly happy with it. I know it needs work, but I'm not sure what to change. I guess that makes it a good candidate for a rework post in the future?

I'm here
picking at tangled knots.
My thoughts are a mess
of threads.
The parts I've unraveled
are coiled neatly
on the floor.
What remains
tangles faster
than I can untie.
It seems hopeless.
Maybe I'm better off
just going to sleep.

Winter, How I Hate You

I have a very busy day today. And I have to go out in the cold. Again.

So, another poem for now. The music post will have to wait.

I will not mask
my bitter disdain.
Your chill engulfs
my every pore
and makes my
skin writhe in pain.
Each abbreviated day
hastens me to madness
and I despise your
endless nights.
How wretched you are,
earth's white sanctuary.

Kill the Lights

I am working on a more fun post, but it's not finished. And it is late. And I am tired. This is what I have for now.

Kill the lights
and stand motionless
in the dark room.
Blink until silhouettes
start to reveal
the landscape.
Eeny-Miny a path
and start taking steps.
Any way will do
when you can't see
where you're going.

Blue Ink

I always write in black ink. There is something about writing in any other color that seems to make it look less sincere to me. Occasionally I will have to write something down and can only find a blue pen, but I will often go back and re-write it later in black ink if it is something I need to keep or look at with much frequency.

I've been writing in my sketchbook a lot. I keep it on the stand next to my bed and write poems or craziness in it when I can't sleep. All this rambling is just leading up to a poem I wrote a few weeks ago. The pen I usually use had vanished and I grabbed another one. I jotted a few words and realized that it was blue ink, but it kinda worked so I went with it. This poem is the only thing written in my sketchbook that is not in black ink.

Bare windows let
Daybreak's light seep in
to illuminate dull objects.
The side table items were
all witness to midnight promises and pleas
for sleep to come.
But now I'm writing in blue ink
and the light is melting any recall
of how I should
be new today.
I sense recurrence
when the sun
next disappears.

Peripheral

Sometimes we just lose things along the way. Maybe more important things take the place of those things. Maybe we block them out. Maybe we are careless and forget. I wish I knew so I could prevent it at will, because it seems like I've somehow lost my ability to write. Okay, I am writing right now. I'm typing and words are forming on the screen, but I don't want to just write. I want to write something good. Something meaningful or witty or amusing or insightful. I've been trying, but it's not happening. Somewhere in all my working like a crazy person to meet deadlines and worrying about sick kids and sadness over co-workers losing their jobs and lots of other things I won't list out here, I lost it. I hope I find it again soon, because this is getting pretty darn frustrating.

On a completely random and unrelated note, it was an amazingly beautiful day today. Sunny and crisp and almost 70 degrees. If I had only one wish (after wishing for a million more wishes, of course) I would wish that all of winter in Ohio would be like today. Except for maybe the week of Christmas, which could be 30 and sunny and snowy. I think many things would be much improved with more days like today between October 1st and springtime. Maybe I could even find some inspiration for writing. *sigh*

So here is one poem I've managed to come up with. I'm not happy with it, but I need to get back to posting some poetry. Here ya go:


My eyes keep shifting.
Not shifty.
Just shifting to
look at something
previously marginalized
but now screaming
for attention.
Something
formerly peripheral.
Now I see it
in focus.

Procrastinators Anonymous

I've been far too serious with my posts of late. I am formulating something on a lighter note, but it's not ready. The other day I was thinking of how terrible I am about putting things off and I remembered something I wrote a long time ago for a class. I really kinda hate rhyming poetry, but sometimes it works. Here is my poem from long ago, with some edits:

I'm part of a special club,
but please don't think I'm proud.
I try and try to be released,
but I do not know how.
I put things off.
I wait and wait.
Nothing gets done.
I'm always late.
Many solemn vows
say I will change my ways.
For now I think I'll postpone
and hope it's just a phase.

Ink Smears

Ink smears, as thoughts sometimes do. -Emme Woodhull-Bäche

Since my posts have been either heavy or whiny (or both) lately, I thought I'd try something else for a change. My thoughts are random and often smear together (I really love that quote) into something that makes sense only to me, but I guess if you're reading this you know that already and don't mind translating it out for yourself. So here are some ramblings about the crazy weather and a poem I wrote a few weeks back.

Yes, I love summer and hate that it is gone for the year and that soon the stupid Ohio cold will take over for the next six months. But I'm trying to look on the bright side. I do love coming home from work and having a warm fire blazing in the fire place as the boys race up and scream "Mommy's home!" and give me hugs and kisses. I always love that welcome, but something about the warmth of the fire makes it even more welcoming. I do love the holidays. I love Thanksgiving and Christmas and family traditions. I love nights snuggled on the couch watching movies or reading a book and not feeling the least bit guilty that I didn't get outside and do something... since the weather was too terrible to get out in. As much as it pains at me to admit it, there are a few things I.... don't hate about winter. I'm going to try to remember those things in the coming months.

Here is my poem. I was thinking I would have plenty of "Fall" time left to post it, but we kind of went from the coolest Summer on record straight to late fall/early winter. Since we are now in the middle of three semi-fall days, I'll post it now.

I can feel Fall creeping in,
but I still have the window open.
If only shutting it could stave off
the impending autumn.
Sitting here,
listening to the crickets
and frogs
and clinging
to the last
remnants of Summer.
I feel the passage
of time more strongly
as the life that
overflows in Summer
fades and floats away
in the brisk wind.

How do you really feel?

I don't know if I am still (yes, one month later) mentally exhausted from my month of writing or if it is all the other stuff going on, but I have really been neglecting my blog. I suppose that is okay. Maybe I need this time to regroup and think, but it is a little frustrating. Last night I had time to write and I really felt like writing, but nothing started off right. This is all I have. Maybe next month I'll get back into more regular posting. I just want my brian to cooperate.

I don't know how this happened.
Not sure how I'm staring
at this blank page and
have nothing to write.
The words and the
thoughts and the
musings all
caught up somewhere,
uncooperating.
Damn you, Writer's Block.

Paralyzed

Stopped at a stop sign
with my blinker flashing left.
Left is quicker,
but Right is better.
Or there is straight.
But I always take that way.
Which way leads to disaster?
Insane how that goes
from a fleeting thought
to
an irrational fear
in zero-point-two seconds.

Blinded

It was completely strange to not have to stay up writing last night. I kept having this nagging feeling that I was forgetting to do something important and then I would remember that I was not forgetting to do something. That I was free from having to write. For as long as I wanted.

But yesterday morning as I was driving to work I was thinking of other things and still my mind drifted to something I should write. Not sure if it works the way I hope it does, but here it is: (This really does happen to me almost every morning, but it's not exactly what I'm talking about here.)

I turn the corner and
the sun glares
off the windshield,
blinding.
I continue driving
though I cannot see the road
or the lines
or the guardrail.
I accelerate toward the
shadow of treeline.
I know it's there.
And I know I can see again
when I get there.

Something

Oh my goodness. I've worked on two other posts tonight and determined they were not close to being okay to post. I have this poem from a couple weeks ago that I don't think I've posted before. I'm going to post it now because it's all I have. At least it's something.

I need something.
Sleep, for certain,
but also reassurance.
I want to be strong
and self-reliant
and care not.
But...
Oh, how the doubts
creep in and
crowd that out.
I want rest
and words
and confidence.
But I need something.
Else.

Dear Insomnia

Oh my. It is so late (early) and I am so tired, yet wide awake. And I have a headache. And I have to get up in a few hours. Great time to try for a post. This is all I have for now. It's not so great. I probably wouldn't even post it were it not 2:23 AM....

Insomnia, my dear friend.
I cannot sleep because
of all the questions.
I don't know.
I do not know.
I wish I knew.
All true, but I need answers,
not catch phrases.
The wondering and
the thinking and
the worrying get me
nowhere.
I still don't know.

Practice Does Not Make Perfect

I am so not feeling it today. I actually put off this post until it wasn't even today anymore. I am so ready for this month to be over. I know I missed one day, but I've still been doing pretty well to spill something out into this blog text box all the other days. Sure, it may have been something stupid or rework of something old, but at least I took the time to type it out and post it.

Today, I just feel like this whole exercise has been a failure. I don't think my writing is improving. If anything, it is getting worse, diluted by the sheer volume of nonsense I've been producing. Such frustration. I guess since I didn't really have a goal other than 'Write Every Day' I can't really say I'm doing a terrible job. I guess I was just expecting some sort of breakthrough were I would realize a new direction for my writing. And now I feel like it has even less direction than before.

I guess I shouldn't lose all hope. I still have a week left. I guess something great could happen and I could suddenly feel good about my writing. I'm thinking that is not going to happen tonight.

Sitting.
Staring.
Contemplating practice.
Contemplating words.
Contemplating.
Waiting.
Waiting for practice to
make perfect.
Instead, all this practice
led me astray.
My eyes on perfection,
but my efforts
falling so short.
All this practice made
nothing that
resembled perfection.
All this practice made
burnout.
And self-contempt.

Shattered Pieces Scattering

Some rework to fill the space where the post I was working on should be. I'm not sure if I like it more than the original, but at least I tried.

My secret hopes are
reachable while
jealously guarded.
Dreams,
tucked safely in pillowcase corners,
seem alive
and strangely tangible.
I'm terrified
to expose them to
the light of day.
I clinch them more
tightly in my hidden fists,
dreading the shattered pieces
scattering at my feet if I
loosen my grasp and
let you see.