a man who knew my father befriended me
causing me to question the nature of my reality,
my history, its validity,
my possibly-false memories
— all, viewed through the lens
of the person
who had vested interest in
indoctrinating me,
who preferred my naïveté,
under the guise of protectivity,
This feels like an arrow
Made from a tree
That rose from
An acorn
That I gathered and stored
In another life
Scribed with a message continually
piercing my heart
I wasn’t only wounded though,
I was woke
into a clarity
that I was already sighting in my dreams,
writing with words
mortal and eternal
You once said, proclaimed or whispered
Every single thing
that I ever believed
My own truths embarrassed in the shadow of your confidence
My inner voice silenced in your animated persuasion
Believing you so completely – for the better of my years
Becoming like and unlike you because of it,
but not be-coming me,
Un-be-coming me every day
I ain’t even mad.
You don’t know this – still,
You don’t want
to hear it.
or listen;
Our time is running out, and
Even this admission
Is sure to haunt me one day,
and guilts me today
But I can’t call you confidant or crone
If you refuse to learn,
to evolve,
From this singular archetype
The wide and long view
seems to escape you:
You live in the moment in the least way, the worst way
And I don’t worship here or there, any more
The faith in your godliness is gone, and
It is unfamiliar
For me to pity you
You, intentionally deaf and tone deaf
You had all the answers
In the morning shallows, perhaps;
But evaporation revealed even those
Were anchor-less, yet stationary ideas
An algae,
Mucking up the colorless perfection of sunlit water
“Lief heim ins Seitelein.” Unitätsarchiv, R.20.E.36.12. Archiv der Brüder-unität, Herrnhut.My life seems long, I know
My body’s mostly worn
Inside, she’s just begun to live, again
A young woman and girl, or gone long ago
There are bottled laughs to voice aloud
New smiles to wear with these old shoes
Time to know the world, and you, and you, and you …
between these walls of peeling, muted hues
Once Herr died
My Self was ready to return
My cadence so shy and slow,
Lamenting the awkward waste of precious years
I find my voice as I write the past,
But in my book, the Tomorrow has no page
Forever winter approaches from within
These years and years upright on hard chairs
Unreal, unseen, unheard, untouched
by the world, by the womb, it may concern, Whom
I speak through and then beyond this pain of bone and life
Before the cold within brings silence of the tomb
You see, to me, my presence still feels warm, and blush
somehow, even new
My life stretched out behind me, no steps ahead
And I forestall Death’s cue, awaiting mere glimpse of you
If you can imagine, child
I love, unsaid,
I feel as just alive, as real, as you. Continue reading “Wanderten Mutter”
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 