I remember those nights lying there alone,
since there was nothing better to do,
when the words would come to me —
like a doting parent, a monster
from beneath my bed, a guardian angel, a kiss,
They would tell me a story without making a sound,
not read, just known, not understood, but gospel.
And, like when I grew up, these parents left,
or I left them. The monster went poof and
now demons scratch their nails
across my consciousness. I sold my angel for
thirty pieces of fool’s gold and any kisses
left with you.
I am alone again, in a darkness beyond black,
waiting for words that don’t wish to share my bed.
So today I sit in this lonely place,
closing my eyes to the light and praying
for deliverance from the exile of my own making.
And here you are again, carrying this thing
I never appreciated. You don’t have to love me.
Just sit here by my bed until I’m asleep.
I never told you how much I love your voice.
I can’t hear you, but I’ll never stop listening.
I sit here by myself.
I am solitary. As usual,
Yet I’m speaking to you.
You are sitting there,
alone in your chair.
Yet you are listening to me.
Our hermit lives aren’t wrong,
just separate from the throng,
a decision made in a moment,
over a lifetime.
But by whom?
Them? Him? Her? Us?
Yes. The simple answer.
We are exiles, banished,
because no one wants us,
sometimes not even ourselves.
But even in exile, we are together.
Because I am speaking to You
and you are listening to me
(yes, still Me),
in our solitary confinements
we share with a world,
each other and no one else.
Soon I’ll rise from this island,
as will you from yours,
but you’ll not be alone
because I’m with you now.
And, on this sea of white light,
you’re exiled with me.
Day 25. An “exile” poem.
Each night I lie in bed
and ponder why I still sit
in that chair every day
trying to tell stories
of a me and a you
that never happened,
why I scribble about memories
that are the barest of vapors
moved by a breath I’ll
never feel on my cheek.
These days I ponder
that same question even
as I sit in this chair
talking to myself alone and
not listening, just transcribing
the silence where once spoke reason.
Maybe that’s why I still do this.
I’m searching for reason
where reason doesn’t exist.
No longer reasonable,
yet unreasonably necessary.
Day 17. A “reason” poem. It’s true. I lie in bed at night and wonder why I even do this pointless exercise, this seemingly fruitless waste of what time I have left. Then I get up, sit in this chair, open a new document, start typing and still don’t know why. Maybe that last sentence, which I just looked up and found sitting there, is my unconscious self’s explanation. It’s necessary for at least one of us.
Here I am again,
whispering in your ear,
telling secrets about myself
so maybe your own you can hear.
Here you are again.
Is that your name you hear
even though you’re all by yourself,
so no one can see your tear?
Here we are again,
conversing as if we’re near,
sharing secrets about ourselves,
yet each always alone, I fear.
There I go again,
never exactly making it clear,
but it’s no secret, this Song of Self,
which you read alone, is yours alone, my dear.
Day 10 of poem-a-day NaPoWriMo, a “lone” poem. It’s strange that someone who has written scores of poems about loneliness and isolation, while sitting all alone, hopes they might touch many people, though each in the alone-ness of their own minds and hearts. Loneliness is a lack, a feeling that something is missing, a pain, a depression, a need, an incompleteness, an absence. Aloneness is presence, fullness, aliveness, joy of being, overflowing love.You are complete.Nobody is needed, you are enough. Love makes you complete. This loving act of talking to everyone by talking to just myself makes me complete.
I’ve talked about you so, so many times
you would think by now I understand you.
But no, seems you’re just a frame for these rhymes.
In my heart, I know it’s all I can do.
Because you are that thing that makes me weak,
and weakness has always been my power.
While your touch has ever been what I seek,
even touched, I’d more than likely cower.
If one day, emotion, strength and insight
might somehow stir me to honest action,
you’ll know I finally won this long fight
between truth and a fantasy attraction.
It feels just like demonic possession,
my love’s just another great obsession.
Day 9 of my NaPoWriMo poem-a-day challenge, a two-fer. When asked to write a Love and/or Anti-love poem, I ended up writing one that could be either…AND both.
They tell you that falling is easy,
it’s getting back up again that’s hard.
But when the fall is such a long one
that you haven’t found the bottom yet,
or it hasn’t found you,
that can be as hard on your mind
as the concrete covered in shattered dreams,
broken promises and slashed hopes
you’ll eventually find at the bottom
on your virtual (or actual) corpus.
That’s because there are shards
of all those things stuck to the walls
past which you fall. All the history
that you can see and consider,
awake, asleep, eyes opened or closed.
Funny thing is, after the fall,
you can use all those things to climb
your way back up as far as you can
before your next fall.
After the fall, there’s always another,
but that means you crawled away
from the previous one. Come here,
take my hand and I’ll show you.
Aren’t all these broken things pretty
flashing by when the moonlight’s right?
Day 6 of my poem-a-day challenge. This is the “After _______” poem.
Somewhere between asleep and awake
I find myself in the only place
I never think of you.
Maybe it’s because I tried
too hard yesterday and tired
too hard last night, hoping
I might see you, hear you,
perhaps in that dreamtime
before sleep spits me out
like a cherry stone, the too
hard heart of something
soft and sweet. Or even tart.
It is the silent moment
before voices call and
the eyes open to morning.
This is the quiet place
where I am ever alone,
and I’ve come to love it
as much as I love you.
Day 1 of Poem a Day Challenge 2019. A “morning” poem.