Tag Archives: Poem

Legend of a Heart

She always thought of him with his first and last name.

It wasn’t a formality, it was his identity
An identity of a person, or a persona, tucked away into memories of the past
Before foxes spoiled the vine
He wasn’t just Jon. He was Jon Burke, himself.
Have you heard?
He wasn’t rich, or famous, but if they wrote a story about us, they would be sure to include him.
Rarely present in her daily life, Fortune’s Fool was ever a shadow in the back of her mind
An unfinished, hardly begun love story. Or so they say.

Jon Burke was a ladies man- even when he wasn’t
Like Greene’s perfect Rake, he liked to be needed by a woman, and he knew how to give the kind of affection that accomplished this
Not considering the consequences of his magnetic field being strong
She was captivated, in spite of herself, and it is this writer’s opinion that she both never forgave him for that, and loved him all the more for it
But such was the heart of a woman in the wake of Jon Burke. Or so they say.

There was a time when the two had met that some of us thought she’d tame him
He was wild at heart, and perhaps at everything, but she was equally so
And each longed- this writer thinks- for a love that could keep them. Have you heard?
Jon Burke wanted this one.
Or so they say.

Theirs was as spontaneous and inconvenient as a love could be
He was a quick, fervent and raging fire, the lightning that struck the chestnut tree
But that was Jon Burke
She was Just; a red lip, classic thing with molasses strings that drove him mad
For she knew they stumble that run fast
She already had another, and that’s what made her go. Or so they say.

The moon waxed and waned, and birds flew south,
And the shine of the song turned to rust in our hearts
As rumors become legend, and legend was forgotten.
Only Miss Calypso knows why still she sings.
None but the trees in the orchard stood waiting for Jon Burke’s return
On one civil night
When he would sweep her up
And they would resume a page on the story that never had an ending
An unfinished, hardly begun love story. Have you heard?
He wrote her, they said
More than once, with his name on the letterhead-
Jon Burke.

She always thought of him with his first and last name.

Advertisements

Body

body

I have a body. It’s just a body, just like yours. It has many parts, with many functions. They are not sexual, unless I choose for them to be. You being able to see them does not make this choice. It does not indicate my sexual decisions of past, present, or future. You being able to see them means you can see that I have a body. It’s just a body, just like yours.

Poetry Hour

large (6)

We’re the same, you and I, in so many ways
We connect on that level
I saw you, and knew that from the start.
So I was confused when you held back;
when you slowed down and in so inhibited me, too
The pain and fury of being stuck in this place was more than I could bear
I stared back at you in disbelief-
do I even know you at all?
When, in a moment, a stranger makes themselves known
This stranger, the one who held YOU back
Relief and awe washed over me
I hadn’t misjudged you after all
I had been blind to your plight,
and unknowingly, unwittingly,
agonizing over my own blindness.
I found reverence in our connection once more.
We share a moment of deliverance as we race off together into the horizon.
We are the same, you and I.

“Poem for the Prius in the Left Lane This Morning”

Dear Daughter

love2

FORWARD: To my daughter, and the daughters of the world, and to people everywhere, who have forgotten this important message. We live in a world with Pinterest wedding boards and romantic comedies, How I Met Your Mother “wife quests” and songs like Meghan Trainor’s “Dear Future Husband”. I’m getting sick of the idea that we’re all waiting around for a partner to come along and make us feel significant. I’m sick of parents who think their daughters should be “treated like a princess” and tell them to accept nothing less from a suitor. (Ditto for sons). This gives them a selfish view of love, and an unrealistic ideal about what a relationship is. To me, this is very wrong. They will either feel inadequate because of their partner’s inability to give them perfect love, or they will feel that their partner is inadequate. Both are incorrect! I’m not going to teach you, baby girl, that you need love from someone else to feel special or to be worth something. You already ARE. So I’m going to teach you how to make others feel this way. 

If you’re ready for love, it’s not because you’re ready for someone to come into your life to make you feel special. It’s because you have ceased to need such a person, and instead, you are ready to be such a person to someone else. Love is not what you get, it’s what you give. Because love, by its very definition, is not about you.

If you’re ready for love, you’re ready to accept a flawed person into your life. You’re ready to face a broken, insecure human being who might never feel adequate, and you’re ready to be there so you can always remind them that they are.

If you’re ready for love, you’re ready to be let down. You’re ready to accept the imperfect love of an imperfect human being, who cannot perfectly love you, even if they completely love you. And you’ll understand that difference, because you’ll imperfectly love them too… and you’ll always remember that, before you start pointing your finger.

If you’re ready for love, it’s because you realize that we grow up in a world which does nothing but judge a person. It’s because you realize that underneath those judgments is a beautiful soul waiting to be seen, and you are ready to see that beauty, embrace it, and nurture it- the way life has not. Because there are no flaws. And you know that.

If you’re ready for love, it’s when you are no longer looking for it, or waiting for it. It’s when you realize you’ve got it. When all you have left to do is give it. Then you’re ready for love.

The Invitation

paint

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

by Oriah Mountain Dreamer*
(*Disclaimer: I should specify that I did not write this, nor can I seem to find a specific author. This poem was very personal and moving for me so I decided to share!)

Untitled

Image

In your eyes I see

Their reflections staring back at me;

Naïve, innocent, like mine aren’t-

Believing what falls from those lips

Like we know I never will;

And I envy them

For feeling like they had you.

Rose colored glasses I started to wear

Creep into my mind,

And I miss them-

Who you are was so beautiful

When I loved you.