111

You are just a dream,
and like all dreams,
I’m gonna wake up
and I’m gonna see
that none of it is real,
It’s all in my head.
I’ve been talking to myself
just trying to feel
the rhythms and pulse
of a heart that is buried,
trying to release
this load I’ve carried.
But there is no horse
and there is no knight.
I’m the only one
who can win this fight.
So when I awake
with the morning’s light,
will the mirror reveal
you were me the whole time?

It should be a victory,
but it sounds like a tragedy.
I don’t want to be saved,
I just want to be set free,
not from the dragon,
but from this lonely tower
where I am surrounded
by only me.

Don’t wake me up.
I’d rather dream.

*****

I’ve developed an obnoxious habit in recent months of noticing repeating numbers. Today I saw 111 more times than I can remember. I composed this poem on my phone’s diary app which tracks symbol and word count. This poem was exactly 111 words.

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Pain is the place

where everything is fragmented.

Oh, how I wish to be the glue! 

I’m not sure how to fix myself,

I’ll just try to fix you.

the great sea

There are nights when in my sleep
I stand in the doorway between the worlds
I stand on the edge of enlightenment
and peer into a realm which reveals the answers to all my questions
and the secret keys to all mysteries of life.
And suddenly,
I’m in.
I find myself swirling in rhythm
and encircled about with golden purples and blues,
dancing with the Dance itself,
one with everything that is true.
All things make sense
and I want to shout, “Yes, I see! I finally understand!”
What sweet relief!
What joyous celebration!
There is no more searching: this is it.

But then I feel myself pulled away,
as if being fished out of the waters,
a sucking sound of disconnection-
everything is slippery once again.
My awareness of that otherness blurs
as I awake in this here-ness
with no memory of my life-changing discoveries,
only faint echoes from the great sea.

let me smell the roses

Rows of roses
line the windows
Fill my eyes
with fushia life
But I can’t smell a thing

It’s winter
and all I have are pictures
It’s summer in my room
but the air is still stale

I can only recreate
and rearrange
so many ways
This is the best that I can do

A bath is lovely
but the porcelain cannot compare
with the mineral grit of sand
and the squishy muddy slippery rocks

I long to feel the earth again:
rocks, grass, twigs
My body craves the green
and everything real

Let me lay in the grass
and sink into the earth
Let me lay upon the beach
and feel the waves rush over me

Spring me from these manmade caves
and let myself go wild and free,
With the wind in my hair and the sun on my cheeks
My barefeet on the ground and my soul in the trees
Surround myself with birds and bees
Let my center blossom with the natural world

and let me smell the roses.

Tidal Wave

I loved him for this reason alone:
that his passion could meet my own intensity.

I wanted to know what it would be like
to be loved with the same intoxication 
that I could feel for another.

(Could it not be said
that I was in love with my own love?
That I was intoxicated
with my own intoxication?)

But there was no substance,
no bedrock to ground us.

We were only fever and feeling,
nothing but a tidal wave
and leaving disaster
in its wake.