some city life

concrete hardened

feet slapping down, splitting heels

rough on surface

oil-stained parking lots

leave memories of here and now

then and gone

oil-stained bare feet

flat with pounding this pavement

almost lost all curve

all nuance

all function

but still walking, still

black with stains of some city life

slick with the mess of streets

that confine, that define

oil-stained…

…hands leave streaks

…faces blend into night

…hearts unable to mold, too slippery

slap down, feet on concrete

hard and slick…

oil-stained.

finding steps

finding myself in darkness again

eyes covered in pitch

hands still free, still groping

feeling through the blindness

ears listening  amid dull roars

mouth hanging open in dryness

getting a sense of your rub

my malleable soul recoils

as it takes shape in your hands

but gentle is your touch

and slowly I relax as the pink and fleshy parts

burn into defined moments

of clarity and function,

within this broken beauty

scooping self off the floor

shouts of Hallelujah! resound

from the bowels of my being,

like a survival cry within the wave of white flags

shadows begin to take form, and if I look too hard

they pull fear that was not there

in the pitch

but I can still feel you near

and you give me your fingers to hold,

like a child just understanding legs,

and you hold me in a light touch, guiding

forward

and I have senses enough to recognize

shadows mean some light is here

so I rub my eyes, shake my head,

reach

and step.

Old Roads

                Sitting in this parking lot that used to be a what…I don’t remember…now serving donuts and coffee, and I remember…this stretch of road and others, racing from one end to the next…looking and needing what…I couldn’t tell you then…thinking I may know a little more now…maybe…

                …I see others like us, souls with dirty hands, flailing limbs, longing faces, hurting hearts, traveling these roads and others, searching and wanting what…they don’t know…

                …I ache to reach out, caress their faces with my fingertips, offer an intimate touch, one that might bring healing…may be…recalling how the grime of choices made from a place of wounded feels, trying to wash it away, not knowing how to get it off, so getting off instead…

                …teary-eyed, my heart revisits these old roads…and I remember…pain, and healing, and I rejoice in my weeping…

                …we know…we remember…we reach…we remember…we hope…as we travel…new…on old roads.

                Never forget the old roads…remembering helps you know where to look for the others, like you.

Okay

I'm learning...

 ...it's okay for me to say,
                              and believe,
                                        I have something to offer.

This new-found understanding may seem well overdue,
                             and probably is,
                                         but it's finally becoming okay...
            ...and might even be good.

                                                               



                                           

Limping as I go

always a smear of sticky

                across the cheek of my soul

always a bit of blemish

                on the skin of my emotion

always a kind of kink

                in the hip of my spirit

that leaves me

                a little messy,

                a little rough,

                a little lame,

returning to you

where you lick your thumb

                and rub my face clean

where you smooth your salve

                over my burning skin

where you give me your arm

                on which to lean,

                as you walk me through

back to the mess,

                and the rough,

                and lame,

limping as I go

Old Friends

Old friends come back in like skipping stones

across water’s surface

in slow motion;

touching down for just a moment,

and never long enough.

Leaving ripples which flow well beyond

the place of touching,

of contact.

Finally sinking beneath what’s seen

to rest in the deep of the soul,

creating new landscapes far below,

and new currents above.  

Our shores long to be visited again,

to be stirred by the passing through,

the fine flick of the wrist

of old friends.

Still fighting

I’ve been meaning to – wanting to – write something lately.  I have all this stuff floating around in my head but I can’t seem to make sense of any of it, at least not enough to form thoughts and ideas that would make sense to anyone else.  I’m silent because I’m a little scared, and a little weak, and still a lot insecure.  Opportunities have been placed before me lately and while I am grateful for the confidence in the presenting, I’m still unsure of my ability.  I actually watched a hypnotist on Dr. Oz yesterday (let’s not get into why I was watching Dr. Oz in the first place) and he was talking about using hypnosis to tap into the subconscious mind to free oneself of negative impulses.  He was mainly talking about weight loss and quitting smoking but he also touched on the idea of freeing people from their own self-doubt and lack of confidence.  I watched intently hoping to gain a tool of some kind that I could use to pry open my lockbox of insecurity and release all of it, but after 30 minutes of watching, no such luck.  I even thought about looking in the phone book for hypnotists in my area who might be able to help me.  I’m embarrassed even writing it, but I am glad to say I did not look. 

So no hypnotists in my future, and still no tattoo (Dad), but still hanging on to the same old fears and other belaboring junk. 

And I keep thinking of the words often spoken, “My grace is sufficient for you” and quickly realizing I don’t always believe it.  This then makes me wonder if not believing takes away from the validity of the statement, or just robs me of the ability to receive its truth.  The grace eludes me, or I elude it. 

There’s been a lot of screaming going on inside my head recently.  I’ve been listening to this Dave Matthew’s Song called “Gray Street”.  The chorus at one point goes:

            “There’s an emptiness inside her/and she’d do anything to fill it in/and though it’s red blood bleeding from her now/it’s more like cold blue ice in her heart/She feels like kicking out all the windows/and setting fire to this life/if she could change everything about her/into colors bold and bright/but all the colors mix together/ to gray/and it breaks her heart”

And that’s how I feel lately.  A little dramatic, I know. 

No placating encouragement needed.  I’m just doing a little wrestling.  Really wanting to curl up under shadowy wings and hide out for a while but hiding doesn’t seem to be in my cards right now.  Getting down in the mix, in the mess, and duking it out does.  I’ll be swinging like a madwoman and hope I’m not just shadowboxing. 

Maybe one of the punches will knock loose the lid to that box…