Sunday, November 1, 2009

feeling resolute-reflections for a new year


I'd like to write a poems in a new year that remind me of things I need not fear but hold closer than ever before because when times get harder there might be nowhere else to go but home. I want to read between the lines I recite in my mind about childhood and pastimes to find an embrace from my father in the doorway the very moment that I release my baggage, free my hands, and open them to feel a sense of peace. I want to remember that these days are short and you can never be sure when it'll hurt too much to breathe, so believe me, even during the most troubling of days there are still countless reasons to see face-to-face with your blessings. Circling about the sun in one revolution I have the revelation that I've been blind to myself. There are mirrors in inkwells and wishes in frames that situate me in a place to say, "Never again, not even for one day." And as the world remains still beneath my feet I've no choice but to move myself--walk towards the sense of love I taught strangers, write with the heart I received from heroes, believe with the strength of God's mother, and heal with the grace of a caress from a lover.



This time, a year ago, I was a month behind my present state. It took three weeks of unconscious traveling, depending on strangers in foreign cities, and exploring possible futures and homes with potentially life-long friends to remember that the birds wake every morning by singing. Rising to the sun within and celebrating a solstice of becoming, I've finally recovered, one month more rapidly.

It seems that I descend with the seasons and in the middle of winter seek to begin again when the days get longer and the lengthening light allows me to see with clarity, just in time to thwart an ending in darkness. Is it the cycle, without beginning and without a demise, the rise and fall of spirits from earth to hell, from hearts to heads, from lovers to friends and back to strangers? Are our bodies made up of patterns, and beauty of fragments? Or does this reflect the way we breathe through life, through death, into freedom, into art? A process of becoming, always renewed, a spirit of wonder, the start of everything? From out of a cave, out of a flower, into a question, and into another. The path of exploring the meaning of being and asking questions of life and "who am I?" "who are we?" and returning to old truths, four-letter words, friends from distant dreams, and utopian scenes where everything ends by blooming.


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