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Inklings


                                       Photo credit J. Scott Bovitz

Today I find myself more intent on listening to what wants to appear here, rather than forcing something on the page just for the sake of checking it off a list of accomplishments.

I want that kind of forcing to die. That pursuit of a finish line-- that fleeting glory that keeps us blind, that rejects life as we are living it now--to which I've already given a fiery funeral, and mourned again and again-- too many times to count.

I'm ready to let it die so that something else might live. One lives in light, the other in dark, and so it seems they only meet in shades of their own intensity, and must give way to each other.

Makes me think of the movie Lady Hawk.

Mmmm. I'd love to think that the light and the dark are lovers wishing to meet at their edges.

Even so, I want to be surprised when I arrive at the finish line, be completely caught off guard, so much so, that I feel a burst of laughter ripple through me, because I've been so intrigued with all whom I've met along the way, all the rich experiences I've lived, which made the race so rewarding and effortless.

In quiet moments I find myself listening more and more to something that feels natural, that is gently instructive, that solidly stands as a buffer between me and whatever is inside of us forever bidding that we run away, chase after, fight, bite, or lie down and die.

There is a true desire to live from the inklings of my core at the moment, to work from this place that isn't subject to the rules the world would impose.

And yet, it often shows me that I don't have to be at war with the world out there. It show me kind. It shows me gentle. It shows me welcoming.

I feel a softness. And that softness is showing up as soft and gentle people around me,

people who are mostly patient with me as the storms within me settle little by little

people willing to weather my seasons, including my rainy ones and my fiery ones that never happen simultaneously enough to be neutralizing.

people willing to write love letters in the air, improv style, with no need to wait for moments of solitude to give grace, no need to trap it in fibers of paper, made heavy by leaden strokes--words written in the air, buoyant, voiced, rippling,

echoing inside and out of time,

creating that rainbow bridge I know I must cross to meet both worlds.

And somehow I see a little more clearly, a little more simply, a little more lovingly, perhaps,

my reflection.

And this is what I am left with,

me:

many roads lead to her citadel,

she accepts every weary traveler
but has her favorites

her city houses shiny gilded streets
and haunted decrepit wastelands

she has a voracious appetite for Love
and consumes with fire
apologetically at times
believes fiercely in its cleansing power

she harbors doubt
as sickly Gollum
whom she can't quite love, but can't quite leave
unable to turn away from her reflection

the rush of her emotions carve out grand canyons
chasing the place where we are all holding hands

she receives babies' cries
rushes to them with her milk
when she can find them

she has paper thin skin so much so
the blue sky is seen hovering within

her gaze continually seeks the sun
even with a hole in the ozone

she dances with death
for he is sure-footed
she likes his off-beat humor





Comments

  1. "In quiet moments I find myself listening more and more to something that feels natural, that is gently instructive, that solidly stands as a buffer between me and whatever is inside of us forever bidding that we run away, chase after, fight, bite, or lie down and die."

    I am breathing all of this in, Brooke. There is so much richness & depth in your words--in you. I'm happy you decided to write today, how much better we all are when what's in you comes out.

    The poetry of Brooke...so very beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh Brooke, when you write you make see that I am not alone in what seems like the insanity of becoming and letting go. Of course I resist and struggle, stirring up the mud and then I cry over the murkiness of it all.
    Your words are so beautiful. "I'm ready to let it die so that something else might live. One lives in light, the other in dark, and so it seems they only meet in shades of their own intensity, and must give way to each other." This is it. This is the letting go. This is the receiving.

    Brooke, I have been going through one of the most powerful metamorphosis. I'm right on the edge of clarity, enjoying and trusting, weeping and laughing, thank you for your pure-soul words.
    My absolute favorite line in your poem, "she has paper thin skin so much so
    the blue sky is seen hovering within"

    I love you!

    ReplyDelete
  3. What an oracular and ecstatic utterance! Your deep listening is bearing such beautiful nourishing fruit. Love the last stanza. Listen on, write on, sing on!

    ReplyDelete
  4. I love you Brooke! Been missing you and am so happy to come to your space here and soak in the goodness that is you. xo

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