Tired minds and worried brows
Will make their mark,
Forget to sow
Those hopes, and dreams, and fears
We can’t remember.
Locked pinkies under the sheets,
Hot legs touched by cooling feets,
I rest my head against your furless shoulder.
Love awakens our holy hearts,
Puts to rest those broken parts;
Heals some memories at the start
Within us, stirring ‘til morning.
At the bright sun, the cock then cries,
“Love is patient, love is kind,”
creating for us, in us, those blind—
Blind-spots.
Hiding all our fears and faults,
Protecting shields from reckless thoughts.
Light rays shine dismantling waves
And every falsehood melts away…
Liquids dissipating
Into thick, heavy air—
The ending nightmare
Bobs somewhere
In atmosphere-
Now plainly forgotten.
But here in bed, still, I lay.
Caressing your calm,
Sleeping arm.
My very core is penetrating
Pretty picture shows
Which enter in and out my soul.
Locked pinkies under the sheets,
Hot legs touched by cooling feets,
I rest my head against your furless shoulder.
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This poem was written last night after I had a discussion with some friends about art and creating art. I have never been a poet, and after looking at a poetry journal I kept through a creative writing class I took in 2006, it is clear that then too, I was not a poet, however, I will still commit myself to trying to be a poet when I have a free moment.
As I have been learning in my program about finding the healer within you, I have been told that the artist within us also has a great role in the healing process. So it is with great pleasure that I continue to challenge and use my creative side here and there no matter how pitiful it might look in its final production in hopes to be a healthier being. The process is much more important than the finished product, which is cliche, but true.
If there are questions to what this poem means, I believe it is about love or at least I intended it to be about love, but I am open to interpretations. In honesty, lately I have been having vivid dreams each night, so it was probably not in my best interest to write a poem before bed, but as I read through the poem I noticed that my dreaming self seems to come through in the poem more than I was consciously aware of...kind of weird, but cool since it reflects me. It feels good to write again.
