Muscle Poems

 

To you, I bestow my endless sympathy.

I’m not searching for it from you.

I find it.

 

Rudely in My Focus

 

I cannot seem to stick anywhere, no matter what I say.

Passively motioning for reprieve only for one day.

Ignoring ease, exploring survival’s raw ecstatic triumph

That only the inner life comes to understand someday.

 

The work horse gets high, too.

The seeker is blessed with rage.

Touched later with a power,

Every encounter with experience a passion play.

Beautiful people. Crisis everyday.

 

The details in our emotions

Bear down rudely in our focus.

Scenes are a close up.

I guess I’d like to blow up,

Because no one can take that away.

 

 

 

Worries work like a conscience.

 

The morning drug, you are my morning sun.

 

Will these women let me be free to counteract, to think for myself and to find the loophole of compassion?

 

Strive to be congruent.

 

I will stew in my wounds in favor of Art.

 

I cannot watch a melodrama. I’ve had too much contemplation……

 

Gee, I have so much to cry about, so much to say. My silence is my resentment, my low expectations a punishment. I don’t ask for help much. Maybe I should, assume it’s there, and it’s me who blocks it. Maybe it’s not there, and my false hopes signal to me that I’ve lost it.

 

 

 

 

I feel like I have to attend to my father’s need for comfort, to answer to his values, to please my mother’s sensibilities and agree to her logic. Or there is guilt to play.

 

 

 

All Related 2

 

Deeper insights from a baby’s cry.

The baby is the timber and a tuning fork.

A species of great sensitivity and alarm

The baby works to be fed and to soothe

Away the fight.

The baby’s cry is a prayer of great accuracy,

And a way to stay alive.

 

 

I can feel what it would be like to have him here, eventually and to start.

He will listen to my sheepish speech and stare at me through his heart.

He is entering a family and encountering their belief system, that glues them together and tears them apart.

 

 

It’s a human thing to make Love,

Think of what your parents did.

That was the beginning

And they hope that’s

Where you’re headed.

 

 

God said to me once, Don’t forgive.

 

What is the conversion experience?

It is different, it is different for each one of us individually.

Violence, war, anger, the wit’s end

The unconscious natural

The return to humanity

The passion to be human for the first time

And again and again.