I came to clear my head jammed with worry as it always is,
the kind of worry that resurrects the past like a compulsive grave robber.
And the kind of fondness that drives me to replay time-worn scenes,
the kind of fondness that had me dancing like a showgirl puppet,
and gowned in taffeta on a soggy, sacrosanct day.
The kind of worry that made me plead on my knees when death snatched her.
A mishmash of ragtag memories crowds my days.
Label me a retrospective character,
for it fits and I wear it with pride as an artist and a woman.
The sea is cranky, withdrawn, and baring its' jagged rocks.
I walk until my legs ache, and I've sorted my problems.
Of different natures, they grow like flowers in a garden.
Like wildflowers, my disputes are colorful but unruly
and therefore, harder to contain. They do ramble
and travel in tight circles that repeat themselves.
And like red roses are my joys, neatly arranged
against a backdrop of finery and romance.
What stands out to me is the realness of my problems
and the falsehood of my joys. Misery is truth
while joy is fleeting; a blissful bird ready to take wing.
Yet, we would sell our earthly souls to do one bright day over.
And it is the joys which will alight on our shoulders in the harsh days to come.
Like a babe, we will suckle from it and take strength. From the blemishes and wreckage
we can only hope to do better, lesson after bitter lesson.
If all my desires were met I would long for a vigorous challenge.
Life is a game of opposites.
Having assured myself that my problems weren't extraordinary,
nor can any joy last, I turn back to the sweet and salty sea
who has so many moods; she is like me. I had forgotten the fresh air
and the restless waves that hurry in to carry me away.
My head is clear; there is room for both joy and sorrow here.
No comments:
Post a Comment