I wrote this poem yesterday.
Believe me, it’s true.
At least that’s what the date stamp says.
Actually, I’m writing this poem now.
Part of it is already written
and another part waits to be born.
Where is the self in this forest of personalities?
Which tree holds the door
to ultimate possibility?
What if I just didn’t write a poem today?
And I realized that even just that one question
is a poem.
Give life a chance to surprise you.
Just relax and trust that all is well.
The alternative is to stress out
and fear that everything is horrible.
Which sounds better to you?
Sitting here wondering why.
I managed to find a safe space within myself
and then he pulls the rug out again.
And now I’m falling again,
and the floor opens up,
and the earth opens up,
and I fall clear to the other side
And I’m free falling again.
When will the ground hold?
When will my safe space
extend to a place outside of myself,
a space where he can’t bother me,
a space that’s mine
and mine alone?
I want to stop trying so hard to be good.
I want to just touch on
my own inherent goodness
and allow it to be enough
for this moment.
I can see our innocence.
I can see how much we try.
I can see that he is doing his best
and so am I.
Could I forgive him
for having this affair?
Could I forgive his mistress
for sleeping with a married man
who has two children and a wife
that he left to be with her?
Could I see her innocence too?
If I can allow others to be who they are
and do what they do
and love them anyway,
there is hope I can afford myself
the same kindness.
I have this question bouncing around in my mind.
It has something to do with responsibility,
evolution, speciation, becoming, belonging.
It isn’t fully formed.
It’s just the feeling of a question.
I’m not looking for an answer.
I just want to ask the question.
I want to know what it is,
find the words,
and just ask.
I keep searching and searching for meaning.
I want to understand.
I think I’ve found something,
and the understanding melts away
to reveal still more questions
a deeper search, an endless journey.
Could I embrace the process of becoming?
Could I stop asking myself to arrive
and instead be content with each small step?
In the infinite realm of possibility
that is this Universe,
there is no end point,
just a constant cycling and recycling
of energy and experiences.
Even death is just another beginning.
So can I let go of the story
that I need some neat, tidy resolution
to the life I’ve lived thus far,
and simply love and embrace
the life I’m living right now?