A great-grandfather’s gold medal
buried in the family dirt -
do I have to dig?
A would-be lover’s
overpolished shoes and
matching wife in my mirror -
do I step away?
What if I took all that I like
and refused to carry the things that I dislike?
Belonging to humanity
is all I that I need,
but to please some
and mimic their ways,
is a prison that my mind
has kept bombing throughout the years,
bombing.
Still the walls are heavy and intact,
a grandfather clock ticks
the silence and security
of places that don’t fear time.
Outside, fields of blue,
petals of crazed repetition,
paradises of serial makers,
3D killers of savage freedom
invade our sanity.
But what about me?
What if I took
all that I am
and refused to carry
alien projections?
Let's say
She did. She refused.
She refused to carry them.
She washed off the smile the cashier handed back with her change.
She un-donned the mask
meant to hide that she was afraid,
and bared it for all to see--her vulnerability.
She shed the mock-confidence she'd mustered
from the last book she had read-- it wasn't hers.
It belonged to the character she'd absorbed.
Miles later, after many a laid-down load,
I think she'd notice how invisible her hands had become--
after all,
hadn't she gotten them from her father's mother's mom?--
just like her crooked spine--
her long, straight hair...?
And when she looked in that mirror (also from another),
she'd not be able to see a thing.
Lucky for us, we get to pick and choose
the cargo we carry.
...
She's got a heavy load. But it does make me wonder how little of ourselves is left when we do step away to "find ourselves", as we so often put it. We think we're lost, and yet without a bit of it, there's not much to us. We're made up of other people, though we shouldn't be made up of other people's garbage. Me and spitballs, for example... why do I carry them around? My black satchel is FULL of them. Why? --Charlie
Share
Print
Save
Follow
She did. She refused.
She refused to carry them.
She washed off the smile the cashier handed back with her change.
She un-donned the mask
meant to hide that she was afraid,
and bared it for all to see--her vulnerability.
She shed the mock-confidence she'd mustered
from the last book she had read-- it wasn't hers.
It belonged to the character she'd absorbed.
Miles later, after many a laid-down load,
I think she'd notice how invisible her hands had become--
after all,
hadn't she gotten them from her father's mother's mom?--
just like her crooked spine--
her long, straight hair...?
And when she looked in that mirror (also from another),
she'd not be able to see a thing.
Lucky for us, we get to pick and choose
the cargo we carry.
...
She's got a heavy load. But it does make me wonder how little of ourselves is left when we do step away to "find ourselves", as we so often put it. We think we're lost, and yet without a bit of it, there's not much to us. We're made up of other people, though we shouldn't be made up of other people's garbage. Me and spitballs, for example... why do I carry them around? My black satchel is FULL of them. Why? --Charlie
Ron
One of your best, my friend, You really hit on some poignant moments!
Much peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
John
xOx Pea xOx
{N: typo re grandfather. Flawless in every other way. Thank you so much for posting this, Axilea!}