the leather journal, and the part about pretending…
that is really quite a haunting lil ghost to us, isn’t it?
Pretense. And those voices, mocking, whispering constant
“are you who you think you are?”
“is you or is you not Her Baby?”
and then I turn from them with listening ears
and turn to them with deaf ears unassailable
and lift instead all my chickenscratching,
my poetic hardscrabblings in the dirt so meager
and occasionally alive…occasionally.
and with effort I take my special pen and lift it
and hold it tight against my cheek and shut my eyes
and wish upon that Star above that twinkles there, unfailing
and feel around inside for me in panic, my heart flailing
to touch the metaphor and meaning in the glowing core of being.
yes, and then I write it down, and truly wonder!
I wonder why it seems that no one knows how beautiful,
how lovely the pulse ordinary of all things, so constant
so miraculous and ever all surpassing,
far exceeding even Marilyn, Raquel and Sweet Sophia,
and singing sweetly more sweetly than every lark on every wind!
I wonder why it seems that no one knows that just a glance
from the gimlet glittery eye of that Poetic Siren
crooning there upon Her Island will utterly destroy you
if you sail a bit too near unless your limbs are chained unmoving
and your yearning heart is thirsty and so hungry for a crumb
just one Crumb of Her Bread Living, Her Bread Living…
But my scrawls chart the clever currents there, to glide securely
and map the words to lead me safely home forever
chained in that leather journal, my boat “The Plain Poetic”
its pages poised to catch Her singing winds and Her Bright Courage
to catch my breath, and then set sail again…at last undaunted.