My heart belongs with the lonely,
It’s where I’m meant to be –
Not in the thoughtless crowd, or off
Among complacency
My heart belongs with the lonely,
And will to them be borne –
For while I still have eyes to see,
I’ll comfort those
Who mourn
(“My Heart Belongs With the Lonely” – 7-15-2015)
In freedom’s time, he traveled on his own,
And found himself in lands, and under skies
So large, to fill them he knew he had grown —
The food that serves to feed and appetize,
The truth you were not taught, but realize.
In days of silence, so much not to say:
The talker walks, the thinker often flies.
So many fears he once had to allay
Just set aside. Connection in the day
And coming home by being called away.
to live by others’ fantasies
is rarely ever wise:
when sex and power get mixed up
it’s often love that dies
our many possibilities
are rarely understood;
the freedom that we know we have –
it should be used for good
the window of our hearts should be
protected by its casement;
the life we choose to live should have
a minimum abasement
there’s bravery required when
we strike out on our own,
but oh the waves that we could ride –
they’re bigger than we’ve known
but we should not be modeled after
characters from fiction,
but plug into real life amid
this world of contradiction
to open up your eyes and heart
and spread your arms out wide —
we know life has its terrors that
are hard to brush aside —
but still, the day is given us.
And so, today, for me:
I hope to ride the waves
Of my own real
Identity
I look into the mirror young
But see one old and wizened:
I know the me that is,
But only see
The me
That isn’t
The woman she should know the most,
But it is like she’s seen a ghost:
Reflecting on the hidden cost
Of all she’s found, but who
She’s lost
A country overpass is what he is –
Forgotten, by the side, and overgrown –
The care of lonely travelers is his,
Amid old country ways few left have known
The social fabric of the varied past
Is still a part of who he is today;
As it is, still, for everyone, at last –
But many do not know it, or won’t say
The unremembered road, it sits aside.
Yet still the sunlight falls upon it there;
A way not glamorous, nor very wide,
Among the choking weeds and long-held wear
And he, he must remember in his heart:
Whate’er his limits, he must do
His part
The last dirt road he ever drove
Was on his uncle’s funeral day;
The fields were green, the sky was white,
The air was full of clover hay
And past the fields he used to work
He saw the old familiar plow,
Then stared in frigid silence for
He never could admit it, now —
Behind his aviators, he
An urban, slick sophisticate;
If he let this dirt on him now
He’d never hear the end of it
So who he was he will deny,
Beneath his starched and ironed shirt:
Oh, no, he’s made of finer stuff
Than you and me and all
This dirt
