Who writes?

There are sometimes things that are very hard to say to the world at large or to the much smaller readership here on my blog.  These things still need to be said or they eat a hole in my soul.  I keep a second private site for that.  

Sometimes it is just random bits of anger and anguish but sometimes it is poetry, or something approaching poetry.  I never claim to be good but I do claim it to be honest in that moment when I wrote it.  Some of it is raw and will never see the light of day and some of it is angry and will also never be read by another soul.  But some of it is stuff I don't want to have disappear into the great forever when I am gone.  Some of it, I would like to have saved here with the rest of me.

So here is some of it, genuine and honest and from my heart.

The Fullest Life

There are many out in the world
who 'live to the fullest'

Some live with energy and lightness
and joy bubbling over the edge
of their own particular fountains bowl
burbling, gurgling, sparkling.

It's a way of living full
that isn't often visited by
others among us.

Others among us
Live lives of private anguish
quietly, closed behind doors
no one knows exist because we don't let them,
because we cannot let them
know how we live to the fullest.

Fullest sometimes looks different than you expect.

Broken Hearts

In poetry they talk about how broken hearts will mend.
But what about those hearts whose love
is gone because they reach their end?
I see no rest for hearts as these

What isn't mine

There is a well that caved in
it is just outside the window
capped with a funny little
egg shaped top that
you told us we should not kick
So we didn't. 

That well caved in and will not give us water
It isn't that replacing it is hard
but this isn't my place
anymore.

This home with large bright rooms and golden basement rugs
and floors that gleam.
 This isn't my home anymore.
Mine is warm rust and green and walls of pine and nature
and you are there sitting in your chair watching golf..
 This isn't my home anymore.

I think about kicking that well head, but it isn't in me not to hear you say don't.

there is an empty well out there
below the window
in this home that isn't mine

Sad

There is a point between happy and sad where I usually sit, 

I slipped from that place and now I am on the floor.  

I'm not in the dark dungeons yet

or in that oubliette with only one way out and no rope.

They are not places I want to go again.

But I slipped here and wonder

what makes the difference between slipping to the floor 

and slipping through the cracks 

and down. 

The Ice on the Bucket

There is an outer shell
around the rest of me.

It's thin like a thin layer of ice
on the water pail on cold mornings
It's crystal clear and can't be seen it if you aren't looking.
And when you send the dipper down to get a drink of water
That thin crust breaks and unless you look
you don't see the pieces floating

cracked, unmoored.

Bits of self
That make no sense
without the other.

A thousand tiny pieces around the rest of me
cracked, unmoored

Strong Enough Next Week

I don't have a lot to say.
There is no one here to listen anyway.
There's lots of words I wish I could speak
Maybe I will be strong enough next week.

So many things I am supposed to think.
Feeling pushed till I am at the brink.
How did my days get so dark, so bleak
Maybe I will be strong enough next week.

Sometimes I wish the world would speed on by
To sit alone and think and sigh,
Is all I have and all I seek. 
Maybe I will be strong enough next week.

So many ways that I can't heal
Ten thousand things that can't be real,
Its not just me.  I am not unique
Maybe I will be strong enough next week.

There's lots of words I wish I could speak
Maybe I will be strong enough next week.

All are my personal work from over the last six years, whenever the need and the words were there.  I wish my poetry was happier, but it is what it is, from the place my head and my heart was at in that moment.  

Does this make me a poet?  I don't think so.  I'm just as ever, a person who writes, knits and loves her family and has a weird love hate relationship with her yarn. Thank you for taking a moment to read it.

PS.  This post does not mean I am feeling down.  It does mean I am feeling rather brave and foolish and may have had a glass or two of wine.  Wine bolsters foolish bravery.