Only Art

These thoughts, these feelings.

Only Art opens up its space to take them.

Only Art fits them.

Only Art hears them.

Only Art lifts this burden off from me and lightens.

Art, you shelter me

you hear me. 

An original piece, or, whatever

I write an original piece.

I make a study of science.

My blood flows onto the sheet of paper

and I say, ‘look, in here are red blood cells

this flows in my body whole,

and it needs oxygen.

We need oxygen.

And we are in a room of smog

thwarted;

or laughing on laughing gas’.

Or,

sometimes I say

‘I am here at the top of a hill

the sky is so clear

the air is so lovely

and I am happy’.

And you say

‘whatever…

yea….

that’s so personal…’

What?!

Should I just take some paints

And draw you some still-life landscape

So that you can say

‘Oh,

yea!

I’ve been there!’

a public confession

Dear Evro,

I have hurt you in many ways. I have behaved mistakenly regarding you in many ways.

I was in love with you, but that inloveing was not mature, it was not love. And this manifested over and over again. I still, to this day, have not loved you in a manner worthy of the grace that God showed us.

In a love between a man and a woman - in an erotic union, - one must be willing to put all selfishness behind them. To put their self aside, and to dedicate their heart; their mind; and their labor – as that is what is necessary – for a good genuine relationship; a partnership; a sy-zigisi to be between the couple.

I was not ready to give myself, to love another person, so that together we may have created a good union, a good home and a good family. I was not willing to feed our love and to care for it so that it were built into a home where peace and joy can flourish. I was not ready or willing to give myself in love, and to work for another – for you.

But nevertheless, I took. I took of your time, of your life, of your body, of your heart and of your mind. I feasted on your being, I drank from your water, and then like a thief I left. I looked only to my own needs, to my own interest, to my own wounds and problems. I looked at my self, I cared for myself. I demanded that you also care for me, and I loved you not. Not practically.

I was not ready for the immenseness of a love with a man. But I took it nonetheless. I ate it for free. I spat it out.

And then still, ever since, I have not put all selfishness behind me, not devoted myself to the work that is needed for both of us to heal the wounds we have made on each other, nor to repair our path together.

I looked always to myself and to my own needs – like a desperate child. I never lifted the burden that was ours. I never spent the time to clean the room from the stench of the dead that we left behind us locked up.

I looked at you with disappointment, feeling only my own hurt, my own shame, or my own guilt. I needed. I have needed you so much. But what have ever I given? I have looked at you with disgust, with disappointment, with need, with hurt. I have never forgiven you for letting me pick up something so heavy, for letting me drop it, for letting me stare – like a rabbit caught in the headlights – at the broken pieces that lay about me. Everywhere I have walked, I have walked with bare feet, on pieces of glass. I have never forgiven you for letting me.

By always trying to get away, I have never been free. By avoiding all responsibility that was mine, I have never lightened my burden.

I haven’t ever loved you, for I have looked only to my own needs. But that is the path of sorrow only. Forgive me now for being so heavy a burden on your heart and mind. For pushing you to shut down your senses, to stop looking, and so to loose so much of your communion with the reality that feeds us and embraces us with life. For being a locked door. For clutching so stubbornly to the key; for making you an exile in your own land. Forgive me for being a wall that keeps you out of the garden.

I melt down that wall. I forgive you now, please forgive me.   

this january

I am a poet.

Peace engulfs me.

Fresh air surrounds me.

Friendly creatures visit me,

and tell me of their paths.

Love, joy, and an array of colors and textures lie neatly folded in the top drawer.

Where I live,

the birds talk and the wind chants.

The grass tells tales.

Books are alive and some of their characters are real.

The sunlight can dance

Music is the same thing as color,

and movement and sound.

Everything here is the alive.

And they all confess.

They all bow to the same God.

and silently, I pray with them.

I was looking into the shed, at the same place where I always look.

But something new happened!

A bird from a book came out of the pages and sat on the bookshelf top.

It flapped its wings.

It flew up to the top of the room, tapped its peak on the glass panel,

And dropped back down to where I was looking.

It buried itself under some clothes,

and going after it,  

I found a space bigger than I had thought.

I followed it and found a door.

I opened the door and found a garden.