Alice

My friend,
my dear friend,
I honor you with my existence,
I celebrate you with my art,
I call out your name and you answer,
no matter how low I have become,
no matter how stupid I have been,
no matter how far away,
I have run.

You never let me wander far from your patient gaze,
you protect me from myself,
you teach me to love again,
that which has always been within me.

Your loving hands,
which lift me up are
characters on a page,
so powerful
so inspiring
so honest and true.

My friend,
my dear friend,
as Rilke says: you “protect my solitude.”
You give me the space to be who I am.
How did you know that I simply needed
time to grow into my own flesh?

I can never thank you enough
for this journey,
for this path,
for sticking with me,
when I have nothing left to say,
nothing left to give.

All I can offer are these two outstretched hands
to thank you
for everything you give,
to thank you
for meaning so much to me.

Belonging

In this whole expansive world
where do I belong?
Where is that little niche
carved out for me,
just me
only me?
Where is that place
made for my heart to rest
and my spirit to dangle?

How can I know
when it is ok to yell to the world,
to let out a resounding laugh,
a full-bodied cry,
a complete and utter dance of delight?
How can I know
when it is ok to tell you exactly how I feel
without being ridiculed
brushed aside
thought insane?

Why does it feel that all others understand
the ways of the world,
that all have found their places in the world,
each with their circumspect delineation of space and time,
and I
forever running in circles
without direction,
one step spiraling onto itself
again and again
forever overflowing with questions?

There are times when all I want is to belong.
I just want to do what others do,
to feel what others feel,
to appear as if I know what is going on.

All I can be sure of is the touch of hands,
each upon the other.
These hands,
so soft
so suple
so gentle
guiding me,
showing me the way,
reminding me that wherever I am,
I belong.

Friendships With Gods

Before you go,
before you turn back to your own necessities,
and I to mine,
I hope you know
I meant no harm.

I simply meant to charm you
with my wit,
to delight you
with my eloquence,
to offer you a dance of words,
with outstretched palms.

I didn't mean to become greedy,
to expect more than you could give.
I didn't mean for you to feel compelled to listen,
to the libations of my mind.

I hope you do not think lesser of me
for overstepping my bounds.

When you took that first step towards me,
I knew it would be best to bite my tongue.
Your winged sandals gave you away.

Friendships between gods and mortals
were never meant to be.


-by Corey, mortal

My Words

I'm tired of pretending
that what really matters
is the color of lipstick
(I don't even wear any)
or the big sale at Macy's,
just to make you like me.

I'm tired of only
the daily demands for
sustenance and repose,
because I worry about my health.

I'm tired of feeling guilty
for not accepting the claim
that power and money will bring true elation,
although its what we're told.

I'm tired of thinking I am the one who needs to change,
to become someone else than who I am,
to stop speaking my mind
and to shut off my thoughts,
because I bore you needlessly.

I'm tired of the idle chatter
which leaves my heart empty.

You write such elegant lines,
your words forming crusty edges
of well-worn experience.
You feed me,
you fill me whole,
so why am I still hungry?

Is it true that the writer will starve
if not fed
at least occasionally
on her own words?

Has it been so long?

But MY words sound so bland,
so worn,
so simple.
They walk so limply,
they laugh so quietly,
they sing so off-key.

My words frighten me,
they betray me,
they reveal my lack of confidence in myself.
They remind me of how tiny and insignificant I feel
when standing face to face with you.
When I try to speak
I am reminded of my pettiness
in the face of your knowledge and worldliness.

Where are you my neglected muse?
Have you forsaken me out of spite?
Has my love affair with the words of others
made you turn against me?
Help me find my strength again,
my inner strength.
Help me find my soul,
the one that has deep pockets of sustenance.
Help me throw away my feelings of inadequacy,
of self-doubt,
of guilt,
of loathing.

How to win you back,
just for a day
or an eternity?

Perhaps it is time to go barefoot again?
Save shoes for another day!

Wholeheartedness

I am exhausted but sleep won't cure me.
Every hour,
simply biding time.

I feel as if I have given too much
and am now empty,
a shell worn thin
by the sands of of the sea.

What happens to the giver
when there is nothing left to give?

As the gods would have it,
these moments, hours and days of emptiness
are simply a human's way of
shedding the old ways of being.
Underneath the layers
of empty chatter
and the struggle for
meaningless success,
appears a skin so smooth,
so vibrant,
so radiant.

While we weren't looking,
while we were distracted,
our true selves were busy
preparing their entry.

Sometimes it takes the words
of a poet to remind us to let it all go,
that the depths of the soul
are meant to be stirred from time to time.

Yes, David Whyte,
we ARE meant to become allergic to ourselves
when the time is ripe, aren't we?

And yes, David Whyte,
Brother David was right, wasn't he, when he said,
"The antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness."?

And yes, David Whyte,
we are hungry, I AM HUNGRY.
It IS the time of loaves and fishes.
And as it just so happens, YOU are
the one good word which has fed me a thousandfold!

Americans Are...

Your words were meant for someone else.
I know.
But they hurt just the same.

"I don't mean you," you say.
But sweeping generalizations cannot be minimized
by your personal wishes.

If you do not condemn me,
then you still condemn my children,
my mother,
my brother,
my aunts and uncles and
my still unconceived grandchildren.
You condemn my reality as I know it,
the circumscribed lines which delineate my existence.

"But it doesn't mean anything,
it's just a stereotype,
it's what people say," you indicate.
In my eyes, you have merged into the masses,
and I begin to grieve my loss
of what I had hoped would become a friendship.

We all search for uniformity,
to place people and events and things into boxes,
with little labels attached.

I thought you understood that humanity is complex,
that Americans are not all the same,
that a political system does not reflect
the depths of each individual's soul.

Not all Americans were raised with silver spoons in their mouths.
Some of us remember winter months
huddled before the fireplace with mother and brother
because we couldn't afford the cost of heat.
Kind friends having donated wood.

Not all of us had the privilege of free time while
attending high school and college.
We worked low-paying jobs during our off hours
to help ensure our family could buy food and pay the bills.

Not all of us know what it is like to dine in fancy restaurants.
But we do know what it is like to stand in line for food
at the food bank,
and to feel the embarrassment of
paying for groceries with food stamps.

We worked hard to earn the right to dream,
to create,
to learn,
to imagine,
to delight in our successes.

So when you think you are being funny,
are making a well-accepted statement,
are saying something that is deserved,
instead you are condemning me.
You are encapsulating my existence
into your limited ability for compassion,
for humility,
for complexity.

Despite all of this,
I do understand you.
And I wish you well.

I hope someday you will be able to broaden your mind,
your heart,
your soul,
to avoid sweeping generalizations about other cultures.
Despite what you tell yourself,
despite your justification for the lack of carefully chosen words,
despite the fact that you attack me for not being more understanding,
for agreeing,
for simply accepting,
despite all of this,
I am still American.