I found the first letter under my pillow,
in ink I recognized before I recognized the words
my own hand, but steadier.
Braver, somehow, in the loops of the y.
Dear diary, it began, in my handwriting,
though I keep no diary that anyone else could find.
It knew things I'd only thought at 2a.m.
It knew the name I never say out loud.
I caught it once, in the lamp-light,
bent over my desk in the shape of me,
holding a pen the way I hold a pen,
writing something I would never have the nerve to send.
I didn't stop it.
I think some part of me left the desk lamp on
on purpose, that night
some part of me that wanted to be spoken for.
It signs my name better than I do now.
No hesitation in the final stroke.
No crossing out. No starting over.
Just my name, sent, sealed, and meant.
Last week I found the final letter,
already folded, already addressed
to the one person I never worked up the courage to tell.
At the bottom, in handwriting identical to mine, it said:
I am you, but the part of you that stopped waiting.
I hope you don't mind. I already dropped it in the mailbox.
By the time you read this,
it will already be theirs.
Inside a magic glass
a sprinkle of dreams
Lost in a journey of
selfhood- ***
not all is as it seems !
Reality bows to
the magic of Christmas!
A foundling of childhood,
all is as it should be !
Joys of the heart and soul
he's waiting for a "Leading Star"
behind the walls of ...
Ancient Bethlehem !
Embracement is obvious when I remain within.
Keep your eyes open;
I do not exist for anyone anymore.
I want to embrace myself, adopting everything uncertain.
Uncertainty is the key.
Life, death, and every incident
Might have been tragic,
But every personal tragedy goes with resolution within.
Birth is a pursuit of fulfilment,
But every fulfilment carries a debt.
Some debts turn into curses,
Some into never-ending journeys.
Death is not dark,
And darkness also matters;
For every light brings us back to our achievements,
And every night gives birth to every morning.
I always persist in the in-between.
The space I hold for myself,
Never count me underneath.
Close your perceptions to know me,
For I am imperceptive.
I refuse to languish in obscurity
hiding parts of my personality.
As a target I stood.
Verity will always light up the dark.
A white lightning rod, an electric spark
as what’s solid is viewed.
I am the woman with oneiric eyes,
the one who’s focus is the far off prize.
No nonsense attitude.
Shrinking yourself back into a bubble,
sounds to me like a whole lot of trouble.
Small is never selfhood.
A bird in a cage, I refuse to be bound,
Transport Adaptee will never break me,
I am no rotting fish; for all to see ,
Your rules are like chains ,time to break them down,
I'm no prune and certainly not a clown,
I’m no ugly duckling to any degree.
You whittle down my selfhood, Not,I decree,
I am not worthless junk that you just found.
My mind is like a steel trap,I know the facts
In a wheelchair, I move like a brisk breeze,
I want to soar like hawks to be happy.
My body is healthy I feel no setbacks,
If I have my freedoms I’m easy to please,
Treat me with homage then I won’t be snappy.
It happens,
you are no longer clouded by flesh,
your verge shifts,
a million miles is but an inch.
The bright brim of an ocean of Consciousness
becomes the light of the stars,
and that light is the mind, not your mind,
for there cannot be two minds,
two consciousness. It is the Mind.
There is no separation.
"You are no longer a drop in the ocean,
you are an Ocean in a drop."
-- Rumi
You have spoken this truth,
into your ears and mouth many times,
yet your persona; your 'me-ness'
has turned away
to look at its reflection.
For an instant you dropped that mirror.
The I Am opened a window in your heart.
You brimmed over a lip of selfhood
not thinking to look back,
not thinking
you poured.
Creatures, great and small, perceive us
for they are a part of the matrix of looking
but the planet is incapable of looking at all.
What is this 'looking' we do?
Better to explain what it is not.
Minds sees what they have agreed to see
as a collective perception.
Perception is a way of looking
through pre-painted-over mirror.
The planet is Conscious
but it is not looking or seeing - just being.
When we see with a fresh eye
we really can look,
watch,
even watch that which is watching.
Then looking becomes
the One Conscious Reality of Itself,
and no longer a prismatic illusion.
Until then, angels must guide
our feet as we stumble through
this maze of selfhood.
Your cheeks curve into a buxom embrace.
it's awesome to see you in the mirror.
a little flirting is more than good pace
Your cheeks curve into a buxom embrace.
you are conscious about your selfhood grace
You're thinking of poems that may cheer her.
Your cheeks curve into a buxom embrace.
it's awesome to see you in the mirror.
Written: February 23, 2023
MIRRORS
face to face
expressions
of nature
emboldened
to catch
& explore
a singular
intensity
of
self examination
so
stimulating
looking
&
confront us
with crucial
selfhood
perturbed
its
surrounding status
&
credibility
crumbling
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
UNSPOKEN WORDS
As my thoughtful words
left unspoken,
Reveal the words
that were kept unopened,
Thinking,
I would start saying.
But my wild thoughts had
started forsaken.
Can't say it relently aloud,
Perhaps my spirit was weakened.
With my selfhood,
I'm soft-spoken.
Now,
I regret not saying.
Sorry,
I was mistaken.
For I was confused and
HEARTBROKEN!
Written by: Rosey RMV
07 OCTOBER 2017
!!~My Lost Selfhood~!!
***************************
"While,
I were busy in thinking
over the cosy chair.
I found
my inner soul missing
in intoxicating air.
Then,
the dense darkness
of fog arose.
In fear,
I kept my eyelids
fully close.
Somewhere,
the lamps of hope
were yet shine.
At dawn,
I found my lost soul
who scolded & said -
'Why had you taken
insomuch quantity
of illusory wine?'_____Durgesh Verma
Your poetry is dark, Mark Strand.
I want to emulate it as I hate
each line. I want to cast it out,
then hold it to my breast
as the defeated one who knows
I could have said it first
had I retreated into selfhood,
placing honesty in all effrontery
and drawing forth the man
who dips into the soul
and finds his art.
I didn't do it.
The gold I see encrusted there
forever lies in your domain.
Every plain-scribed thought remains
your own no matter myriad the times
I have encountered it before,
for words fall on their knees
when spirit rules and art
is not contrived but flows forth
from its source.
I read these washer-woman words
with more than admiration, Mark.
I fondle them, enshrine their pages
with repeated reads, and you
will understand I fondly hate them
as they trace the highways
that a poet laureate selects,
the curves and scenic stops
along the way that I
shall never see or share.
~
(A Spoon River Poem)
You loved me well, you loved me long,
even with joy fading from my eyes,
my beauty your heart's silent song,
and sorrow hidden in burnished skies.
Six strapping sons feathered our nest,
pride your meat, and hope your drive
for peace to rest within my breast,
watching our sons grow and thrive.
My pride lay seated in one alone,
a daughter, supping from my dish,
her grace shining like a midnight sun,
her presence fulfilling every wish.
Death came feeding at her door,
in a single day, her light was gone.
I sewed to clothe her one time more
in her five years, I'd always done.
Each day after, I lived to mourn;
you burned to melt my frozen core.
Our boys also, with fibers torn,
became crippled casualties of war.
Why couldn't I see them clear,
with such longing in their eyes;
that in my grief-stricken sphere,
wounded egos shrank and died.
Though she and I, at last, conjoin
reduced to dust and mingled here
she's one of seven from my loins
steeped in years of guilt and tears.
Too late discerned, my own selfhood,
they’ve scattered and can't be found.
So undeserved, my peaceful shroud
atop this hill, beneath this ground.
Tireless Universe
by Odin Roark
Time defies denial,
Knowing well its empirical presence
Will never be of absence.
Dense as its surrounding matter,
Its aged archives remain
Forever fortressed beneath passage and growth,
Like termite mounds of tunneled journeys,
A labyrinth of cosmic dust
Forever of remnant coatings
Upon endless bell tolling posterity.
Here within the maze of stellar nurseries,
Time’s infinite presence passes through our microcosm
As we attempt to aggrandize selfhood
Beyond its limitations.
Like the beam of a miner’s lamp,
Our import seeks to impact the void,
While this depth of immense profundity
Reveals our illuminative essence
As more akin to a spark of flint
Confronting the revelation of existence.
Perhaps…
Somewhere beyond our consciousness,
Smiles mix with duration’s yawn,
Humoring the metaphysical malady of rest deprivation.
After all,
Like time,
Existence has never slumbered.
Such a tireless universe this.
Library ~ daytime, empty, shelves are stacked
book for every reason, season, nothing lacks
waiting for the internet, it's Oh so-o-o fast
and my mind might diminish, with the facts!
Speed one ~ and even reading, can't sit back
I'm focused on the treason, of life's act,
so many foolish faces, filled exact
the mind, a precious reason, just reacts!
Is thought this busy please zone, not contract
some daydream, left, a glee dome, to look back
and not create that interest, struggles sack
to try and fail, the fall owned ~ by contact!
It's information's wedge cone, mindful swap
does sift with memories stilled hone, toting hack
can't cheat ~ there's more to glean through, cover's flap,
my selfhood on this steamroll, just distracts!
Guess I'll go home, and sweep through
staid errand's bric-a-brac
something is lost to mean's view, creation's scrap
The slower versions, schemes few, the writer's craft ~
Are eyes, and ears, the seen to . . . . my own thought's wrap!
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