6/20/08

Hamburg, Germany

The lack of visible writing
Does not mean a poet’s heart has stopped beating
When the phases begin to bleed out in emails and web updates
A time to wonder why I haven’t put pen to paper
For my most honest art
Where my love and fear cannot be hidden

Why do we turn on the things that bring us comfort
The things that feed our deeper self, that sweep away the selfish
Denying our voice to be heard, for others to have a chance to know
Part of what we really think, how we feel what we see and see what we feel?

Even to step out of the room for a while
That feeling of not fitting in, language, class, culture
The signs of your kind behind closed doors
Drifting smoke and wadded black gaff in the hall
Jettisoned from a shoe, gathered, carried, dropped, forgotten

Your clothes and face have people change their language mid-sentence
Until you begin the dance of minimal words and gestures
Caught when your limits show, no shame other than the person selling you water
Being better educated than you
The ancient trusses of the looming station reverberate with rubbing metal and bored announcements
And you can’t capture the feeling with your phone camera

Have you been there? Have you seen beauty alone?
Did you wish you could share it or fear you were the only one
Who wanders lost, still alive in some ways, the others gone
So comfortable in foreign scale, walking at my own pace
My path would confuse or anger some but alone it is just where I’m going

Does the sound of the train pulling away make you feel anything
Anything that you would want to admit?
I wonder where my heart is, what it is doing
And then a shadow crosses a wall
And the light does something new
And what is old is new again
And then you know that your heart never really left
You just stopped trying to walk through each day
The disconnect between your life and love a weight
You didn’t want to carry

To allow the song back into your heart
And the artist’s eyes to see
Not a pack mule or a bridge support
Living, feeling, the need to express
These angles that give me pause, elements crossed so I can understand
My path as I wander

No, I’m not from around here
I’m not from around anywhere anymore
A well paid vagabond
A word used for drunks, hobos and Walt Whitman
I guess I can live with that
I just want to be able to write my momentary truth again
And share the sounds of a train station or the reflection of running water
And be who I’m meant to be.