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Pieces of your early life fell
into my hands again, just yesterday
And surprised me so;
such brevity
linked with such candour, still
I had forgotten how courageous
you were inclined to
be
When writing down the memories
from that storehouse
in your mind, that great private
bunker where such personal
things are stowed.
Not for the first time I wondered
whatever had possessed
you
to expose yourself
to the scrutiny of those
Who would eventually see the lines
for what they were; the detailing
of a life lived flagrantly
In defiance of what was expected
by almost everyone
You ever came up against
or with whom you will
most likely have to coexist
for the remainder of your days
To fly in the face of convention,
Is that what drove
you then
and what drives you
still,
To pen the words
that crawl across the
page
and seep into the
minds
of all who view them,
Without most even
realizing
the effect of such
seemingly
innocent notions
On the psyche and the
soul,
As they peruse your
verses,
Your non-rhyming
poems
that serve to tell
the tale
Without saying much
at all,
But saying all, just
the same.
Read between the lines, they said
When first you wrote
I remember the sound of your laughter
And the incredulity in your voice,
'There’s just space there,
What do they think they’ll find…'
At the time, I thought you were kidding;
I searched with the rest,
And there was nothing, as you said.
It wasn't until much later
When I re-read your words;
I think, in fact I know,
It was soon after your brother died
You began to write again;
Your new stuff very different
from what I remembered,
Starker somehow,
And I wanted to compare.
It was as if I’d been given
new eyes, or maybe the years had
Just granted me some
much needed insight
Along with the inevitable
Gray hairs and experience.
Your words made sense finally,
And I saw how very bare
You’d laid your soul
At this second first glance
You frightened me with your boldness;
I couldn't stand to read very much
of you at once and wondered
How it was that I had been
So misled and blind the real first time
Or if I’d tricked myself on purpose
Not willing to imperil my own sensibilities
To such a raw emotional exposing
of one’s deepest private thoughts
and feelings and essence really;
the very essence of you,
put into words for anyone,
to trace or touch, or roll off the tongue.
I've wondered
if ever you've found yourself
Regretting such revelations
Or if the unburdening
Was as freeing
as you always said it
was.
