Tuesday, January 29, 2013


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.


  1. smiles...it can be intimidating to know someone that bold as to lay it out there and be real...its also very cool to me...and while it might make it hard, i imagine her freer than most...knowing you love her or not, and not some facsimile with her name...

  2. very cool.i always find it fascinating to know a little bit about the poet's life as well...makes us understand and cherish their poetry even more..

  3. Knowing the life of a writer and sharing that which inspires them enriches their words. Too bad we can't do it more often.

  4. I think there's more of a reward in writing so deeply about one's life than there is regret... a cleansing.

  5. Stunning.
    Absolutely stunning from the title onward.
    The idea that "there's just space there" until your eyes adjust to it and are then able to perceive the shapes that space unveils is so well written here.
    I love it.

  6. Your word choice is always smart and accurate. I like that about your writing.

  7. This is an intriguing read. I always come alert when I sense a good story - bet she had one. You drew me right into the reverie, kiddo.

  8. Like Sherry I find this intriguing, and am also always impressed at your gift for drawing me right into whatever you are writing of.


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