An odd pair of poems---new and old #19 and blast from past

My mind and focus are off galloping around tonight, so I took a journal or two off the shelf looking at old scribbled poems. Many hand written in journals are laments, complaints, much deep sorrow, or working out a particular moment. Most are not for publishing ever. Really, never, never, ever!

I think it is more of a glimpse into my mind and not so universal. I still write some of those here too during this month I just put it all out there in poetry, but these scribbled notes from journals put me instantly into that place or emotion of when I was writing it the first time. It isn’t like typing on the computer. It is much more personal. So, that is the second poem underneath the one I wrote tonight, which is the first poem that popped out after reading a bunch of random stuff.

Somehow it informed complex thoughts about words and Jesus….

Bending Down to Meet Miracles

The dry earth, cracked

Yet he bends down

Spits and writes

Words form

Mystery

Does it matter?

What is said?

Carries the authority

Of what is meant

Dirt scribbles

Scramble meaning

Becomes metaphor

Door

Stepping onto written earth

Beneath thousands of years

Time has gone

And still

We don’t know

What was written?

There by the hand of God

Man’s form and fingers

Curled around

Stick

Man scrapes forms

Sets type

Harnesses sun

To copy

Dust

Kitchen Captive         (written May 2010 after a really horribly hard day)

1 a.m., crying my eyes out in the kitchen again

My kitchen, a comfort zone giving me distance

Or solace, when everything is so tangled

Like cobwebs up by the ceiling where I can’t reach

The beauty, danger, and infringing nature of a spider’s complex home

My weeping stops to examine this mystery

I feel caught,

Bound tight.

Waiting as a fly in a hopeless shroud

My inner being cries out to the night,

“Get on with it and eat me already!”

No one rescues the annoying bug in the corner

Brought back to my surroundings

I plan my next meal, taste, smell

From the familiar cozy routine of grief

A strand from a web is stuck to my face

I envision the freedom found in walking

Through this cobweb cluttered room

Into the bright morning light

Feeling the fallen structures

Brushed away by a gentle touch

Of those who love me

A few white strands brushed casually aside
As I stride away from my slavish stovetop