I am built in layers, outer topography shaped to a smile. It isn’t fake— I’m happy to see you, happy to shine the spotlight somewhere else. I rise like a mountain, though moments before, I was low as a trench. Below the summit, I am still scoured by rockfall, carved by floods I didn’t summon. Who isn’t hollowed by heartache or loss? There’s another layer, though, below the confines of clay and stone, an aquifer, pressurized by pain, clear water that knows to find the cracks and fill the fissures. I’ve felt its sudden flowing— a senseless joy that rushes up, geyser beneath the weight of suffering. Once, trembling curled in the coldest loneliness, icesheets for a marital bed, pain so sharp I thought it would break me— I guess it did—faces poured up through the fissures, everyone who loved me was there in that room. I slept in a huddle of the warmest limbs. Same bed, a few years on, I begged breath through a straw blocked on one end, my chest ached every attempt to inhale. My body wasn’t my body. If I slept, would I wake again? This time, strangers reached into the cracks. I saw them lying in ICUs, yellow cabs blaring from the other side of walls they might never step beyond. I took a breath for them, willed that thin string of air to wind its way to the lungs of someone who needed it more than me. Someone always needs it more than me—this thread dropped me into the well, bedrock aquifer, crystal and calm. I was still sick, but I wasn’t scared. I have friends who get upset when I say it’s okay that I’m sick still. They don’t want me to bend reality to a smile; they want reality to bend, so smiling becomes natural again. But what could be more natural than sipping from the deepest well? Than looking to joy for a map through suffering? Than looking to suffering as if it’s connective tissue, as if cracks and fault lines are just paths from my heart to yours, as if isolation holds its own negation, as if smooth places hide secrets underground, caverns that defy boundary lines? We are never separate, least of all in our pain. When you reach a hand into the dark, it might be my breath that finds your fingers. When I call into the void, it might be your voice that echoes back.
Beautiful, A. I love the idea of everything having begun long before your first breath, and everything remaining unfinished after. I find that supremely comforting.
This is beautiful, A I love “itching for a starting place” and the image of the eyelash floating away to make room. Right now I’m feeling the opposite, itching for an ending (to this interminable chore, to that string of annoying work deadlines) and your poem is also a balm for that sentiment. “Everything is in progress,” always, and there’s such release in accepting that.
"We are never separate, least of all in our pain." AMEN. This was beautiful, Lisa - I love your metaphorical topography imagery. So vivid. Here's some of my voice, echoing back:
I love this! I'm with Karri, "Grace darted out in front of me and shame slammed on the brakes" really got to me. I had to pause for a while and think about that and the "glorious mess" that followed. I'm so glad that happened and your brilliantly colored essential bits coalesced into who you are today, Keith.
while others paint with such broad colorful dramatic strokes,
don't worry about it, she says, thats your freakin' ego spinning, and it is something you really need to shove over to the side, to set down over there & for a moment walk away.
because it is really not them that keeps bringing you back, not the number of "likes" that u check on all day long.
That's not your grade,
some dang approval,
seems like you are always looking for acknowledgement.
Ok, I don't know what the hell this is but it's what came out of 10 minutes of free writing. I grabbed on a few words and phrases and the capitalizations are intentional.
The hum of the air conditioner and the sound of the lawnmower
The soundtrack to this Saturday night
Making lists, making plans, marking time until
The Next Thing.
Bubby stares at me and seems out of sorts
The sound of the mower makes him nervous
His searching brown eyes assume I have the answers
When I don’t even know the questions.
Change is coming, it’s just around the corner
And it’s not like I want to stay here
In this space of in between
Waiting for for What’s Next.
But a season full of stressors stretches
Between what is and what will be.
I will tackle the hurdles as they come
I always do, don’t I?
But For Now, I try not to borrow trouble
Although I know exactly where to find it
Stuffed in a too small box in the corner of my mind
The same lines really grabbed me (as they did Lisa): "But for now, I try not to borrow trouble/although I know exactly where to find it." I have a similar "too-small box in the corner of my mind." I loved this poem, Karri.
I think this really speaks beautifully to what you've been sharing with us recently about everything you've been going through and struggling with. I'm sorry you're still feeling so caught in the in-between.
Like Lisa and Keith, I loved "borrow trouble" and the lines that followed. I also love the letting go at the end, allowing your list for tomorrow to do for today. Also, Bubby sounds like such a sweetie. :)
I really felt this poem, it hits close to home. My siblings and I couldn't be more polarized in terms of our values and worldview. So good to be reminded, especially as the prez election looms, of the existence of a "forest of our shared humanity." Also so good to be reminded of the relief that comes from panning out from the claustrophobia of polarization.
I have been experiencing some Substack overwhelm, but when I do login I am never disappointed when I check in here - your poems are always lovely and your commenters are always kind & encouraging 💗
Thank you, Lindsey! I appreciate that and can also really relate to the Substack overwhelm - there’s so much more that I want to read than I actually have time/spoons for, and so a lot of the time, I just hide away and read nothing!
I love this, Lisa! The little insertions here and there that the long form has room for—little interjections that surprise, and then the main flow continues on.
That’s such a lovely way of describing what a long poem can do! In the course with Maya, she said that long poems tend to have more of a voice, and that feels like it fits with what you’re saying - the poet can be in the room with you in a conversational way.
I am itching for a starting place,
but everything I am, or do, was begun
long before the first breath graced
my lungs and will remain unfinished
long after the last. This is the nature
of everything; everything is in progress,
impermanent, an eyelash caught
in a draft and floating, fleeting, away,
making a space for the next creation.
Oooooh i love that image of an eyelash floating away! I’m going to just sit here, enjoying that metaphor.
Beautiful, A. I love the idea of everything having begun long before your first breath, and everything remaining unfinished after. I find that supremely comforting.
itching for a starting place is the way I feel about 99% of the time these days!
This is beautiful, A I love “itching for a starting place” and the image of the eyelash floating away to make room. Right now I’m feeling the opposite, itching for an ending (to this interminable chore, to that string of annoying work deadlines) and your poem is also a balm for that sentiment. “Everything is in progress,” always, and there’s such release in accepting that.
Like being on the sidelines, waiting for the coach call your number.
"We are never separate, least of all in our pain." AMEN. This was beautiful, Lisa - I love your metaphorical topography imagery. So vivid. Here's some of my voice, echoing back:
*
Queer. Queer, queer, queer
as a $2 bill, queer as a coot,
queer as a Brighton Pier.
Queer as a football bat, I am
queer as they come, queer as
I want to be, queer as
I’m meant to be. Queer at last,
queer at last, thank God almighty
I’m free at last.
The truth is, I was always queer,
Even before I got here.
I came in this way and so I shall go out
when finally, I disappear.
I have no memory, not even a fragment,
of ever thinking myself a girl, but
I have plenty of them - me and my cells -
of bristling and twisting
at being told that I was.
And more still of wondering:
was it me or them getting things wrong?
As I wondered, sometimes I hummed
that classic Sesame Street song,
the one that told me one of these things
is not like the others, one of these things
just doesn’t belong. But the wondering
got to be too much, and I grew to hate
that song, so I decided maybe,
if I just closed my eyes to myself,
maybe, if I just didn’t see
my not belonging, it might go away.
Like the scary scenes on the big screens.
It didn’t, but I nearly did, again and again,
until one day, Grace
darted out in front of me and
shame slammed on the brakes.
What a glorious mess that collision made -
everything shattered from the impact
except the most brilliantly
colored essential bits. They scattered,
unrecognizable for what seemed like forever
until time bound them together,
enlivened them into a rainbow with
a strong and cohesive voice.
Today their message is as proud as it is clear.
We’re here,
we’re queer,
get used to it.
I love every word of this (and every part of you) so much!
Thanks so much, friend. Right back at you! 💞
I love this! I'm with Karri, "Grace darted out in front of me and shame slammed on the brakes" really got to me. I had to pause for a while and think about that and the "glorious mess" that followed. I'm so glad that happened and your brilliantly colored essential bits coalesced into who you are today, Keith.
Thanks, Rebekah...I appreciate the feedback, appreciate you. <3
Gosh, I just love how you play with words. So fun, so beautiful, so glad you’re here!
Thanks so much, Lindsey - appreciate this! Glad you are here, too...and so glad to know my wordplay landed :))
"Grace darted out in front of me and shame slammed on the brakes." Here, here! Thankful for your words, your presence, and your authentic self Keith!
Thanks so much, Karri <3
I'm so desperately glad you're here just as you are, Keith.
Thanks so much, A. I feel this...I believe you, and I appreciate you <3
.
don't fret over it.
but
that's about most of my time spent.
to vomit up words and then start erasing,
until it is a size my brain can wrap around.
So, yeah,
while others paint with such broad colorful dramatic strokes,
don't worry about it, she says, thats your freakin' ego spinning, and it is something you really need to shove over to the side, to set down over there & for a moment walk away.
because it is really not them that keeps bringing you back, not the number of "likes" that u check on all day long.
That's not your grade,
some dang approval,
seems like you are always looking for acknowledgement.
It gets that clutter out of your head.
That's the goal.
Move stuff around ,
squeeze the tube a little
So I can get in there more better
and take up more space
and get you
to know me a little better,
and let me drive a little more
you are pretty stingy with that steering wheel.
So don't fret over it.
.
(post quick as I wrassle the eraser from my hand)
..
.
I agree with A! So glad you wrassled that alligator and shared with us!
I love this Chuck! You always bring a smile to my face. Ok, there has been the occasional tear too, but that's ok!
Yass to the wrassling! Your "clutter" never fails to surprise and delight this reader. Rock on with your creations, Chuck.
I love this, Chuck. Good job wrassling.
Ok, I don't know what the hell this is but it's what came out of 10 minutes of free writing. I grabbed on a few words and phrases and the capitalizations are intentional.
The hum of the air conditioner and the sound of the lawnmower
The soundtrack to this Saturday night
Making lists, making plans, marking time until
The Next Thing.
Bubby stares at me and seems out of sorts
The sound of the mower makes him nervous
His searching brown eyes assume I have the answers
When I don’t even know the questions.
Change is coming, it’s just around the corner
And it’s not like I want to stay here
In this space of in between
Waiting for for What’s Next.
But a season full of stressors stretches
Between what is and what will be.
I will tackle the hurdles as they come
I always do, don’t I?
But For Now, I try not to borrow trouble
Although I know exactly where to find it
Stuffed in a too small box in the corner of my mind
Ready to break open at a moment’s notice.
The sun is setting, the mower stops
And Bubby asks to go outside
I open the door and go back to finish that list
For Tomorrow. That will do For Today.
“Try not to borrow trouble” - I love this phrasing, Karri, and I can certainly relate to the challenge to stay present between hard moments. 💜
The same lines really grabbed me (as they did Lisa): "But for now, I try not to borrow trouble/although I know exactly where to find it." I have a similar "too-small box in the corner of my mind." I loved this poem, Karri.
.....waiting for what's next ......
🙂🙂🙂
I think this really speaks beautifully to what you've been sharing with us recently about everything you've been going through and struggling with. I'm sorry you're still feeling so caught in the in-between.
Like Lisa and Keith, I loved "borrow trouble" and the lines that followed. I also love the letting go at the end, allowing your list for tomorrow to do for today. Also, Bubby sounds like such a sweetie. :)
I'm calling this "No Small Talk."
.
Today’s sun is an egg
cracked in a bowl of milk,
skimmed over and
dimmed.
Flat light, windless,
a still frame
but for the birds
who remain busy.
.
It was forecasted;
I call it a gloomy Monday.
.
My neighbor calls it a plot
sown by planes
flown by liberals
who are riding our
God-given thermal cycles
to the helm of the planet,
where they will
jab, chip, and
disarm the masses
before turning us all
gay.
.
There is no safe topic,
no small talk.
I am glad for the
acres of trees
that separate his world
from mine,
glad to perceive the
late-burning light
of a man who never stops
doing his own research
.
as just a twinkle
beyond the forest
of our shared humanity.
Love this! “There is no safe topic, no small talk” really grabbed me, as well as the beautiful ending - “the forest / of our shared humanity.”
I really felt this poem, it hits close to home. My siblings and I couldn't be more polarized in terms of our values and worldview. So good to be reminded, especially as the prez election looms, of the existence of a "forest of our shared humanity." Also so good to be reminded of the relief that comes from panning out from the claustrophobia of polarization.
I love this so much. The imagery is so clear (and the content so cloudy - a great juxtaposition). And I agree with Lisa, the ending is so beautiful.
"--Someone always needs it
more than me—"
Good words.
Sometimes i too felt that.
(mostly in church)
I am a big big fan of the shorter is better bias (ya think?) but
I do like the ten minute free write idea-thingy
(kinda reminds me of that "artist's way" thing i started but never finished)
so look out,
gonna go get some paper.
Yes! But thankfully I’m just suggesting that you do it once, not every day for the rest of your life - whew! 😂
Amen to that.
Omg, this is beautiful. I felt my lungs struggling to breathe, in the straw/hospital section. Wow.
Thank you, Jacy! I hope your lungs relaxed as the poem went on. 🧡
Beautiful. I love the topography metaphor - mountains and cracks and fault lines as connection. ❤️🩹
Thank you so much, Lindsey! And I’m happy to see you here!!
I have been experiencing some Substack overwhelm, but when I do login I am never disappointed when I check in here - your poems are always lovely and your commenters are always kind & encouraging 💗
Thank you, Lindsey! I appreciate that and can also really relate to the Substack overwhelm - there’s so much more that I want to read than I actually have time/spoons for, and so a lot of the time, I just hide away and read nothing!
This is just stunning, Lisa. It's such a rich poem, so multilayered. I could read it again and again and come up with something new each time.
What a lovely thing to say, LeeAnn! Thank you so much!
Amazing. Just incredible words and imagery! Beautiful Lisa.
Stunning... 💥
Thank you, Rick! This one felt really close to my heart.
I love this, Lisa! The little insertions here and there that the long form has room for—little interjections that surprise, and then the main flow continues on.
That’s such a lovely way of describing what a long poem can do! In the course with Maya, she said that long poems tend to have more of a voice, and that feels like it fits with what you’re saying - the poet can be in the room with you in a conversational way.
This is stunning, Lisa. I don't even know what else to say. It's just so evocative and beautiful.
Thank you so much, A! 💜