The Poet’s Confession

Yes, I hang my laundry on the line,
where any random passerby may see
the color of my shirts and underwear,

where the shades of my heart
flap loose and wild in the wind
like a drunken dancer.

There are secrets left however,
dark stains that won’t come out,
intimacies I cannot bear to write,

held close, barely shared,
hungry for a place of safety,
like lovers in the night.

About this poem

So many of us write of our heart. We “put it out there.”. Writing becomes confessional, relational, revelational, a working out of things in our head and heart, in words.

But still, we hold some things back. Things to tender that they can only be shared with God, or the closest friends and lovers. If, even, to them.

The picture was taken in Burano, Italy.

Tom