Your days of wild abandon are behind you,
battered and betrayed and beaten, if not down,
at least into a calculated carefulness,
designed and crafted to tell just enough
to discover from whence the arrows come,
and how sharp and whether or not they are
covered in poison.
Wounded as a child.
Wounded as a lover.
sure of my silence, my secrets became weapons,
truths to use against me in the most subtle of wars, subtle at least
until I became weak enough
to rip apart with glee and glamour and stagecraft.
And now it emerges, when I am too tired,
too ill, too full of voodoo and medicine
or alcohol or anger, when it spills over the dams
constructed to contain the floods,
and words flood, no longer well monitored or measured,
wild words, words full of danger and passion and all the pent up beasts,
anger at injustice, at helplessness and those who would use it like a sword
or a carving knife to make little statues of us all,
words dripping with all the venom I have swallowed and seen and survived,
words soaring with hopes I have not dared voice,
with love, lived and lost and lived again,
full of falseness and truth so tightly intermingled
none of us can tell one from another,
phallic words, a mystic’s vocabulary,
seeker and soulless and bard to the broken.
Words. You spout them, old and faithful,
ever tired, ever fueled by every failure you have lived,
sure there is something more, something magnificent
and ready to rainbow your world, something more,
even, oh yes, even,
About this poem
So one reader picked up on the one thing unusual in Yesterday’s post. That it was far freer and full of wild abandon than most of my writing. It left me thinking all weekend about why. And wondering how to write about THAT.
I guess that’s what happens when you are sick, feverish and still sit down out of habit to write. A lot like this poem. You just wander. Filters be damned.