A Small Rebellion

This morning, scrolling through pictures,
feeling flat. Looking for inspiration,
I came on four that sang to me.
Three were grey, expanses
of landscapes and beaches at low tide.
All too accurate, perfect fodder for poetry,
at least mine in the moment.
The writing would be easy.

Which is why I picked this one,
rich with color, A colonial yellow,
bright in the summer sun, despite
the years since the last time it was painted.
Counter to where you are and what
you feel. Harder to write to,
it makes me work. It makes me think past
where I am. Picking joy instead
of the faded morning blues. Telling
my mind’s habit to shut the crap up
and enjoy all I have, all the gifts
of love and coffee and cats and friends
and a God of second chances.

To choose color is no small thing
for a man more comfortable with greys
with the occasional bit of black and white.
And so with the remembrance of kisses past,
coffee present and the return of heat,
you choose color. It is a forced kind of thing,
a rebellion against nature.
And don’t let this smile fool you.
It is a rebellion. Me vs the great Satan in my head,
full of lies. It is a rebellion to think life is good.
It is a rebellion to be kind. To care. To know
there is more left to become. It is a rebellion
to believe in your value. To know you matter
when the false evidence seems to say otherwise.

And it all begins like this. In the choice of color.
Yellows, when grey dominates the landscape.

About this poem.

Tons going on in this one. On days when I am flat, I go through my photographs and wait for one that stirs something in me, then try and figure out why, and write to it. Today there were three full of fog and grey that caught my attention. And then this one, taken at the Hancock Shaker Village.

I battle depression. Regular readers know this. New ones likely figure it out. Mornings are the worst. When I say I battle it, I don’t mean I pop my daily happy pill and let it work. I do pop my happy pill, but then I work at pushing back the blues. I get angry at it, and fight it like a soldier, determined to take the next hill. My therapists over the years gave me quite the array of tools ( I call them weapons to myself), and I use them all. Normally by mid-morning I am myself again.

Poetry is one of my weapons. It’s therapy. The side effect that some of you get something from it is an unexpected blessing.

Mark Rothko, the artist, once said “Silence is so accurate.” One of my favorite quotes which gets echoed now and again in my verse.

I am in the midst of simplifying my work and life. And when we do that, there are choices to be made.

No one believes in God being the God of second chances more than me. I believe it is one of the most wonderful truths of the Christian faith, and I have leaned into it more than most.

All that and more to make up one small poem. Poetry is never about one thing.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom