A Few LInes Scribbled

A few lines scribbled in the book.
Less about preserving than expunging,
a bloodletting of sorts,
in public, at least some of it. a trickle.

We all have secrets. Fears and failure
that do not suit who we strive to be.
Most go oddly unnoticed
by the ones closest to us,

And so we write them. or paint them.
Or sing them, hymns to the very parts
we struggle with. The parts we are taught
should be invisible. We set them down

in hopes they will leave us. That exposed
to light they will flee like bugs under a rock,
overturned, scurrying away
to become someone else’s scourge.

It rarely works that way. People read.
Wonder at your sanity. A few worry at a distance.
Some see mirrors. But the truth is,
the purge simply puts the darknesses off

for a day or so. Enough to function
as the portrait of who you dream of being.
It is not ideal. But it works
enough to make life worth the living,

secrets and all.

About this poem

The past few days I have sat at the table with no intentions, letting the poetry just come. I have been mostly surprised.

I write as therapy. That is no secret to regular readers. It’s pretty effective.

One of the things that my decade or so as a pastor and spiritual counselor has taught me is that everyone has secrets. And we all feel better when we have a safe place or person to let them out.

The photograph was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village in Hancock, Mass.

Tom