Stained by Color and Light and Noise

Despite all appearances to the contrary,
my days of purity are not over. Not yet.
I am scarred. Bruised.
Stained by color and light and noise.
Parts of me are broken. Age
and a life lived vigorously is inevitably
messy. I am no exception.

I am not sure I would want to be.
Ivory towers don’t suit me.
A life without risk has no appeal,
and the best and worst of so far
both came from risk. But somewhere,
deep, deep under the wounds,
a little boy still lives,

who wants nothing more than to love
as a child, pure and simple
and with a completeness
the world works hard to take from us.

I am not sure of the motivations.
Why pure love is so dangerous,
but evidently it is. Otherwise, why
would the world, the devil, the greedy and hungry
strive so hard to make sure
I remain dirty and bloody and dissatisfied?
Someone answer me that.

I am done with answers.
I am done with battles.
I am happy to be stained and marked,
unbearably human. Happy to be alive
and constantly jettisoning the unimportant,
a child in a pile of garbage,
searching for treasure, certain it is there.

About this poem.

I was contacted this morning by the person who bought the painting at the top of this post. Could I, they asked, create a companion piece? Of course I can. Remembering the painting, and the title spawned this poem.

There is a child in most of us still. Too often, we lose him. More often, he is taken from us. The battle to reclaim him is worth it, and for me at least, ongoing.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom