Here’s another poem I wrote about my current writers block (as far as my novel goes) during this period of rapid growth in my life.
I suddenly feel
of expressing my experience
There is no flow
Perhaps that’s because this is a journey of the soul.
All inspiration has
My implement of communication
exploded in my pocket without my knowing
and it’s stuck, sticky, staining
the space in my heart; I try to wipe it away
To scrub and clear and clean and pass
Of furious, crushing; provocative growth.
I have sunken to the bottom of this tar-like medium.
My hands are stained
I spread it everywhere –
Like ink blots meant to be deciphered
I can’t seem to
This expedition lacks structure;
Open to interpretation
Solidified with perspective only to reveal quicksand of thought.
Joy springs from jagged shattered pieces;
Jagged shattered pieces leak from peace.
I have been sheared.
My knees are laden with crystallized salt
powdery specks of white; contrast on my smooth brown skin.
My bowing head heavy like a
bag of broken sea shells;
Perhaps if I can fit the pieces together
I’ll form an unambiguous depiction of
I have not been to the beach.
My feet are stained in the decomposed
Flesh of the Earth;
The cycle from birth to death and back again is apparent
with infancy tickling my toes and rootedness poking at my arches.
I have bruises from trampling on my
The immaterial, intangible, unexplainable
The transmission of my Earth bound passage
I wrote this poem during my birthday weekend and I want to share it with you. Take it however you take it. For me it was coming from a place of realizing my oneness with the earth, brought on by being in such intense nature, and how we need not limit ourselves and reduce ourselves to some description of who we are.
My life. My story. My journey.
Ownership of an existence.
Who “I am” has taken form
Form was given to me
Yet at my core I never chose
A rigid identity.
A “who I am.”
A concept that has always been
Unattainable to me –
Bodiless, formless, foreign; I morph.
Am I something other than
a body sitting on a rock on the coast of Maine
Staring out at the vastness of the ocean?
Am I not the sea?
Am I not the young girl
smiling at her grandmother;
Just a little bit further!
Am I not the rock she stands on
or the strand of her hair
or the breeze blowing it onto her face?
The seaweed clings to rocks
like we cling to conceptualization, identity;
Is there a way to explain to you who I am?
Can you help explain it to me?
Sitting motionless, empty, filled with space
Seagulls songs of life
Do I not melt and disappear
in the salt ridden air;
Moist, humid, scented with the
Vast ecosystem beneath the body of the earth?
How do I explain this essence of being without falling short?
How will you understand if I speak with no thought?
If I explain with no tangible fact?
Am I not the swaying tips of trees
and the chilled ocean air
that moves through the leaves
and creatures hunkering down for the thunder storm?
Am I not the booming clap of thunder
the shocking spark of lightning
the foreshadow in the first drop of rain on my forehead;
Dripping down to pool on my lips?
If I am in everything and everything is me…
“I” “My” “Me”
The more I fold into this pocket of formlessness;
Inappropriately labeled pathological;
The closer I am to true
I AM, every thing and no thing.
Who are you?