Weird and awkward, odd and strange;
a set of quirks as broad as a mountain range.
Never really fit in but can’t seem to fit out –
what, really, is fitting all about?
If I can’t fit here, there, now or then,
will I fit somewhere – and if so, when?
Yes, yes you will – the “when”, I can’t say,
but when you fit with yourself,
you’ll be well on your way.
I came upon a resting place;
a reading place, a writing place,
a summer’s breeze in the evening place,
but there I could not stay.
So I came upon the place again –
a breathing place, a healing place.
I came upon the place again
on a very different day,
so when I
came upon the resting place,
the reading place, the writing place,
the summer’s breeze in the evening place
the breathing place, the healing place –
when I came across that place again
I knew that I could stay.
What have you missed?
Hands outstretched, fingers reaching through the fog.
Hoping to grasp anything but a wisp of grey,
you’re left empty-handed; hopeless.
It is only that you’ve been searching in the wrong place.
You shouldn’t need to search, to uncover – only to see.
The mist always clears.
Look then.
Whenever I see a full moon
it seems likely to me
that the universe has written
a message to us
in letters formed by constellations
splashed across the sky
concluded with a period
created by a drop of planetary paint.
We can’t help looking up
hoping to learn what it means –
trying to understand
though it’s written in a language
none of us are fluent in.
I’m not sure I’d want to be.
In the morning
when your thoughts seem guided
by some frenzied Army general
bashing on a typewriter,
every letter dropping
another grenade
into the war zone,
your rationality weaving
through the steel raindrops
of every vowel and consonant
that makes up your fear
until finally
the general takes a moment,
tired
to let his fingers rest
so yours can take over
with a gentle “tap, tap, tap”
sending snowflakes down
to settle over the scars
left by the explosions.
Writing, writing, writing.
That is what I must do
if there’s ever a chance
of my returning “me”
back home to you.
I’ve been “well” and I’ve been “broken”.
I’ve cried out and been soft spoken.
I’ve been hurt and I’ve been saved.
I’ve been abandoned and been craved.
As a result, here’s “all of me”.
I’m setting sail for a distant sea.
I’ll bury half of what made me, me
under this weeping willow tree.
You held the rope that rang the bell
on the day your shadow fell
from sun kissed pavement through the earth
to the core of what I’m worth.
All of us have been mistaken.
All of us have fallen down.
All of us have drifted under.
All of us have feared we’ll drown.
All of us have cried in silence.
All of us have slept alone.
All of us have felt abandoned.
All of us, all feeling that we’ve done it all alone.
You stood at the window so often.
One hand pressed against the glass,
the creases of your fingers
imprinting themselves
upon the layers of dust
that made it so hard for you
to keep watch for the one
who would never come –
who loved you most –
who you did not know
would never come
until the dust on the glass
grew so thick
you couldn’t see at all –
on that day
you pulled yourself back
leaving all your hope
in a hand print.
Just Little Green Buttons 