Strange Thoughts

Somewhere

Out there

Is a stranger yet unknown to you.

Her care

You share

To preserve traditions strong and true,

But the songs hers strum

Are somewhat different from

The ones you’ve known and heard your whole life through.

Yet the beats upon her drum

From the streets her feet have walked have come

To present another, also valid view.

So, consider,

If you meet her,

That her thoughts, which seem to you askew,

Can offer something worth enshrining, too.

 

This poem came out of thinking about the many divisions within our world, and, from my perspective, the value of trying to be open to the viewpoints and experiences of those who are different from us - those who come from different places or have lived very different lives. We each come with our own understanding based on our lived experiences and the things we've been taught through the traditions of our family, friends, region, or country. But I think it's important to remember that others, who may have very different ideas, also have strong reasons for thinking the way they do. Perhaps it's something worth remembering when we consider people's words, ideas, and views that may seem strange or unfamiliar to us.

Your Line across my Heart

There are lines that run across my heart

And lead to those removed from me

By distance, sadness, strife, or time.

Each line is glazed in memory.

 

I wish to pull them all together,

But that would only pull apart

This web in which our lives are strung

Before new harmonies could start.

 

With every hour’s steady chime

I touch the warmth in every tether,

The bonds to which my heart has clung

While shivering in stormy weather.

 

Do you, so far removed from me,

Detect, within the melody

I strum, your string sublime?

This poem is about the connections between us and the impacts we have on one another, including among those we may not have seen or talked with for a long time. This is certainly something I think about from time to time, being in a different part of the world from many people who I know have impacted (and continue to impact) me.

Residual Presence

Today, time took your soul away,

While I am left to wonder where you’ve gone.
Do paths exist where spirits stray,

Where you may listen, wait, and linger on?

I muddle through the world without you,

Wishing for the guidance of your hand,

But sometimes when I think about you

I almost feel as if you understand,

As if you know the thoughts I mutter

And watch the steps I take beneath the sky.

I hear the flower petals flutter

And wonder if your presence just passed by,

Yet you would likely wish for me to see

The beauty blooming right in front of me.

 

This poem isn't connected to a recent personal experience, but the world has been facing (and continues to face) a lot of loss over the past couple of years. Here, I'm just imagining a circumstance where someone feels as if a person they've lost is still there, watching and supporting. It's a feeling I've had myself at times.

Tightrope Crawlers

They scamper along the top of a wall,

Then wait their turn on a faded church sign

To cross the street on an overhead line,

Being careful not to fall.

 

Their light brown fur is standing on end

With tails outstretched, adjusting their balance.

It’s a privilege to witness such samples of talents

In these years of life I spend.

 

A hand or foot, on occasion, may slip,

But they stay atop the electrical cable.

Their remaining appendages keep themselves stable

As what faltered finds it grip.

 

And once they have bravely attained the far side,

I wonder what crossings my caution and fear have denied.

 

On Thursday afternoon, I was walking to the store and came upon a group of monkeys who were crossing over the street by crawling along an overhanging power line. I saw at least four or five, at various stages of approaching the line, crossing it, and the moving on once they reached the far side of the road. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to take a pictures, but it was pretty neat. Hopefully the poem provides a decent description.

The Book that Sleeps beside My Head

When lifting up the mosquito net

And climbing into bed,

I bring with me a notebook that

Will sleep beside my head.

 

It lies upon my pillow while

My thoughts explore the stores of night

To search through each poetic vial

And find what words to write.

 

Yet if I do, it seems more true

That you’ve inspired the dreams which guide my sight.

 

For a while now, I've been doing what I write about in this poem. I have a notebook where I work on poems, usually at night, and I often continue thinking about them as I get into bed. So, I now bring the notebook along, and I've found that as I start to move through that threshold between waking and sleeping, I will sometimes make a connection or find a good word or phrase that had been eluding me. When this happens, I often feel as if that inspiration is coming from somewhere beyond myself...