I don’t write poetry as a rule. When I write it I basically turn into black liquorice. Every couple of years I’ll see it in the candy bowl and think “Hey it can’t possibly be as bad as I think it is!” only to be reminded that it is in fact worse than I thought. I just can’t seem to get the hang of writing it!
It is the format that is so intimidating. There you are, faced with a vertical ribbon of words (which somehow seems to have a higher level of sophistication than a horizontal one). Not to mention the pressures placed on poems to teach, inspire, shock or expose…all while rhyming and flowing in a river of syllables and complex punctuation. But regardless, I was mumbling to my journal last night, trying to describe the new awakening that I had reached about experiencing presence and my frustration with scientific motivation. I can’t describe it yet, but as I was trying to I naturally transitioned into what I will call “short phrases in a column”. So I am keeping it in that format and setting it here for you. Let’s just not consider it poetry though…
How time passes.
And this presence dangles.
Strain to see.
Look around the actions that unfold.
To enjoy your life!
We are told.
“You must find what surrounds the room.”
As though the medium that engulfs
Might hold the key
To our discomfort with existing.
I would dangle with Presence
And exist in the mystery room
I am afraid to have nothing below my feet.
My fear is just a refusal to look at the wisdom I have secretly
There is nothing below my feet
As I lay here.
Bare pink soles.