Writing to Write

The pen hits paper.

Metaphorically. No one uses paper and pen anymore.

I start speaking innermost thoughts, no feelings…no,
I start painting my inner landscape outside of my body.
The sadness of one day becomes a vicarious violent jaunt across a blood red sky.
The joy of another becomes a happiness medley, a fogue of smiling bays.

Mockery comes from some edges.
Only Romantics write their feelings.
But the Confessional Poets didn’t do too bad.
And I’m not writing feelings anyway. Weren’t you listening?

Anyway who cares what the captain of the Old Guard says.
He never liked you anyway.
Well, or he never was willing to act like he did.

He isn’t here though, and there’s more to do.
Don’t think you didn’t notice the jab of missing him,

but keep on.

I have something to say.

Writing is life in a way.
Speaking, promising, like in The King’s Speech, “I HAVE A VOICE.”
Proclaiming to the world that Yes, I, me, matter.
In the great grand scheme of things.
I, me.

So you continue writing
And don’t stop.
When the phantom chants to you of the Old Enmity,
Look at the blood red rose,
And breathe out.

The Saddest Thing I’ve Seen

Ok, we take a break from “The Circumstances” story, to talk about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

This comes on because this weekend, I met a lovely man, had a couple of great conversations with him. He texted me this morning, and we found out that I am moving to his hometown in 2 weeks(I met him because his show was touring throughout the country but he is going home soon.) 

Anyway, minutes later when he found out that I am going to work at a Church, he froze, asked if I was religious, proceeded to tell me he is not perfect, and the conversation ended there. Now, that’s fine. I am not devastated I barely know him, but it is sad, because I have seen the same thing in so many men. They see something good, and as soon as they start to feel that it is really something good, they back off, or run screaming. Or they look in the face of what they believe is good, and say “I can’t have you, I am not worthy.” But the important thing about “I am not worthy” is missing.

We say every Mass “Lord, I am not worthy,” but we follow it up with “but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” In other words, Christ in the Eucharist is our HOPE. “Lord, I am not worthy” is despair, without the movement that comes afterwards, the request for help. The request for help has to be genuine, one must be willing to actually move towards better, but the request is the first step.

Now, I don’t mean that these guys should all ask me for help. I’m not the one who can save them, but you can see in a person’s reaction to what they believe is good, what their perception of themselves is in relation to God. 

I think every person has moments that they do this themselves, I know I have done it about my writing, about jobs, mostly my acting, and I am in a long war against myself to allow God to bring me to what is the good in my own life. 

My strongest prayer is that we all see what is good, and that we ask God for it, and believe, not that we are worthy, but that we will receive it anyway. 

And that we all remember that “To see another person is to see the face of God,” and God WANTS us to see Him.


Its the day when the bleeding’s done it comes
The longing for that cringing urge I’ve lost,
That rising flame that enters and benumbs
Me from the inward chilled like so much frost.

My shiver announces his return to me,
That comes in a disguise of breath of day,
And suddenly I cannot seem to see
Whyever I would make him go away.

Could there be a perch upon the rooftop,
A melody to sing at dawn of night,
One to forget what cursed us both to stop,
And make room for what was always in sight?

I wish for now there could be and we’d kiss,
Lingering in the ever embraced love
That although it is the rush I always miss,
May never have been sent down from above.

The Canal Song

I linger with the mosquito buzzing all around surrounding

Dusting concrete rests below, the pelican beside me sings.

Our eyes meet in the suns expanse as far as my eyes stretch

Romantic dreams in the armospheres dewey sunny breath.

My deepest heart climbs through my chest, struggling forward

Begging you. Begging that you bestow this world’s word.

The word of your Word, that he bespeak Lord in my soul

And woe my deepest heartroom pull me forward in life’s lull

As I wait for eternity’s great adventure, living life’s time

Hoping in your Word that I am living your life and rhyme.

But my ascent into your great arms and your arms on earth

Crash to the ground as I wait. Waiting for one whose search

Leads straight to me. One who comes to join one in wonder,

Bringing his own value to sparkling time, and his own thunder

To the quiet life of contemplative feminity, gentle and alone.

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