I write poetry on the inside
Words of the heart
Exclamations of God.
It may not rhyme
(please, no empty meaningless rhyme)
But it’s rhythm is the heart beat
And I can hear mine
Until I wake up
Until they cajole me into waking
The words stir me
They often bother me
Or disturb the unshaken, stoic glass cover
That wants to be shattered
So that others can get underneath
“Let me in,” they say.
And the words immediately give one access
into the Self
“Here, come in. Let me expose myself,
Let me share the rawness that’s inside
So you don’t have to feel alone.”
Come with me, in here
Where the truth is loud or silent
But wants to be shared.
Share this realness with me
And let it take us Home.
Funny how being raw and vulnerable
Has Home in it.
Maybe, when we were younger, we had less clothes
To hide our smile lines, our sad lines,
Our knitted brow stress lines
– or there weren’t any to hide.
Rip open this heart
So that it can be shared
So that something feels real
Besides the sound of rain outside
As it tiptoes on the window pane
Like mice feet dancing to nursery rhymes.
Come in, it isn’t raining in here
Not within the depths, past the illusions of self-pity
Past the corners of old thoughts
And stale memories
Deeper than that has no sadness
But is dry,
Like a mudroom in August in the Midwest.
It is safe in here, only way inside this beating heart
That one day needs to be shared
Like a big Thanksgiving with the world
In the meantime, the table is set for two
Won’t you come in
And pour yourself a glass of my heart wine
Aged well, but not fermented
Sip with me on this romantic heart beat
But, this time, make it real.