The Reflection Pool

Bouncing off the walls of this topography,
the reverberation of emotion returns in equal 
parts of sadness and spiritual emancipation.
The echoes harmonize with the truth 
floating on the winds like sands and
ebb with the tides like droplets of water.

What’s another year of tears, 

I ask. 

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

nothing. Just a tad bit more salt water

to add to the universe.

I wait, wait for the potholes to dry 

up in this desert that is me.

Once, I opened up and found I was vast, 

depths unknown even to myself

and my soils dirtied the soles that 

crossed this earth of canyons, buttes, and washes.

Expectation planted the seeds of distance

and indifference. But instead, the growth of 

passion and understanding erased the lines 

that define, creating confusion in what is and 

what is not, leaving the wanderer lost,

with no compass, with no map.

What should I do with my thirst,

I ask.

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

drink, drink the mirage, pay no heed to the grit 

in your mouth, drink as you drank me.

Seasonless, only winds are left to change this

wasteland that lacks all civilization. Grief tumbles 

like dried and loosened Russian thistle. Left behind in 

its own tracks are thorns that prick and puncture skin.

This without leaves sands restless and ever changing,

pock marking fragile surfaces, leaving one’s sight

cloudy and weak in clarity.

The fierceness of heat makes glass if treated as a

tradesman’s craft, blown into shapes that stir beauty,

until it is dropped.

And when the sun’s heat has dried and cracked this carapace,

I ask.

Replies the ghost in the mirror,

bleed.

Let Me Go

I once begged for that.
A puddle on the floor in
the summer heat, I’d beg
for a release.
Undone.

Months came. Months left.
Still, it’s present. Draped on my
shoulders, a weightless load
that feeds this cynical nature
that is now me. The pressure
of gravity and the pull of
distance cause a levitation and
I’m clumsy in this gift.

I ceased begging. It did no good.
Even though you are not here, you
are here, more than a ghost but
less than a hope.
A confusion

born in breath and blood. A brush
of skin, a scent of hair bring a
moment’s respite, easing of
the weight, the cloak of you.
Don’t, don’t let me go,

don’t.

This has been on my mind of late. I’ve been trying to understand the nature of forgiveness and the necessity of it. Why do we crave it? Why do we need it? If it doesn’t come in the form we think it should, does that mean it isn’t there? Why is it so important to be given forgiveness from those who we feel should give it? And if it comes, would we really accept it?

So many questions and

each of my answers lead to one place, the forgiveness of ourselves. If I am seeking this forgiveness, maybe I should look to myself and find the forgiveness in me that I am so busy seeking from others. That is not so easy. Some times, it feels down right impossible.

Can you forgive me? is a loaded question. For what? Why? Can you forgive yourself? It is all something to search for because I don’t think that withholding forgiveness is what anyone truly wants to do. And yet, it seems that as humans that is what we do. We withhold and that only poisons all parties involved.

Can I forgive you? Yes. For what? I don’t know. Maybe for the way life was left hanging. Maybe for the things that have been destroyed. Maybe for the things that are still unknown. Maybe for the fear that is now hanging over everything. Maybe for the emptiness and the lack of anything of substance. Maybe for this unwillingness to let it go. Maybe for having to go beyond any strength humanly possible. Maybe for wishing and hoping for something to be rebirthed.

Maybe for nothing.

It is so hard to say and even harder to understand. One of those unconditional love things, right?
Forgiveness.

I have been reworking some of the poems that I have written over the past years and found one that related so succinctly to this topic of forgiveness. I understand seeking out forgiveness:

Needs

Forgiveness ran dry when I asked for it.
I suppose that I don’t deserve it after all
that I have put you through
but the immediate lack is a cruel
and unusual punishment even for you.

Feigning function, you take out the trash
and turn all the lights in the house on
but we never really get back to the point
that I brought up about forgiveness.

You and I, we act as polar opposites.
A contentious you disregards me as
picking a fight. I don’t need to pick a
fight. I need forgiveness.