Late night
starry lights
shine at Christmas.
Neighbors trees
illuminate me
as I pass.
My friends I’ve left.
I feel bereft
and moan “Alas!”
To whom shall I turn?
They won’t return
who I’ve sassed.
I shouldn’t turn away.
I should let my heart stay
open at Christmas.
They were only
words:
Words
meant to create
emotions,
share feelings,
verbally prompt us
to enjoy each other.
Instead,
remembering the words,
knowing how they impacted you,
makes me feel
like I’ve trampled
on flowers,
squished ladybugs
under my heel,
turned a magnifying glass’s beam
on an ant hill,
thrown frogs in the road,
torn the wings
off of butterflies.
That is not
who I am.
That is not
what I would do.
And yet,
With my mouth,
my lips,
my tongue,
I did.
Cleaning house
in service
for those who can’t
or won’t,
I play an old tape.
Hell yeah!
It’s Mahalia
Jackson,
Sleep in Heavenly Peace.
I can’t contain
the torrent of tears
as I clean
even more earnestly
because that’s all I can do now.
Now that I’ve left.
Now that I’ve ripped
lives apart.
This used to be
my city,
my town,
my house,
my family,
my life.
This music brought joy
down the stairs.
I have tapes.
I have videos.
This used to be everything
I lived for.
But now,
I’m cleaning the living room,
and
there is no room.
I should go wallow/
in pathetic positive/
self pity alone.
Those who I worked with,
Prayed with,
Laughed with,
Helped,
Was helped by,
Taught,
Was taught by,
Mourned with,
Loved
And was, I thought,
Loved by;
Those who I Disappointed
And walked away from,
Now treat me,
As I return,
Like a leper.
As though my filth
Is still there.
As though
I will somehow
Taint and soul soil them/
With my past,
Instead of lift them
With my future,
With the possibility
Brought about by the Reason
We’ve worshipped together before.
I am surprised
To have to say,
Again,
I’m sorry.
I’m shocked
That after decades
Of talking in councils
And classes,
Around campfires
And sports fields,
And sitting down at BBQ
And Thai and other meat,
That we can’t
Now meet;
That when they see me,
They have nothing to say
To me.
That their lives,
And their children,
No longer matter
To me
Who spent
thousands of hours
On.
Perhaps I
And mine
Never mattered
To them.
Should they leap
To embrace me
And welcome me
And my return?
Is that selfish?
Do I expect
Too much?
Why not?
I would.
But maybe it’s true:
You can’t return
No matter how cleansed
You’ve become.
I should have
taken the Sacrament
to be reminded
of my future:
Forgiven;
Instead of going
to a meeting
where I’m reminded/
of my dark,
vile/
and sinful past,
which I’ve put aside.
I fear no one will/
be glad to see me as I/
go into Heaven.
When you’ve been vile, you/
can’t return to the pure. Old/
friends won’t embrace cleansed.
Take chances. Do weird./
You might hear world-class voices/
on basketball courts.
I can always tell/
when my heart is hurting. I/
won’t write anything.