What’s it like to be
that kind and caring person?
She’ll never wonder.
Backstory: A Facebook post about a friend talked about how she was being kind and caring. As I was reading about what she’d done, this poem came to mind. I wondered what it would be like to be kind and caring, and realized that was probably something she never had to think about. She just IS that way. “Kindness begins with me.”
An Instagram post: “She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is Doing, [writes Bokonon]” #Kurtvonnegut #catscradle
My retort:
To see, in Nature,
God’s Hand, is high gratitude*.
To understand? Grace.
OR
*just means you’re grateful.
I want to go to/
lands of light, but not ugly,
so I stall tripping.
Dark thoughts,
deep weeping,
well up in my soul.
The world seems disconnected
from me,
and I from her.
Why does the water-wading song
drill through
my bedroom door,
as if to mock me
and my lullaby memories?
I am abandoned
by all who I thought
loved me,
and who
I truly loved
and lived for.
My mistakes
have unraveled
all my life,
and I feel
no mercy,
no compassion,
no hope,
no love,
except for
the faith
and hope
I have
that,
maybe,
He loves me still.
If you don’t listen,
and plug your ears, it becomes
hard to talk to you.
When my life is lost,
out of control, I intrude
in things I shouldn’t.
We all make stories/
of how others feel. If we/
ask, truths are revealed.
Negative ions
rise from falls between two rock
vortexes. Power
I’ve learned that the last
movement of Beethoven’s Ninth
is perfect nap-timed