Tell me of…

 Tell me of your hearts, regrets. Tell me your clever truth. Tell me loud and tell me quick. May repetition cloak your view; in safety, in stability, but not alas with change!

This poem is in respect to those wounds (the fall, zen) they were deep, And true. But I hope they are not without forgiveness.

This poem is about me standing, sitting with friends to be witness to their suffering and wanting to honor that experience. It’s about holding them and their experience in honor but not letting the bull shit slide, not being a soap box to whip up again the suffering.

If a tree falls in the wood and I am there to witness it.  That tree has fallen.  I do not want to tell the story of what the woodcutter did. Or convince anyone that something wrong has been done. 

I write this years after I wrote the original verse. and still, we carry the pain and the injustices done to us and others.  I want to honor the wounds, but I fear people want to shout it from the rooftops.  I want to hear, to listen, to bear witness and so witness a transform these wounds into forgiveness, into peace.  

Tell me of…

Tell me of your souls sweet fruit,

But do not hide that desiccating apple core.

I see it reflected in your eyes.

Tell me of the bitter fruit,

But do not talk to me,

With that sour mouth.

I am a friend,

Please do not snub me with your hollow-

“I’m fine’s”

I am a friend, 

Please don’t cut my ears with pith and bile.

The fruit is bitter, true,

But those sour lips will hold it stagnant still,

That way leaves only, ever open wounds,

Ready to harbor all that hate again. 

Written between aug ‘18 &aug ‘19