Where Do My Poems

 

Where do my poems, 

My stories, and my imagination

Come from?

Perhaps I’ll sneak into my office

And secretly observe 

What he, 

The me 

Who writes and types 

On my keyboard, does.

His fingers tap the keys, 

His eyes cheat by looking down 

Every now and then. 

Wow. How does he do that?

Leave his body, 

Whirl up and out?

 

He puts his hands together, 

Blowing ever so softly 

Into his palms, a secret.

 

When he unfolds his hands 

The room evaporates 

In a flashing mist.

Mountains with waterfalls 

Of tears come smashing 

Against the rocks below.

 

Leaves rustle at his feet

On the river’s banks

As a mushroom sprouts 

From the dirt under his toes.

 

He laughs and giggles 

Like a little boy 

Enthralled with the magic of the forest.

 

He bows to the trees 

And thanks them for their beauty, 

Their shade, for their fruit.

He compliments them 

On their swaying dance, 

As they bend down with their leafy limbs.

 

They pick him and and whisper

“We have stories to tell, 

Go dig by our roots and find them.”

He picks up a burlap sack,

A shovel and a guitar,

And runs along the river path

Asking “Who am I, really?”

“I know I am not my body

It can live just fine

When I travel on my own.”

The river gurgles over the rocks

Singing its gravely song,

“I am here in this moment,

And I need you to feel it,

Every single pebble under my toes,

Every single cold and wet raindrop, 

Every single stinging nettle.”

“Hey!” I whine

“Yes, you can snivel,
But only for now.”

I stop and stand like a tree, asking,
“Why are people mean?

To the trees, the bees, the dogs

And especially to each other?”

The river gurgles,

“Turn inward and dig inside.”

I turn and run down a path

Over rocks,  sticks, and broken glass.

A furry palomino prairie dog stands erect
Pointing to a spot at its feet.

I plow into the muddy soil

With my twirling questioning shovel.

I dig while sweat rolls down my face,

Pooling goo and sludge 

Into the hole I’ve made.

I hear a clank

I cry heavy tears of grief

For my son, my mother, my dad,

And for myself who has died 

A thousand times.

I reach in to the muddy sludge 

And pull out a rusty metal box

I clean off and read the label

Which says, ’Mean people suck.’

I already know that!
The winds bellows laughter

Through the trees.

“If people were never mean,

You wouldn’t know how blessed you are.

You wouldn’t know how to forgive.

I fall on my back,

Laughing, 

And laughing,

While the prairie dog uses my 

Bouncing tummy as a trampoline

Doing flips and flops.

“Just be here,
Happily playing with me.”

He says, as he flips and adds,

“Of course mean people suck.”