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Posts Tagged ‘truth’

One Memoir

 
 
these beautiful thoughts
old pages turned yellow
every word still true

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Hiding Comes Out


 
 
The hiding doesn’t want to hide anymore.
It’s done with shadows and corners and masks.
All it wants is to show up. To step out.
To be seen. There was a time
when everything frightened it, when hiding
was desperate for a veil, a shroud, a disguise.
Hiding doesn’t remember what changed.
It only knows that one day it was no longer content
with holing up. Couldn’t. It no longer fit in its hole.
It wants big sky and meadows and space.
It wants to skip down main street.
Naked. It wants to know itself and be known,
to be as out there as exposé, as confession,
as a kiss on the sidewalk at noon. It wants
headlines. Declarations. Independence.
It knows things might get messy.
That’s why it brought a broom,
but damned if it will wear gloves.
It wants to get all that dirt in its fingernails.
It wants the callouses that come with revelation.

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Choosing Truth


 
 
And if I find I’d rather not meet the truth,
then I can notice the little girl in me,
the one who hides in the closet
when she is afraid, the one who plays dead,
the one who ends all her stories with happily
ever after, and I can choose to love her.
I don’t need to drag her out or force her to look
or tell her that sometimes the villain wins in the end.
Instead, I can remind the rest of me how alive I feel
when I meet it all, when I choose to enter the day
eyes open, ears open, hands open
and let the world in. That is how,
on this day when I know the truth
of how cruel we humans can be,
I can lean into that pain at the same time
I watch the sky turn pink behind the white aspen
and feel the cold air kiss my cheeks,
my breath rising in visible prayer
meeting difficult truths I walk right through.

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Taking It All Off

In order to swim, one takes off all one’s clothes—in order to aspire to the truth, one must undress in a far more inward sense, divest oneself of all one’s inward clothes, of thoughts, conceptions, selfishness, etc., before one is sufficiently naked.
         

   —Søren Kierkegaard

And so I attempt to slip out

of the shirt of defensiveness,

slip off the belt of shame.

I wriggle against the jeans

of righteousness and tug

off the socks of distrust.

It’s scary to take it all off,

but everything else feels too tight

these days, and damn,

I just want the truth so bad,

want to wear it like my own skin,

want to step into it like slippers

I will never take off, want to

wear it like boots that will

carry me over any terrain,

want to wear it like

an eternal perfume—

something I am sure is there

even with my eyes closed,

even in the dark.

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Finding Faith

While pulling the beets,

it’s impossible to lose faith

in the world. Those tiny seeds

that once fit in the palm are now

large red globes,

dense with dark sweetness

and heavy in the hand.

They are like promises kept,

like small proofs in patience,

confirmations that sometimes

the good that’s growing can’t be seen.

They are like hard truths.

Not everyone will want them.

But some will. Some will.

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Ars Poetica

All these years of wandering,

toward what? On a blank page,

where are the secrets hidden?

How many mysterious paths?

If there is a truth, perhaps it, too, is blank.

If there is way, perhaps it, too, is wandering.

Sometimes I just want the answer.

Always it comes back to this:

An orbit. A spiral. A mobius trip.

A boundary curve where the question

is its own topology, where the question

is its own astonishing arrival.

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One Eavesdropping

 

 

the truth

said the cloud

it leaks

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Thank you for blessing me with reality,

for showing me when I’m guilty

of what my friend calls cognitive slippage.

It’s like stuffing a big scoop of wasabi into my mouth,

thinking it’s guacamole. The mind believes

what it wants to believe until it’s shown otherwise.

 

Thank you for demonstrating how sometimes

I disconnect from the facts—especially when

emotions are involved. Like when I think

I’m a pool of warm soothing water

another could enter, but really, I’m a woman

made of bone and corpuscles. Little can I hold.

 

I always thought imagination was a gift,

but not, perhaps, when it puts me at odds with what’s true.

Dear moment, I want to be attentive. When you pull out the rug

from beneath my thoughts, I want to be the rug.

And when you poke my theories full of holes, I want

to be the hand that pokes, the fresh air that rushes in.

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The Truth

 

 

Inside the bright words

there are other words

that want to be said—

small words

in dark shells.

.

It reminds me

of the sunflowers

that grew in the fall—

how we loved them

for their golden petals,

 

but they were true

to the small dark seeds

that grew them,

to the small dark seeds

they grew.

 

 

 

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One Lift

 

 

hungry for truth

she pickpockets heaven—

unaware she’s the target

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