Even Now
I read it once, a poem
Saved in the depths of a small novel.
Even now, the memory of love’s infatuation from earlier in life.
And even now I hold my tack in life.
I try for meditation, spirituality,
But the block will not budge
The light cannot clearly shine.
Even now, that urge to create says, attend to me first,
Tend to me first.
Be rid of me if you must,
But you must first be rid of me.
And today, as ever, I know
I was born to need to do this
However poorly. It does not matter.
To have spirit, to be spirit
To have love, to be love
To have joy, to be joy
To have sensitivity, to be aware,
All these wait in line,
Respectfully even as I try to usher them
Past, to hurry them into the light.
But shivering afraid, wondering
Why he is here
Is the one waiting
It is the waiting, the denial
The refusal to give the world he was
Born into to this child,
Like many others.
Some turn to rage, some to sorrow,
And some to the bleak anxiety.
And theft–theft of words
Of joy, kindness, and sensitivity
Replaced by spleen and self-slaughter
And judgement and condemnation
And fight or flight
When the truth is already known,
And the door through which
All these selves can pass is open.
If only you would start there.
Just start there.
Like now.