“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

5.10.2011

hidden things


her diaries smell like cigarettes.
she wrote the details of her nights and days,
the small things wafting upwards in those spirals of smoke.
she used cheap ball point pens -
the names of lumber companies or prescription drugs printed on their sides -
and clearance notebooks or unused diaries from years past,
the dates all wrong,
crossed out with the ink from those pens and her need to say it all out loud. 

i buy moleskines and agonize over the pen to use for morning pages,
and my  diaries will smell like fear and green tea in years to come,
but the saying of things out loud is not a luxury and the ink doesn't matter;
i use blue spiral notebooks for the real stuff,
words crossed out, messes made, my heart opened up.
more than a peek inside my soul.

if a tornado lands and blows them a hundred miles,
the landscape will be strewn with truths and i will at last be free.

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this poem appears as part of  July 2012's Third Sunday Blog Carnival,
a wonderful spot featuring writers of all stripes and help for us all.
i am more than pleased to be there and recommend you check it out.  

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18 comments:

  1. oh my. you break my heart wide open.
    you, my friend, have words. beautiful, perfect words.

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  2. Oh, that was wonderful. I loved it. Very feel-able. : ] Going to share.

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  3. ohhhhh, the truths !!

    blown to lord knows where....those truths....mine, yours, theirs, hers.

    mine will be written with carefully chosen markers that don't bleed on the following pages and will hopefully enjoy their freedom once they fly.....

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  4. The power of the written word and the truth . . . . oh to be free.

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  5. thoughts like these make the tears spring forth, reading life between the lines .. written and let go to the wind, freedom.. I am with you

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  6. 'Guard your heart with all diligence, for out of it come all the issues of life." Think free ~ be free.

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  7. this is what it's like,
    listening to doves cry...

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  8. dear dorothy,

    i wish for you a metaphorical tornado, that you may at last be free. and i hope some pages are blown my way because your words always ring with universal truth.

    thinking of you...

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  9. Oh wow. Your words are so powerful. And honest. Deep in the soul, heart beating, gut wrenching powerful. And honest.

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  10. Not only did you have me, with the written words, with the soul open to view, but then Rebecca's words in response, completely did me in.

    Your arrangement of letters into words, into sentences, into thoughts, either silent or spoken draw me back time and time again.
    These words, like all before them, are deep and thoughtful.
    in fondest. Tilda

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  11. Love it, absolutely love it... This is writing from the heart and what finely crafted writing it is.

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  12. your words often stop be in my tracks, and your emotions pour out of them. i need some time, proper time to read how things are with you. i've been out chasing open skies in the serengeti...back now and feeling a tad restless.
    want to curl up with your words like a good book, i hope you're ok...

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  13. Sometimes I don't know what words to put down here after I read into the depths of yours...mine feel shallow and insignificant.
    So just know, that when I don't have much to say, it is when I am most moved.

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  14. oh wow what to say brilliant and sad and pain filled and a memory of the past

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  15. It's like you'd written down pieces of my heart. I buy beautiful notebooks and am afraid to spoil them. I write the "real" stuff in spiral college ruled notepads, scribbling and doodling as I go.

    Just lovely.

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  16. Congrats! Getting closer to that book! ; )

    I found a bunch of stuff my mom wrote after she died. Mostly letters and postcards to my dad. And, some really painful stuff when they were going through a divorce.
    It is interesting to get a glimpse of your mother's POV though, isn't it?

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  17. "if a tornado lands and blows them a hundred miles,
    the landscape will be strewn with truths and i will at last be free."

    I find this ending amazing as it seems that both sets, mom and yours, must fly for freedom. And it reminds me of the dissemination of poetry in Walt Whitman's #52 in Song of Myself:
    "It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the
    shadow’d wilds,"

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