CALL ME BELOVED

The peaceful poems are hardest to write.

I remember my freshman days, the madness
of being nineteen and furiously in love
with the world, so much so that it scared me –
in pictures my clothes, my hair, my expressions
change like a flipbook, racing toward the man
that I’ve grown into – like breaking
in a pair of stiff shoes and settling
into something more comfortable.

I’m peaceful now – gentle and steady
as much in worry as in happiness.
Maybe I’m the balance, for every poem
shouting admonishments or singing
beautiful sadnesses, shared freely,

maybe I whisper?

My poems used to be ten feet tall,
clumsy and carved into brick walls for
commuters on the train to see.
I still ride trains, but now I hide
in a long black coat, behind a beard.
I whisper to the world, tucked away
and content to be carried home.

Winter trampled into Tuesday.
The world grew quieter and still –
my breath transmuted to wisps which
wrapped around my head – each one
a kiss – or a wish, or a beatitude
offered up in thanks –
the cold humbles me. I breathe,
give more thanks to the world.
I shamble home.

2015 Poem-A-Week 02: January 8 – January 14