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Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis
We all hold on so very tight
	(won't dream of letting go)
to all the things we think we are,
	and all we think we know.
	
And even though we hate our life, 
	we cling, and you know why,
for there to be a butterfly, the
	caterpillar first must die,
and never know 
	the one who'll finally fly.

Yearning

Yearning
See, I live in here, and know 
    I'm not perfect, and
know I'll never be
    perfect,
but there's one, the Magician, they
    tell me he's perfect, and  
    he'll take care of me
    if I just believe, wish for it 
        really hard,
    he'll steal in 
    in the night, hold my hand, 
        say it's all right,
    walk with me 
        into the light, 
and I'll love.

Catch my heart with a lasso, 
    pull me right in,
        have my back, be my friend, 
    make this empty hell end,
        no more scared, 
        no more lonely,
    'cause he loves me.

I just wish I could see 
    his face, 
hang out with him, 
    talk about chicks and how 
        they can 
    take you to heaven and hell
        a dozen times a day 
    without even trying.

I wish I didn't have to believe, that 
    he could just be here, 
        with me,
I wish I wasn't afraid that 
    I'm clinging to 
    some imaginary 
        friend.

I wish I didn't think that maybe 
    all my friends are
        imaginary, 
    that they're maybe here 
    only because I think they are,
        because I believe 
            they are.  
    I see 
        the bodies, I 
    hear 
        the voices,
    feel 
        the touch, 
    understand 
        the words, 
    but 
        do they know 
            who I am,
        really?  

If they don't know who I am, 
    how can they possibly 
        love me, 
    someone 
        they don't really 
            know.

I am not a rock, I am not a frickin' island.
I need someone to rock 
    out with, 
to play and cry and fight
    and love and work 
        it out 
    with.
Why go to the dance if you're just gonna be 
    a frickin' wallflower,
why bother?  
Why go to the pool if you ain't gonna 
    swim?

It's cool to walk in the forests of the 
Sacred 
    and be blown away
        by the wonder of it 
            all, 
    very very cool, 
        mind-blowing.  
But not 24/7, not for me, not 
    here, 
        now.  

(It's also sometimes cool to have 
    your kitty 
        stretch out on your 
            journal when 
        you're trying to write, and 
            purrrrrrrrr 
        when you 
    hug him.)

It's magical to look across the room 
    into 
        the eyes of someone you 
    love, 
    see 
        their slow 
            smile, 
    feel 
        that connection, 
    feel 
        all melty inside
    'cause you know they love 
        you, 
    feel the smile that begins to
        transform your own 
            face, 
        see them keep lighting up, 'cause 
            now they know how it feels,
            now they know that
        you're loving them 
    too.
Totally mushy, not all that cool,
    totally feeding your souls.


It's so sweet to have someone you love 
    be happy 
        that you love them, 
    that oh-so-quick connection 
        that lights you 
            up 
        and keeps you glowing
    long after it's over.

It sucks to be too damaged to do this, be 
    too scared,  
        suspicious, 
            cynical
    to allow yourself to love, 
    too full of shame and pain and 
        self-loathing
    to have a space for love 
        to be, 
    too twisted up to trust, 
    to just see loving, the 
        need for love 
            as dangerous 
                weakness, and 
still 
    to long, to yearn for 
        someone to love the 
            person you are 
            behind the mask, 
    yearn, 
        while working so hard to 
            make sure that they 
                don't get a 
            glimpse of who you really 
                are,
            how much you want them 
                to feed your 
                    soul, 
        drop the 
walls 
    and stand together with 
        you, just 
            you, 
    naked 
        in the fields of the real and 
            find 
                the love that 
            couldn't 
                possibly be there, 
    you're sure, 
hungry, 
    hungry, 
        living in a starving world, 
        praying for 
            the angel who will 
                descend and give back 
love 
    to me, who will show me the 
        impossible, 
    show me that 
        the person who lives 
            in here, the 
        one 
    I call 
me, 
    can actually be 
        loved for a 
            season for 
        no other reason 
    than that I 
    am, 
        not some mask, but 
    just me.

And here it is, another day,
    a time to fear, a time to play,
    and pray to love that has no end,
for all your blessings given me, 
    for life, and hope, and eyes that see,
I thank you now,
with all 
my 
heart,
Amen.

Sunday Morning …

Sunset
Traveler, when this journey is over, will you mourn?
	When the pieces are returned to the box and the game is over,
		will you long for the play to have been eternal,
		will you sit, savoring or regretting,
			remembering the moves,
	taking satisfaction from your score?

Will you have known joy, and sorrow, love and loss and pain?
	Will it seem, somehow, all worthwhile,
	something more important than winning in some game
		that only you, perhaps, knew that you played,
			(or wanted to)?

Where were you before you were here?  Tell me no stories,
	tell me
		what you remember.
	And if you forget it all, wipe the slate clean, and open
		your eyes to the colors of the dawn,
	is it not yet beautiful,
		does it not yet take your breath away?

Why try to gather memories to you, all protected,
	some dusty hoard that only you
		know why you treasure,
			or that perhaps becomes a burden
	you toss away, old, no longer needed
		so you can travel light and free and not be
			weighed down
		by who you are, or think you are
			(or thought
				you ought to be)?

Let it flow, you know not where it goes, and why,
		and why
	do you care?  It brought you here,
		this trail of wonder.
	Flowed 'round the bend and there you were,
			new light in the mist.
		And now you want to be here always,
			never move on?
		Stop here, stay here, when you
			daily hunger for escape, some other space in
				which to be?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
	still it flows, and so you must ...
		can't hide, can't deny,
			can't chuck it for sweet bye and bye.
	Do you seek to lose yourself in thickets of your mind, your
		grandiose and often-cruel imagination?

So say you surrender, just love, and open to it all.
	What will you lose, to what do you cling?
		Why do you think it will matter,
			to whatever the river will bring
	when the lights dim, the show closes down, when
		your final curtain falls?

Wholly Writ

Someday I’m gonna write a book.  And this book will be absolutely true, and you’ll know it’s absolutely true because it’ll say in the book, “This book is absolutely true” — and you’ll know this is a true statement, because the book is absolutely true — it’ll say so.

But since I don’t know absolute truth, and you know I don’t know absolute truth, I’m gonna write only what God tells me to say.  If it’s from God, then it’s absolute truth, right?  So the book will be from God, not me.  How will you know it’s from God?  It’ll say so in the book, a book that is absolutely true (because it says so in the absolutely true book), a book filled with words directly from God (because it says so in the absolutely true book) — would God lie to you?  Don’t argue — it’s all there in the book.  Just read it — God wants you to, it says so right in the book, and who are you to argue with God?

And my book will contain all sorts of rules and stuff about what’s okay and what’s not okay, who’s okay and who’s not okay, and what to do with people who won’t follow the rules in the book.  And everyone can stop searching for what’s good and true and just, because it’s all there in the book.

And then, when this finally comes to pass, won’t the world be such a lovely place?

An American Mantra
Love is for Doves.

Look.

Power makes others cower.
Greed is what you need.

More Money for your Honey,
        more toys for your boyz,
        a big dinner for the winner,
        shota rummy for your tummy,
line up at the trough and feed.

Don't let nothing bring you down,
        shoot 'em, boot 'em, burn their town,
till the day you're in the ground.

Sweet land of Liberty, to Thee I sing.

        Love it or leave it.

Look.

Love is for Doves.

~riverflows

Goin’ For a Swim
Left brain, right brain, God brain, no brain

	in the light or dark, or maybe rain.

Singin', Oh, Glory, gotta tell the story,

	runnin' from the place with all the pain.

Saint or sinner, dancin' for your dinner
	
	tryin' to pretend it's all a game, 
	
	while worryin' 'bout the score and 
		
		sayin' you don't mind, but
		
		watchin' your behind all the same.
	
	
Or maybe you pretend you know how the story ends,
	
	or not, it don't make no never-mind.

Hidin' out, hope to shout, look, you're gonna fall,

	big river calls, get off the bank, suhkah!

	Better dive in, sink or drown or swim
		
		or you gonna, really gonna miss it all
		
		(and you already paid for your ticket,
		
		 	and the clock is tickin').  
		 	
		 	Wow, is it NOW already?
		 	
		 	GONNA DIVE, BAY-BEE!!!
		 	
		 		KerSPLOOSH!!!


Shhhhh ... 
	Listen.  Don't you hear the river call?

~riverflows

Not Love – a Poem

Not Love
It’s not love when I’m afraid, when
	I know from many times that
	you’ll say 
		those things with 
			that expression. 

I want you and
	already my gut knots, knowing 
		whatever happens will 
			hurt.

You don’t do tenderness, not in sex.
	Understanding’s not where you
		come from.
	You wear black robes even when
		you’re naked.

I have trouble keeping it up in enemy
	territory, waiting for your knives to
		cut me down.

It’s not love when you won’t hear me, won’t
	hear me, won’t tell me, eyes locked
		somewhere years
			away.

It’s not love when I do for you or away you
	go, snarling, I must try to 
		make it better or good-bye.

It’s not love when your eyes turn so evenly
	blank to TV, no time for me, us,
		seeing nothing you don’t want
			to see.

It’s not even friendship, it’s
	a moth trying to love a spider.

It’s not love when it’s we two, hungry, “Feed me,
	feed me.  Daddy, mommy, care for me, 
		damn you.”

Suck each other dry, toss and grab another.
	“They’re all alike, can’t trust any, 
		unreliable.”

A year, you never saw me once when it
	really mattered.

(Well, perhaps once, or even more.  I think
	sometimes you worked at being kind.
		It’s just I couldn’t count on you,
	worn down by waking every day not 
knowing if you’d be with me tomorrow.)

It’s not love.  With you it was
	love as I knew it, school in session.
	You taught me more than you
		know, I think.
	For that I thank you.

I know you tried, hard enough to say you’d
	tried, not hard enough to love, to
		face that what you think and do
			might connect
		with why it
	never works.

So truly brave sometimes, but still
	in love an angry coward.

Never saw 
	through any eyes
		but your own.

It wasn’t love, but yet for us it was, 
	and now
	I strand by strand untangle wings.
Perhaps I’ll learn to fly.



~riverflows