Funny People

by Iphios

We are funny people
Seeking each other
To share mundane details
Of our lives:
Passing drivers ed,
Getting stuck
In traffic and
Reading a lovely book

Filling out the long silence
With tiny glimpses
Of our day to day
If not of our wounds
Dug deep—
Our addictions,
Depression and
Miserable families

Never the in between
Not our days in work,
Not about our friends
Where we’ve been
Or who we’re seeing

No, never that
As if the spaces between
Bear the unsacred
Not to be uttered
Not to be shared
In the tiny pockets
Of our meeting

How then do we define
This awkward space
We’ve sit in for so long?
For we are neither friends
Or lovers but funny people
Seeking each other
To capture the sacred.

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Open Spaces #4: Womb & Freedom

[This is the last poem for the Open Spaces Series. Open Spaces are poems inspired by some of my paintings]

Womb & Freedom

To mimic the womb

We curl our bodies,

Hide in dark places

Praying for comfort,

For safety.

 

I hid in dark places,

Nooks and crannies,

Beneath tables

And stairs, nursing

My broken soul

 

Like a fetus, grasping

For warmth—for

Love that envelopes

You in darkness

I waited and

Waited

 

But the darkness I knew

Was cold, consuming

Filling my beaten up

Soul with promises

Of loneliness,

Rejection and a misery

Everlasting

 

To be swallowed

Or to escape

 

To mimic birds

We hold our hands up

In elation and freedom

Running across wide spaces

Jumping high to touch

The sky

 

Escape,

pushing out

Of tight spaces,

Stepping into the light

I run

Run

Run

Run

 

Endlessly

Into an emptiness

A silence of heart

Of mind

Of spirit

 

Into the arms

Of freedom

Into the solitude

And quiet

Of nothingness

Open Spaces #3: holy ground

[ Open spaces is a series of poem inspired by some of my own paintings.]

holy ground

They taught me how to pray—

A formula of words repeated

Across beads lined up in 10s

Each recitation a promise

Of finding God

Of growing Holy

 

And yet each utterance

Left my mouth while my thoughts

Filled with things to do

And people I knew

As my hands sped through

Bead after bead

With words learned

In my youth.

 

I thought of God as contained

In these little practices

Of prayers, kneeling

And houses with crosses

Upon their roofs.

Only to find walls and words

Fading into the repetition

 

And then, upon a hill

Outside these churches I knew

Beneath the open sky

I saw the trees sway

The flowers bloom

The mountains stand in glory

When wordlessness

Filled my mouth

I found the God

My prayer thought they knew

 

For in the vastness of nature

In its beauty and wildness

Lay a prayer only uttered

With open mouth and

Wonder, a holiness

Found in my smallness

Against this holy ground

Of greatness.

Open Spaces #2: An Improbable Quiet

[ Open spaces is a series of poem inspired by some of my own paintings.]

An Improbable Quiet

I knew the sound of fury

of glass shattering as a

gin bottle flies across the air

land a few inches shy

of my mother’s scared face.

 

I knew the sound of breath

struggling out of a mouth

as a hand held my neck

squeezing through flesh

and fragile bone.

 

Every sound I knew

echoed fear worn

like skin and pain

numbed with practice.

 

Every sound I knew—

creaking doors, leather

hitting plump flesh,

bones breaking as wails

and howls escaped human lips

were truths tattooed in my soul.

 

I thought I knew every sound there was

until this…

a quiet—

of wind through blades of grass

of the sky sighing in welcome

of my own tears

murmuring  a joy I thought

forever impossible.

 

 

 

Open Spaces #1: The Field

I have a few paintings of open spaces and thought I try to use them as inspiration to writing. Here’s the first of the series.

The Field

I laid myself open

Like a field of tall stalks

And yellow flowers

Surrounding you with

Beauty and a silence

That sways with the breeze

Beneath the ever wide

Sky.

 

And like those who have

Found a field

You run into its arms,

Stomping upon its stalks

Hold it in your hands

And have your fill

Until the sun sets

The grass gets itchy

And the picture taken

 

Leaving

The ever open field

And its wide welcoming arms

Never turning back,

Never returning.

While it stands open,

Bleeding through its

Bent up stalks

Beneath the darkening sky.