(An old one)
an oldest friend
Calm me in the photographs so they finally get a real smile out of me
How can you do this to me,
And I don't even love you.
Comfort gained its meaning sitting with you
Television backdrop to our own thoughts
Just being there for someone to listen
Rainy days
Freezing nights
The next best thing to being alone
Holding on to funeral memories like holding hands
And we don't know when and whether it makes sense at all
Driving home from high school days seemed so long ago
Now we frequent city streets in anything but silence,
being anything but boisterous.
God damn, the things I've said to you
Damn, the words you've spoken to me
But I find myself sitting on your couch and remembering,
A friendship that makes people ask questions,
And we always answer in the negative but casual, and smiling
We shake our heads and turn back to the music and find another glass of beer.
Letting me tell my stories until I wear out my voice,
And you try to tolerate my forgetfulness.
 let you stay silent or rant
And try to tolerate your negativity
My baseless idealism and your baseless anger
The dreams resulting combination make me laugh and roll my eyes
Thinking sometime we should be stuck in the past,
But all we do seems to imply
utter moving on
Leaves tossed up past my window
It doesn't matter that you would refuse the beauty in this.
We don't understand each other
to the point of curiosity and not always passing over
some kind of momentary hatred
But you care if I have a headache
And you kiss my cheek hello and goodbye
with some kinda distant compassion
And though I laugh when you try to be strong, too I sigh.
I wonder what you see
When you look at me,
And I wrote because I wonder
what I feel
When I write about you.
(April 2004)

New Practice/More Alive

New Practice
We sit and listen
really
Listen.
We fold hands together,
tuck tissues away into pockets and sleeves,
stand with each other
facing the fires.
We do not cradle,
stroke,
or soothe.
We hear the message,
affirm its present and past.
We solve problems
by letting them fully be
so that we can Fully Be
in this new world that has always
been
here.
We open up.
We share chairs
a couch,
blankets,
our sadnesses,
dreams.
We walk into the wide open night
a bit more fearless
than the hour before.
We stride into
the bright blooming dawn
just a bit
clearer
lighter
Alive.
--
CBF Nov. 8, 2013

short and spontaneous

short and spontaneous:

--

For that moment

in the chaos of confusion

pure light

jumped in.

--

Nights without moon

darkness treasured

Adjust your eyes.

--

The fall of the heart:

a leaf breathes

the street crumbles

a memory of the ocean

and all its Sound.

--

Once a reckoning

now forgiveness

like

to you,

no one was there

only because you

didn't turn around.

--

One paper proclaims

One fire reclaims.

Solid matter

so easily

becomes ash

and wind.

--

Tumble through the subway trail

home every evening from the same

to the same,

from the tired

to the comforting,

from gratitude to gratitude,

each place a heartbeat

leading to the next.

--

We admire

The greatness of things

steady and unyielding;

We are so much water

held together inside

so little skin.

--

Align one piece to another

day by day.

Suddenly your mind will match

your heart.

Suddenly your work

will center over your

soul.

--

In this roundabout

there is an exit

it comes whenever

you open your mouth and say,

"No."

--

The fear of one does not necessitate

the fear of another.

In times of crisis,

stay focused;

You know as much as your neighbor

about Light.

--

CBF

Oct. 22, 2013 (all)

places i am not/dreaming

Dear God

Where is my heart.

I sit alone bleeding

blue ink onto white page,

adoring the ocean shore

and other places

I am not.

The sun,

the sea,

the sky

Good books

sweet fruit

peace of mind,

flowing fabrics

quiet

quiet talk

soft and passionate

  embraces

All the notebooks in the world

Perfect pens

Time and space for thinking

Watching birds

and clouds

Light on my skin,

on the sand,

in my soul.

--

CBF Aug. 20, 2012

Not Worried/Poems of Gratitude

(one of my favorites from sometime back in 2003.)

banana-nut bread
fresh outta the oven at
1 AM with cold milk;
not worried about getting to heaven.

(Amen!)

--
From 11 years ago exactly (Oct. 10, 2002)

Thank you to my friends
who give me the strength to begin each day anew;
To my family,
who contributes unconditional love,
and calls just to make sure I'm alright;
To the world for being so beautiful;
To the sky for its constant changing,
reminding me that nothing in life is permanent.
To the loves of my past
for teaching me about humanity
and about myself;
To the sun and the moon
for lighting my way
on countless walks
when I was sad and alone,
when I was happy and free.
They shared in my joy
and shone with me.
To those in our government
who at least TRY to make this country good;
To music that wraps tight around me
and invades my hopeful soul.
To the people I've met
and the people I shall meet in coming years--
You have shared and will shape
who I have been and
who I will be.
--
CBF

Oh, you didn't hear the world explode--your ear buds were in.

Take 1
It was not like this in the beginning.
If you did not pay attention
you were gone.
Be consumed in the infinite lines of your palm for too long
and dusk would settle upon you,
in the dark,
alone.
We walk city streets like zombies,
we go to bed with empty skulls,
we wake to the ding of the alarm we carry
daily,
throughout the day,
the machinery to tell us the goings-on
of everywhere but
Here.
I pass a hundred instances
of disrespect
a day.
I count on my fingers
pairs of eyes that meet mine
and have fingers left to spare.
I feel
crazy
expecting anyone to hear me.
I write this poem attempting
to overwrite anger,
judgment,
incredulity,
with grace of
recognizing humanity.
Look that up on your iPhone;
maybe you'll learn what it is.
No, burn your f-ing iPhone;
maybe you'll Learn what it is.

Willow Song

Untitled
I found my childhood was waiting
with the snapdragons
and fence-climbing ivy
at our Mount Laurel home,
still.
That June, it picked up the edges of its sprinkler-dampened skirts and
traipsed away, head bowed,
to sit in a pew of an unfamiliar church where
a broken hearted Child-No-Longer
donned a black dress.
I made my voice attempt a song,
sparse, forced, scratching through,
notes of Amazing Grace stabbing at the back of my throat.
Silver handles and early-summer flowers
hid thin gray fingers
thin gray skin
limp coppery hair
frozen shoulders--
In the pressing heat,
they sped him away to become dust and smoke
and left me weeping on the pavement.
A willow shrugged at me lazily from the churchyard,
the sound of the funeral bells drifting through her branches
like the chorus of an ancient lullaby,
and told me this was Living.
--
CB
Sept. 2003

Vincent

Vincent
She hesitates before a painting
breathing it in,
as though she could absorb
the mist of colors there.
The pine wood floor keeps her
buckled to the ground
among frames and history
that could steal her balance
and make her
forget
gravity.
There is no window that looks upon more beauty,
she thinks.
Beauty is understood in these pieces,
beauty is explained by blue eyes who knew everything and wanted companions,
ends of nerves to capture and hold
the red light reflections of poppies
and the green mystery glowing from thin leaves awash in light
that refuse to abandon the warmth of the dying sun.
I have not seen
the weeping he endured.
I have not seen it thicken
his canvass over time.
But there is a roughness that suggests
these were painted
through glassy eyes,
through glassy soul,
who fought back distraction
with absurd determination;
who beckoned him to the pistol;
who held it in his hand;
who retrieved letters
that held
so many answers to unpredicted days.
That day
he traces the corners of the sky
with a heartless passion,
with a love the world cannot nurture,
and a pain it cannot endure.
He agrees when the wind asks
if he will let go of the earth, and does not tremble as he
spills forward,
a mess of paints and soil,
a final chatter of easel falling.
Beneath a shining dome
that conforms
to the blues he wished for the sky,
he finds freedom that does not need
a critic's interpretation.
--CB
(Amsterdam. March, 2004.)

L.

L.
This evening
Like every evening
Like every time I
think of you,
I walk these city streets
peering into faces,
picturing how time may have
aged you,
and hoping by chance,
I might see you.
I've sent messages,
a poem,
given your brother my regards,
and asked him to pass them on
to you,
with my email,
my phone number,
and the understanding, the freedom,
 to not reply.
I haven't heard back;
I don't know why.
You once wrote me
a birthday poem in green ink,
framed in glass,
and drew a tiger lily
on the page.
I remember perfecting flower freckles
in childhood drawings
with you
sprawled out on floors covered
in markers and endless sheets of paper
afternoon after
afternoon.
I remember sharing our secrets,
watching movies,
sleepovers,
dinners with our families,
the shore,
first crushes,
long school days,
then parting ways,
then not talking anymore.
Last year,
I saw your name in a cafe,
saw your shop selling teacups,
I read your blog like tea leaves,
trying to guess at the shape
your life has taken
years beyond those times we were younger;
I'm a stranger trying to imagine
the life of a stranger
who used to be my
best
best friend.
I consider
commissioning your words,
as though by syllables I could somehow see,
but I would fill rooms full of cabinets
with pieces of your haiku art
and still not know the story
of how things came to be.
I don't know what has befallen and blessed you,
whether my latest update is outdated,
whether you have escaped or evaded
what your mother once begged I help you away from
at a time when I was beyond helping myself.
I'm sorry for that,
and I miss you,
and I've felt lost sometimes trying to fit you
into the space in my little girl heart
where you fell out before I even knew
we were parting.
Well, sometimes writing brings realizations.
(How many journals did we fill,
learning the facets
of our hearts, minds, souls?)
And as I write I realize
with some giving in, and a sigh,
all I'm hoping
is
1) that wherever you are,
you know love.
2) that you're happy,
and able to say it, too.
3) that you're free  to come and go as you wish,
and to do whatever pleases you.
4) that you have changed in the ways you wanted to.
5) that you'll forgive me, if there's anything to forgive.
6) that you might think of me,
and look for me
on these city streets, too.
--
CBF, Aug. 28, 2013

Inspired by a poet in Afghanistan

Grateful to have come across this article in the NY Times this morning.  I was reading a physical copy, over fresh homemade oatmeal in the kitchen of friends in the woods on, Lake Michigan, a different experience than reading online, I suppose, but here is a link to enjoy the story anyway.

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/19/world/asia/an-afghan-poet-shapes-metal-and-hard-words.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

I has just been talking with a friend last night who is studying poetry, about love poems.  So, this poet /metalworker says, "A poet's  job is not to write about love.  A poet's job is not to write about flowers.  A poet must write about the plight and pain of the people."

I loved the words of this man.  And I must say because I know, the pain of a people so often comes from losing what one loves.  From watching flowers be destroyed.  It is writing of both these things, as well as the fullness and reality of deep pain, and of plight, that is the job of the poet.  To observe, to deeply see, to feel, to transcribe, to be a vessel for the fullness of truth to shoot through you into an audience, or onto a page, so that the stark reality of all we have loved and lost, and how we have, and can, and must miraculously love--and fight for what we love--again can be realized...  and acted upon...  Bringing these realizations to people so they can act, by touching the heart and mind where it is most strong and most tender... That is the job of the poet.  Or at least I know, with what I am doing here and now, that is the job of me.

Thank You Poem to One Who Loves Me. (These are the truest things I know of love experienced.)

Thank You Poem to One Who Loves Me

Thank you for addressing me
For undressing the beliefs I held about me
For reminding me what's possible so I can see
Life is a thing of power and beauty
As I had once known it to be.
Thank you for the gifts you hold out to me
For holding me
In the circle of your arms,
every moment is safety
from bed,
to the sidewalk,
to the jolting trolley,
You hold me secure,
Yet with freedom...
You do it so gracefully.
You refuse to criticize me,
Instead present options of how else it could be,
And though visions you may have,
still you listen to me;
I feel respected in the expectations you hold for me.
Thank you for sweating
For and with me,
For the sharing in all ways
of your sweet energy
For explaining, showing, teaching, doing, learning with me....
For never making me feel bad, ashamed,
for apologizing the very few times needed,
For telling me to stay with you and cry,
rather than go be alone and cry,
Even though it was in my shame when I'd hurt you,
You wanted me with you,
Wouldn't let me punish myself with loneliness,
hide my feelings,
Or despair alone,
No,
you talked to me,
Held me while I cried,
held and spoke with such tenderness,
Helped bring my focus away from what happened
To what I want more positively instead,
Til I was telling you stories of vegetable gardens,
My favorite teacher,
transformation,
And life.
No more bitterness where I flood my bed with tears,
rocking alone as though my own arms could comfort what takes two or three to soothe.
I can be present with and release them,
All healing;
No new scars.
And in the nighttime
as I'm writing,
And the daytime
as I'm working
your words,
your eyes,
Your movements,
your smile,
Our visions for the future,
And the memories we build
Give a gravity
A stability
A relief, a joy, a calm
To this newly refreshed heart,
To this happily settling mind,
To this body getting stronger,
To a purpose
Coming clear
In love.
--
Oct. 22, 2012 CBF

Lessons in Love

So much insight

in a year of hardly trying.

Of letting things be,

of letting happiness

come

and rest

in my heart.

So many lessons

in a question

a look

a word.

We dance in the car,

in the kitchen,

on the street.

We speak words

like tenderness is the air we breathe.

We sleep,

dream,

wake,

eat,

work,

play,

share

each moment

grateful.

Lessons in life the same as

simply living in

Love.

--

CBF July 30, 2013

A Post on Abuse, and What We Can Do to Prevent It

In the wee hours of this morning, after reading a bit about male privilege, I found a blog: http://amptoons.com/blog/2006/06/09/how-commonly-are-men-beaten-up-by-intimate-partners/

I decided to submit a post to the page.  I guess it has not yet been reviewed or accepted, because it is not appearing, but either way, I wanted to share here what I wrote.  It's been edited just slightly:

I am a 30-year-old woman who was raised by a strong, feminist mother, strong grandmothers, and a father and grandfathers who very much respected the power and strength of their partners.  I grew up spending a lot of time at collating sessions for the National Organization for Women, learning about women's history, marching in pro-choice rallies, and so on.  I have been an advocate for human rights formally and informally for all my life, professionally and socially, in ways large and small.  (I also was taught to love and respect my fellow human beings, in fact, to do so sometimes even beyond rationality and to the sacrifice of my own wellbeing, so deeply did those around me believe and want to believe in the power of love and the goodness of people--the men and women influential in my upbringing all did this themselves.  There is a lot of good to be said for that, but it turns out the world is not wholly safe for such behavior because it is often not understood, valued, respected, or returned.  Undoubtedly they knew this themselves in some ways, or maybe they did not, or the world was different then, or something.  Anyway, I ended up learning this the hard way through several difficult relationships.  Now I much better understand what self-love and self-care look like, and thankfully, I have a (male) partner who encourages this in me and practices it himself, but some days, it is still a struggle for me to put myself first in a way that ends up being the healthiest choice for me and those who rely on me in my life.)

That said, I spoke with a police officer in Williamstown, NJ one afternoon about a year ago who told me that he estimated the number of reports to police and police responses to domestic violence was about 40% from men reporting abuse and attacks on them by women, and 60% from women reporting abuse and attacks from men.  (I’m not sure what percentage were same-gender abuse and so on.)  I was shocked at how close the numbers were.  I expected maybe 10% vs. 90%.  Also, when listening to a special report on NPR, I learned that more men than women have been and continue to be sexually assaulted in the US military.  Of course, there have been and continue to be FAR more men than women in the US military, so that would makes sense, but with recent attention to rape in the military, most of what I've heard focuses on women.  My whole thinking was framing things with this focus in mind.  And then I hear a report that there are more men suffering sexual abuse than women in this context.  I had to backtrack and correct more than a few assumptions and thought patterns in my mind.

The point of this is that, abuse in our world is widespread and reaches and affects everyone.  And there are very concrete things we can do to not just end, but prevent this from continuing to be true.

I want to take a minute and say that as much as I hate to admit it, typically, women are smaller and not as physically strong as men, and also, we have vaginas, which are, for better or worse, rather easily penetrable.  (Sometimes that makes me want to take martial arts, weight lift seriously, and wear a chastity belt for protection, just in case, when I'm out and about—slightly kidding here--but ultimately, so far, I have not done that.)  Anyway, please remember that men can, of course, be sexually and otherwise assaulted in other, but also humiliating, painful, and traumatizing ways as well.  And I have known a few men of smaller stature who were not very muscular who were attacked by other men in muggings.  Not to get off topic there, just to share some experiences there for the sake of mind-opening.

I live in a major city where I see verbal and emotional abuse of people every day.  You know who are the ones who are most obviously, most publicly the recipients of this abuse?  Children.  I witnessed a black father holler at his 3-year old kid that he was a "stupid n----r" over and over again because the kid started to run out into the street.  I saw three adults with a couple other kids drag a girl age 7-9 toward a bus when she didn't want to go, and when she sat down on the ground they kept dragging her, and then started kicking her as she lay on the ground while she was screaming and crying.  I've seen parents and caregivers yell at kids, hit kids, make them cry just for singing, or for saying something repeatedly, or for asking for something.  I've seen adults humiliate kids or threaten to humiliate them ("I'll pull your pants down in front of the whole bus if you don't stop....!" said to a kid who was 3 or 4.)  When children of any gender grow up with these kinds of expectations and experiences about human interaction, when their young hearts full of emotion and questions and met with daily injustice, disrespect, and violation in so many ways, it is no wonder so many people behave similarly when they are older.  Fortunately we can choose who to be, despite this kind of disrespect and abuse--and because of it.  The more support we give and are given toward this end, the easier it is to choose to be good and do good.

I certainly don't mean to distract from the awful realities women face around the world.  I have studied and been deeply personally affected by many of them.  But what I have come to conclude is that a society in which men respect rather than abuse women is one in which all people will respect rather than abuse each other, no matter what part of their identity we are focusing on.

Yes, it is important to make adequate space for each experience to stand on its own, ie, if a woman is seeking counsel having just been abused by a male partner, she doesn't need to be reminded in the moment about the suffering of men at the hands of women abusers—unless this is in some way helpful to her.  She should have the time and space needed to process and heal from her experience however she can.

However, I believe too that ultimate and whole healing of the individual and society comes through shared experiences, through connection, through the opening of the mind and heart.  Feeling alone with your pain can make the pain even worse.  Feeling like no one understands is horrible.  No matter what our gender, ultimately I believe in the importance of sharing our stories--from all sides.  Statistically, the vast, vast majority of those who abuse others have been abused themselves.  In fact, the vast majority of people who abuse others were themselves abused as children.  Therefore I consider that the easiest place to start to change all this may very well be to create a world in which kids of any gender are always treated with love, respect, patience, and dignity by adults they can trust.  Learning such behavior from an early age will make it more likely to be practiced throughout their lives.  It may also make it more likely for them to recognize and confront injustice and abuse when they see it.

This is but one part my personal experience and opinion, delivered in a limited context, and with respect and deepest love.  I welcome your responses and dialogue.  For a broader understanding of where I'm coming from, keep visiting http://lovewantstoreachout.blogspot.com/ or be in touch directly at lovewantstoreachout@gmail.com

Thank you for reading.

Poem Response to a Friend: 10 Reasons Not to Shoot Me on My Way to School

In March of this year, my friend Nadine wrote the following.  It rather broke my heart.  And added kindling to the fire in my soul of deep hope for justice and love for this world and its people.  I responded to her with a poem, which you can read below her writing.  Thank you, Nadine, for being my inspiration, and my friend.
--

Ten Reasons Not to Shoot Me on my Way to Schoolby Nadine Murtaza (Notes) on Saturday, March 9, 2013

1.  I work really really hard. And not just for myself; my work creates more jobs and livelihoods for others. I provide an essential service, I'm professional and innovative, I care about finding Pakistani solutions to Pakistani problems. I am invested in supporting progress at a national level, I share my best practices openly, I announce my trade secrets, I am sincerely devoted to my work as a teacher.

2.  I'm a good mother. There are days I'm not perfect, but I don't defend myself on those days. I'm always studying, always reading, always learning more. I don't spank and I don't need time-outs; my children are on their way to being polite and interesting and intelligent and simple. I don't amass toys or throw lavish birthday parties, I'm a green mama, who practices tolerance and equality and tries hard to create a socio-economically, religiously, culturally, and Pakistanically diverse community to raise her children in. I'm sure my kids will grow up great with or without me... but hey, if it ain't broke - don't fix it!

3. I'm good for Pakistan. I have great ideas for real projects to improve literacy and sanitation and urban congestion... I'm ambitious and motivated and resourceful and connected. And some day soon I'll have the time and enough money to do all of them. I won't need donor funding because I'll fundraise locally and mobilize volunteers. People will support me because I will earn their trust by building a reputation for honesty, transparency and high quality work. I've started working on that right away.
4.  I volunteer. In my free time, I am a storyteller, a teacher, a designer, a gardener, a whoever someone needs me to be. I believe that contributing man-hours and skills is the best charity.
5.  I stand up against hate speech, whether it's pro my sect or against it. I believe in negotiation and compromise, I know how to teach tolerance and enforce it. I play for team Pakistan.

6. You have no reason to dislike me. You don't even know me. If you did, you'd know that I have a mediocre singing voice but tons of enthusiasm. I'm a decent storyteller, I have excellent memory, I prefer not to wear shoes, I call myself a socialist, and I can invent a song on the go, extemporaneous, just like that! These are not skills that you toss in the gutter!

I can't actually think of anymore reasons...

OK, after a good night sleep, I have two more:

7.  I'm one of the good guys! I pay my taxes (even though I know they are lining the pockets of people in power), I follow the rules, I am a responsible citizen, I keep my head down, I keep my nose to the grind.

8.  I represent a certain kind of person; I am the Pakistan that stays here despite the odds, that invests my money HERE, instead of moving it abroad where it will be safe, where I will be safe, where I will not begin each day with the hope that the shia-haters won't find me today. If you kill me, you send a message of fear to everyone like me, educated people with options and job offers in better places. You'll be telling them to get out. But when they do they will take their honesty and skills and work ethics and sincerity somewhere else and you will lose the legs this country stands on.

9.  How will one less me transform your world? I'm nobody really. This is an absurd reason, you have killed thousands of nobodies already...

10.  If I can't reason anymore, I hope I can at least ask to be killed - cleanly. Not left still clinging to life with some fraction of my current consciousness...I think every day of how great the possibility of driving into an ambush has become. I have too much work really to feel seriously afraid and nowhere to go with my fear - I am here now, this could happen, let's move forward. I am comforted by the fact that I am nobody. And terrorized by it also - if I am murdered, it won't even make the nine o'clock news. It has happened to so many people already, they are already accepting their fate, they have already gone back to their homes, into their silence, who knows maybe they are already recovering...

--

your ten reasons

at your words
the trees burn in my heart.
i am no traveler under mountain star skies.
i am a city dweller,
trying madly to love concrete,
despite its roughness and hardness
there must be something soft
somewhere inside.

I am an ocean swimmer,

professing respect for something stronger than me,

grateful to drift in her waters,

alive in the moon,
the tides.
at your words,
the sadness is my blood,
the inevitable loss
imagined so much closer.
may we all pass when our hair is silver,

our cheeks and eyes surrounded
by a thousand laugh lines we'd never try to dismiss,
our hearts still fighting, and yet at some deep peace,
and not a moment sooner,
i pray.

at your words my garden heaves

a hundred seeds like questions

out of the earth to lie panting on the soil,

waiting for the fate

of rain or sun.

our hands are outstretched as through a violent waterfall,

but really,

it is only mist.

how can one know so much

while being ignorant of so many things?

how possibly can beauty

be anymore than a dream?

the answer is to hold these truths,

not release them like hopeful balloons into the sky,

hold them until

with anchor ready, course set, rudder fixed,

we rise.

CBF March 12, 2013

Speak the Truth

The above photo was found somewhere on the internet by an acquaintance of mine.  I do not know the context of the photo, but it makes me think of New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  It could be a building anywhere.  It inspired some words, below:

Speak the Truth
Speak the truth
even if your voice shakes.
Speak the truth
if your voice breaks.
'Til your heart quakes and makes
new space for the fakes and all their mistakes.
Speak through the re-takes,
speak when there's high stakes,
speak as the earth quakes,
Speak the truth even if your voice shakes,
Speak the truth.
Speak the truth when you don't know where the conversation is headed,
when you're in mixed company,
even if you think you might offend
somebody.
Speak the truth when your heart is pounding so hard,
you can hardly hear anything but the blood in your ears.
Speak the truth when you've got everything or nothing to lose,
when the world is on fire,
and when everyone else is eerily
quiet and calm.
Speak the truth.
Speak the truth when it hurts,
when you're not sure if you'll make it through,
Speak the truth believing
that doing so
  can
    heal.
Speak the truth when there's no time left,
and when there's all the time in the world.
Speak the truth like
your own flag unfurled
When it goes against everything everyone else is saying,
because what they're saying may just be what they're wishing was real,
and may not be
what's really going on.
Speak the truth like you're the only one with a mouth,
like everyone has
wide open ears
like someone might open theirs
and actually hear
Your Truth.
Speak the truth.
When it's a rainy day,
when there's a crowd in the street,
when there's one hand raised in
a room half asleep
and it's your hand,
Speak the truth.
When you know the risks,
speak the truth.
And even if you don't,
still,
somehow,
speak the truth.
Carefully choose words
to maintain freedom, if you can,
but know no matter where you end up,
it's what inside that makes you free.
Speak the truth.
When the only words that ring true
are of prophets and poets
a thousand years gone,
speak the truth.
When the world around you says "Just forget it and move on,"
feel your heartbeat,
and then,
Speak the truth.
When you want deeply,
speak the truth.
When you love deeply,
speak the truth.
When you know deeply,
speak the truth,
and when you speak deeply,
Speak
the
Truth.
--
CBF July 24, 2013

10 countries and counting

It is humbling and thrilling to see these pages have been viewed by people in so many countries around the world, just in the first week of this blog's existence.  (See chart below.)  Even if the pages were stumbled upon by chance, it is reminder how we are all connected, and how one person's words can reach all corners of the Earth.

To whomever is reading my posts, I welcome your responses to my writing.

With love and hope,
Carly

(More poetry here soon--my writing for the day has happened across many other venues and in many other forms instead, and while sleep has alluded me for the last couple hours, I think I'm finally feeling tired enough to try to sleep again.)

United States	34
United Kingdom	4
Germany	2
Netherlands	2
New Zealand	2
Serbia	2
Belarus	1
Egypt	1
France	1
Kazakhstan	1

Wherever you go, go with all of your heart.

The tag on a tea bag inspired me the morning I wrote this poem.  (It held the first line.)

--

Wherever you go,

go with all of your heart.

Do not be swayed by things you surfacely want

things others think

you need.

Plunge into life with both hands full of mud,

ready for building.

Hold nothing

but earth and

wind.

The rest,

trust,

when needed,

you will find.

Your time always reflects back

with the moon.

Trust the sky to tell time,

nothing more.

Even shadows upon the earth

can lie.

Light and dark create multitudes of truths.

Remember the cave into which you were born.

Remember the stone.

Remember coming forth

into Light.

Your sword pulled from a warrior's chest

is the sun rising on the sea each day.

Your birth is the same.

Be reborn every day,

but retain that

steel connection to yesterday and years beyond:

the earth and the sun have been here a billion billion years

in dust across the stars

and space that will always be.

How many foes, memories, kinsman

vanquished?

How many migrations?

How many true homes?

We are a sturdy people with tender hearts

and timeless souls.

We own liquid eyes that have seen

places beyond dreaming.

Sand that drifts so freely

once was mountain that would not move.

Words need a vessel

and breath.

Nothing exists beyond itself.

As you journey,

you will always stay.

So wherever you go,

go with all your heart.

Write poems

and leave them for strangers

on subways.

Embrace the lover

and bend moments into hours.

Collect tears

to be buried

for trees that drink sadness.

When life is spinning

remember

your pulse

the Blood

your breath.

These are our constant cycles of living.

Think of a wheel,

or a spinning top;

What is moving is more steady

than that which stops still.

And even in blessed stillness

gravity is one constant

every time.

I wish for you

both warmth and chill,

soft and hard,

damp and dry.

Sensations,

appreciations,

constancy,

change.

Dear One,

I write as a poet,

with the heart of a friend.

If you are lonely,

call upon me,

or come live in my words

for a while.

--

CBF Dec. 13, 2012

Todays and Yesterdays

Pink Shoes Nameless
Small child with father
explores at own pace
patience of a Sunday evening,
or hopefully a lifetime.
--
CBF July 21, 2013
--
Missing It
I remember how you laughed
that evening dropping me off downtown.
You were headed to Cambodia;
We were full of memories.
I regret not having asked you
Why?
--
CBF July 21, 2013
--
We All
Philadelphia summer cools one day after humid hot sweat dripping week,
week of wishing for suburban lawns with sprinklers
and swimming pools.
We all pray for rain, or
for bought luxuries that come with land,
or a car to borrow to drive to
or find
public pond, river, lake, stream, sea
access to something
reflecting us back and soothing.
We all pray for relief like water
we all pray for
relief.
--
CBF July 21, 2013
--
Casket
When the time came
we weren't ready.
We thought we knew goodbyes;
they were nothing.
In the middle of July I pass wrinkling tiger lilies
remembering how she sang over you
and cried.
--
CBF July 21, 2013
--
Getting to "Thank You"
When all else seems said
or no words can explain it further
just
gratitude.
Ever gratitude.
Thank him for listening
Thank her for being there
Thank them for saying something
Thank yourself for breathing.
There is nothing else that causes this kind of reflection
this inner satisfaction,
this quieting of everything.
Even the trees with each exhale sing it,
Thank You,
Thank You,
Live!
For
Thanks to You,
we are living.
CBF July 21, 2013

Third day since last post = 3 poem shorts

Thunder night beginning
Relief from heat outside
brings attention to internal
fires ablaze.
CBF July 20, 2013
--
Waiting for you
Sunny morning
that wooden door
  is my world.
CBF Nov. 2013
--
You told me the water
You told me the trees
are love
I knew the definition
From my own head
I said,
This is the kind of
Searching
  where
It
Finds
You.
CBF Nov. 2013

PS In reference to the title of this post, I have visions of starting a company that makes shorts (you know, like, short pants kind of shorts), upon which are written or embroidered 3 poems per pair.  Hence, "3-Poem Shorts."  You can take that to the bank!  ;-)

2 Poems for Yesterday and Today: God-Like We Can Be (and) The Day of the Theft

God-Like We Can Be
We all come,
  bring our own
hopes
  desires
    cravings
Dreams.
We all bring
such passionate love
for our families.
We all bring hardness
and softness in our hearts.
We all have opened
and have yet more to open to.
We look at each other
with joyful eyes.
Let us look deeper
and know what brings us here.
We are lucky
we have been
children of love.
We have been graced
by God in our hearts
by compassion,
  understanding,
    mercy.
Though we are human,
God-Like we can be
and Realize such grace
in every
moment.
CBF Nov. 2012

The Day of the Theft
Compassion for you,
  violator.
I work at
trying to make it unnecessary
for your heart
to harden
or pound
awaiting discovery
or arrest.
Your actions--
  thank you--
only make me stronger
in my quest for
and settling into
deep
inner
Peace.
The day of the theft,
I am not angry
just sad
and tired
of all this pain,
driving people
to more
and
more.
On the radio,
Syrians implore,
"Why is the West
supporting Bishar?"
We are not supporting Bishar.
Don't they know
we too are
worn?
Still it is no excuse.
Wars only stop
by monumental change.
Life triumphs over senseless destruction
when no matter how
beaten, we shine
the inner fire
of our souls
blinding bright.
CBF Nov. 2012

Poem: Non-Attachment and Building a Future

Non-Attachment and Building a Future
Sell everything
It'll make a good story
and besides that, you're tired
of the things that
  you own.
Sell them.
The time is right.
Auction your burden
like treasures
and be free.

Give.
Millions of people
have abandoned possessions
for a promise
of survival.
This is your life.
Make it real.
Fold paper
  cranes from your thesis.
Make peace with
  your struggles.
Summarize your pages
  of notes
and move on.
-CBF Nov. 2012

Poem: WRITE

July 12, 2013

-WRITE-

He says

Write to remember

Like I could write it all

Start with one thought

Pen to page

Spray can to wall

Write the bad ink

Write what You think

Write the daydreams

Write the ugly scenes

Write regrets from childhood

‘til you can step back and heal them

Write the tones you love,

‘til your eyes reveal them

Write away the notes you missed

Write the boys and girls you

kissed

Write the energy that has no words
only sound

only a letter
only vowels
like "Ahhh" and "Oh"

high note to low

Write the marvelous and the terrible

The ones you want
who never show

Write what happens

Write forgiveness

Write junk-crowded shop on Pine St.

stuffed with potential, broken memories, and suspicions

Write the doubt

they made you feel
like you’d break everything and steal

if they turned their backs for a minute

if they let you revel in it

Then write how you chose
not
to feel that….

Write what happened in the aftermath,

You bought lavender yarn so your mother

can save babies

by knitting hats

Write maybes

Write connections

Share these at your discretion.

Write the lies you imagine people tell

Write when they're "telling the truth"
too
well.

Write a vision of Heaven,

Write your version
of Hell.
Write daydreams.

Write the way nothing changes when you're depressed

when you're worn down and saturated
with

loneliness

Write how the very air around you

can feel

too tight,

then,

Write how everything
shifts in the light--

Write Light.

Write the night

Write the terror out of nightmares

and security into fright

When everything feels wrong

Write just

what is

Right.

Write daydreams

Write fullness when you’re empty

Write few words when you hear many

Write why you know that you

are always blessed with plenty

Write the meaning of completeness, High Priestess spinning ministry

Write daydreams

Write the way the sun seems when you’re sad and when you’re happy

Write like you’re clapping

Write as if you’re rapping a future generation’s history

Write the way you think you wish they’d look back and see it and maybe

It’ll happen

Then and

There

Now and

Everywhere.

Write how anything can happen anywhere.

Write the words of the voiceless

Write the lives of the lifeless

Write the way that freedom feels when you let go of all that’s worthless

Write how birds fly home in summers

Write full pages without number

Write

Write pregnant women smoking

Write bikers without helmets

Write the insanity of risk-taking that makes me ask

Who is to blame for this?

Write the improvement of your Aunt Judy

Write how humans have no limits.

Write health, wealth, and good fortune

Write how exercise makes you young again

Write how technology saves us, and makes us crazy,

How it can support us, and how it can make us lazy.

Write the gendered assumptions

That people are just women or men.

Write the can’t-breathe-stale-smoke oppression

in your throat again
Write how the whistle or the bell sounds

when it calls you home

or sends you off again.

Write the tiger-lily summer when you lost your high school friend.

Write your sadness and excitement

at how beginnings bring on ends.

Write daydreams

Write rain walks and park talks

silent subways, lands of make believe.

Write as though you had no time

Write your way beyond the rhyme

Write the sunrise

and the moonshine

Write the life you haven’t led

Write the cobwebs out of your head

Write of everything you needed that

you were never fed.

Write the cycles of love

The patterns of stars

The rhythm of tides

What life’s like on Mars

Then come back to Earth.

Write the composition of Pride

Write the directions to every

Buried treasure you find.

Write the trials of your life

Write the essence of your mind

Write.

Write the recipes your grandmother knew by heart

Write the questions you haven’t asked

Write the ice right off your heart

Write the world the way strangers you meet want it to be

Write what they hear; write what they see.

Write shoes onto children’s feet.

Write a story of peace, in our time, peace,

Write.

Write healthy birth into hopeless space

Write care upon apathy’s face

Write understanding where graffiti cries

Write love songs, sonnets, work songs, lullabies

Write.

Write like everything matters

Write overflowing platters

For people who never had to worry for what to eat

And for those whose meals for years

have been given in sympathy on the street

Write new answers to ancient riddles and tests

Write interpretations never considered

Write your lucky guess

Write loud and bold

Write sweet and soft

Keep writing when the train stops

Write

‘til you

get off.

CBF July 2013