In my heart I didn’t know
what to expect
when they were stubborn.
All are not happy
about the fact
that you are going
through my fears
after all these years,
because it isn’t about making them
dependent upon you.
Grief comes from kindness,
regardless.
I’m trying not to mention
the time of year
you are going through.
I’ve heard she has been taught this time.
Never mind that.
Now I’m adrift too many years.
The way home is stuck in my heart.
Here we are.
We have buildings in our childhoods
and the surest way of knowing
is this –
Once you know what the way home is
you can get to the shelter.
This line between us
is there.
Many people who don’t know
make your life
more than a little sad,
more than a lot crazy.
Even though they are hungry for a
entry, a door, a way in,
they are not allowed.
Home is a place
in your heart
and some
even though
they live
in big homes
are homeless.
(Predictive text meditation, using the letters “home” as line starters and the intention “What is home? Is it a place? How do you know when you get there?”)
First of a little (there are some)
for example and I am not a lot.
Remember the old standbys?
Remember what you want and need.
Rather than being eased
really our own feelings lead.
It isn’t about making a lot of friends.
In fact you can spend the time
If you want on your own site.
I don’t think that you can be found there.
Now what?
Your note for the way home is stuck
to the side of your shoe
caked with mud.
Torn.
Unreadable.
Lost.
Don’t worry about it
Did you get the best in show?
Who cares if the result is beautiful or well groomed or well trained?
Give me a mutt any day.
—————————————–
Some thoughts on this poem/meditation.
What is a friend? Does it matter if she is popular or polite? What is more important, amount of friends or quality? I’m relearning what friendship means, and a lot of it is about being accepted for who I am and having a cheerleader for who I am becoming. Old friends who complain a lot are being cut out of my life, no matter how long I’ve known them or if they are family and I’m expected to be friends with them. People who don’t take my correspondence with them as private and discuss it with others behind my back are being cut out too. I need honesty in my life, and if it means having only a handful of people that are helpful and healing for me, then so be it. People who don’t make time for me aren’t worthy of my time either.
This started out with the letters in “friend” and then needed a little more so I free wrote the fourth stanza and the last two lines.
So it seems like we are
sent to be the ones.
So what now?
They don’t want to do it.
This may sound strange.
There are many different churches
that I have been deceived by.
Then the lights came up.
On to the shelter
our bodies house
Now I’m adrift in the middle.
Note that I am sure how to do it
no matter how.
Everything else is extra.
————————————————————————————————–
I’ve started a new thing with my predictive text poems. The Kindle offers words all the time while I write. It thinks it knows what I want to write even if I’ve just put down one letter. It is kind of like that annoying friend who won’t let you finish your sentences. I decided to let it help me write poems. Previously I’d just go with the flow and let it offer whatever it wanted. At a certain point it bogs down and starts only giving me two or three letter words. This is after the first word in a sentence. Most of the words aren’t nouns or verbs either, so this gets old really fast.
I decided to start poems with a theme or a trick. I’ll pick a word, and start each section with one letter of the word. When I put the first letter down, the Kindle offers me about ten words that start with that letter and I’ll pick whichever one seems the best at the time. It is kind of random, and kind of by feel. I have input – but I can only pick the words that are there. At the end of each line, reuse the letter until I have gotten to an ending point. Then go on to the next letter as the next section. I’m trying to pick a word that has a resonance with me, and if I remember I’ll put an intention at the beginning, as a sort of prayer request. The resulting poem is either the answer to it or a further meditation on it.
I write what I can, then email it to myself and edit it on my real computer. The Kindle assumes every line starts with a capital letter, and sometimes the syntax is a little off so I have to tweak it. Sometimes in the middle of the poem I feel it has led me to a place where I need to say something that it isn’t giving me the words for and I’ll free write. But in general, when I call something a predictive text poem, the Kindle supplied around 90% of the words. I just harvested them.
I especially like the tension in this one in the line “On to the shelter/our bodies house” because is the shelter the house, or our bodies? Is the body a house? I think it points to the idea that we don’t need a church because we carry it with us. Our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. We no longer need to go anywhere to find God – God is always with us. Actually, this has always been the way, it is just that now we are coming to see this. We have been mislead for so long in thinking that we didn’t have any power and we had to go to someone or somewhere else to find it.
Just by being stubborn
you can get to be the person you have been.
Many people have to be able to do the work.
Maybe they should not be afraid.
We have buildings in our childhoods.
We have buildings in our hearts.
Inside each person is the key,
located in the middle of an argument,
buried under the pain of grief.
Our pain is our teacher.
Our hurt is our healing.
Without judgment
without fear
without turning away
look into your life.
Look into your own building site
among the abandoned rooms,
the peeling paint,
the broken bricks,
and find your heart
Again.
We have buildings and they are hungry.
We are taught that we are the ones
but we have been deceived.
They don’t know what you think.
They have a key to the shelter.
In the beginning there was a sign.
In the beginning there was a lot
but we forgot
and then they built a shop there.
We got lost like sheep
in the underbrush
trying to get out,
get away from the builders,
get away from the snakes.
When we were sick with the world
we needed more than just a little bit
of helpful people who are inky.
The ink is the blood of pens, of printers,
The words of relapse or release.
Either way they are shedding their skin.
I’m raising myself,
unwinding the same way
that they aren’t.
The snakes in my head turn towards the light.
The scales fall off the closer I get.
We are told to get exercise daily
and that being green is important.
Good luck on that.
These dreams aren’t taught.
They dissipate in the diaspora,
dying in the sunlight, sublime, subliminal.
Remember what you are
Remember that you are
Remember everything and everyone
But forget it too.
Nothing that is necessary is in these words.
You already know this.
You already know all of this.
I’m just the alarm clock.
Keep up with You, because
nobody else will. They are too busy
getting affordable housing while
the housing bubble burst
and we burst into tears.
You can try to judge the world outside
by going through my hometown
but homegrown prophets are never respected
anyway.
Fortunately I’m not from here.
I don’t have any questions about Monday.
Or maybe I do.
This once again Memorial Day.
Should I light a candle or a grill or a firecracker?
Thou shalt not kill.
The presidents of the same world
the sane world,
wield worms when dead,
the same as the poor, the plain, the painfully shy.
You don’t have to be famous
to fill out the next week’s schedule
so it can send flowers to followers,
Condolences as carnations.
Collapse into tears
Fall into pieces
Cut me a slice of the pie of grief
And fry it up with a side of being human.
It isn’t the first time
It was the second night
It is not the same.
The waves are beautiful women who have origami hair
The first rule of God is in the way you are,
The rule is in the way.
It is the way you are.
The more you know what to expect then you are already done for.
We need to get married in the way
We need to work for a little more than just the way home
We are called to make the person whole
By celebrating the holiness that is already there.
All things work together for the same thing.
All rights reserved,
All things considered.
(all the numbered poems are constructed on a Kindle Fire, heavily relying on the predictive text feature)
Now I’m on the way.
The more I write, the clearer the picture.
For some reason God is real
And I no longer have any questions.
Maybe they do not mean to make us forget our birthright.
Maybe they are hungry people who don’t know themselves.
We are called to love.
We are called to make the world whole.
From the beginning there were many mistakes,
many missteps in the dance.
This is part of creation.
This is part of being human.
Let us hope that the same thing in the fire
that danced atop the disciple`s heads
is still with us now.
Otherwise we will have to walk barefoot
on hot coals
and dance this dance anew
faux pas and all.
It is time to begin again.
Let us hear the heartbeat of the universe.
Let us dance with God.
One and two and three, cha cha cha.
Spin and dip, cha cha cha.
Together, we will hold each other,
dancing this new dance,
this old dance, this eternal dance.
Time to take off your shoes.
This is holy ground.
betsybeadhead 
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