Poetry as pain-reliever

I used to write a lot of poetry. I think mostly it was a way to work through pain or difficulties. Where I am today, I don’t write much poetry. Perhaps because I am content. Or maybe I write prose poetry or use poetry to cook, be a better friend, write cards or create a home. At any rate, here’s something from my very distant past.

                                    

                                    Another life
                                                                        With faint strains of previous choruses

The last few mornings, when the six-o’clock sun spread fingers through
my bedroom screen to touch me gently,
my eyes opened willingly
while my body gloried in its summer strength.
Mind and stomach dwelled lingeringly on eggs and bacon,
fruit and yogurt,
toast with honey,
orange juice….
maybe waffles….
of driving to the lake, lying lazily in the sun and drinking beer
or exotic tropical drinks afloat with rum-soaked fruit.

But deep inside my being,
somewhere in my soul,
lies a small hard spot,
as heavily as a lump of lead or high-priced gold;
that part of me which does not forget that you will be leaving
and understands how empty my life will be even on these lovely days.
Especially on those days.
Without even the knowledge of your body in the same city.

Now I must rise each day
and choose a face to wear
with matching attitudes to dress my body.
There will be roles to play,
facades to be carefully erected,
with constant maintenance.
Some few people will be allowed around to gently touch raw surfaces,
to help to heal and withdraw some pain.
At home, I will cry to blank uncaring walls
or curl around that small hard lump to smother it
and wait for the sun to finger me warmly on yet another day.