Six Years Old

This poem was inspired by Alison Nappi’s poem: An Open Love Letter to Your Inner Child

( http://www.writewithspirit.com/letters-of-love–madness/an-open-love-letter-to-your-inner-child )

Mare Martell, aged 6

Mare Martell, aged 6

Your story took my age away and I became six again.

It sucked the breath out of my lungs

Replacing it with looks of befuddlement

That I got from grown-ups when I tried to explain

how I saw things or

what I saw and when.

An adult would often correct me

Explaining how it appeared in their world,

but magic existed before I knew it

before it claimed the runes of mystical auras.

I want to write this love letter to my six year old self

but not like this,

similar but with different color crayons

and different paper,

maybe bark or finger paints.

As I look through the eyes of my youth

I see what I saw then clearly

That crack in the sidewalk didn’t exist

as much as it was the seaside beach

where fairies lived and robins played.

I was taught that my visions were faulty

So I quit trusting them, I quit believing I understood things

I doubted what my spirit knew as absolute

I thought I was wrong for thinking in shapes or

pictures that had words labeled on them, but did not define them.

I heard you.

I’m so glad you remembered me

Way back then when mud pies were important and dolls drove matchbox cars.

Jedi Garden

Your sugar-coated violence was used

to coax my sympathetic heart back

from where I felt safe

from where I felt protected

from where I felt alive

from where I could be myself

instead of a role that you glued on my back

a role that I allowed to be superimposed

a lampshade to dim my light which shined anyway

Did it ever occur to you

that once you punched me

that once you slapped me

that once you pushed me down

that once you pulled my gun on me

that maybe, just maybe,

you shot me alive

by demonstrating the very reason

I could no longer stay by you

because you’d have destroyed

the very me I’ve become,

a light to guide others through

the loss of their power.

Had you succeeded

the skies would have gone dark

My tears of mourning would have drowned me

I gratefully would have rejoiced in the absence of me.

Real Time

desertoasisI don’t want to write only beautiful things
because that’s not how I see the world.
It’s pretty disgusting and horribly lovely
all mixed up and swirled.
The ugly parts that get sucked in
around strangers in public places
demonstrate our need to hide
our fearful, shameful faces.
The ones we keep, sometimes, even from within.
It allows us to judge ourselves harshly
for having typical human skin.
I don’t want to write only beautiful things
because that’s not how this world is.
But I will seek out beauty
because that is how I choose to live.