somewhere
(in the folds of lasts week’s)
(or maybe last year’s laundry)
the person
(when I’m not a mother)
who wrote poetry
(or being a lover )
drew still life
(balancing the checkbook)
designed clothes
(scrubbing a dirty collar)
and painted murals
(while vacuuming the carpets, again)
that did embroidery
(after the button is sewed on the shirt, again)
is in the mirror
(that needs to be cleaned, again)
trying to find herself
(after working overtime, again)
because she got lost
(showing someone else how)
somewhere…
(in the folds of last week’s)
(or maybe last years’ laundry)…
<>==========<>==========<>
This poem is actually a little over 12 years old. We were in the process of packing to move into our house and my then fiance, now late-husband, had found my composition book from high school with poetry. We had living together over thirteen years and he had never known that about me. He asked one thing: What happened? I did not have an answer for him. Nor did I know how to pick-up my pen again. One day I was looking at my reflection in the mirror, asking myself the same question. I was depressed to realize, though it been a of couple years since he had asked, I still did not have an answer.
Whenever I was upset I would write my feelings to sort them out. Usually, I would write it, read it and toss it. This time I did not toss it because something in those words had reached me. What reached me became the first three/last three lines of the above poem. It was perhaps only the third poem I had written in a nearly twenty year span at that point. Granted, it was one small sad little poem, but it was the first big crack in the wall of the dam blocking my creativity. A dam I was only just beginning to realize I had built and now needed to tear it down.
Raivenne-lations 