Care Less?

Sometimes I care too much about what people think of me.
Not in the childish sense;
I don't care if people think I am pretty, or smart or fun to be around.
But I care very deeply that people think I am good.
I want people to see my good intentions,
To trust my word,
To believe my heart is full of love for all,
To see that I truly care.
It all comes down to character.
No matter how much I try to do right,
There are people who think ill of me.
It bothers me more than it should.
I have my share of dirty laundry,
But I wish people could see my soul.
See that I am loving, trustworthy, honorable.
Even the good have their enemies...
So why does it bother me so?
Why do I feel I need to defend my character?

"Do what you feel in your heart to be right- for you'll be criticized either way. You are damned if you do and damned if you don't."
- Eleanor Roosevelt

My silly heart

It's hard to explain it.
There is no logical explanation.
When you are around me,
I get...... flustered.
The witty flirtatious words in my head,
Get tangled up in my throat.
You make me look like a fool.
Silly and tongue-tied,
Flushed and dizzy.
Just looking in your eyes,
I can't help but smile like a chump.
Your scent,
The shape of your body,
Makes my mind hum with excitement.
And my heart,
My silly heart,
Beats faster when you are around.

Lonely, but never alone

I heard that once you become a mother,
"You will often feel lonely, but never again be truly alone."
Now with over two years experience with parenting,
I can relate to that sentiment in some ways.
Back in my single days,
I would spend hours in my bedroom just by myself.
I built a little quiet sanctuary there.
My bedroom had bright orange walls,
Wooden book shelves and painted mirrors.
Funny little decoupage stars hung from the ceiling.
It was "me."
I knew myself and how I was feeling very clearly.
I had plenty of time to explore it in that room.
My husband was commenting on how much he loved my old bedroom,
"Because it was so You." he said.
There is no room in our new house like that.
I don't really need a place for me in my house,
But I long for a place for me in my life.
It is difficult because I don't want less time with my husband,
I definitely don't want less time with my son.
If I spent any less time with friends, they would forget me.
Somehow I need to make an inner place for me...
A place in my heart to hang my silly stars.

That Dream I Had

That dream I had... I can't get it out of my head.
It's memory makesme toss my hair,
sigh,
grin like a fool.

A friend once advised me, "You can't help the things you dream. They're just meaningless thoughts that pop into our head while we're sleeping. You shouldn't feel sorry, or embarrased or anything really..." He made me feel silly for being affected so strongly.

I don't agree with him,
I believe that dreams can have meaning.
It's my window into repressed feelings,
My desperate attempt to resolve the irresolvable.
I've had dreams come true.
Dreams have opened my eyes to true intentions or hidden agendas.

They aren't always realistic;
My dreams are more like wonderland than real world.
Even so, the feeling I have in my heart upon waking....
That is what sticks with me.
The mortifying fear of failure,
hopelessness,
remorse.

Then there are those great dreams that leave me flushed and smiling.
Like a first kiss, you don't want to end,
and it lingers in your mind for days to come.

I can't get that dream out of my head,
or maybe I don't want to.

Places- The Park

A piece of grass,
So steep and oddly situated,
That you feel one missed step,
Will send you toppling into the city skyline.
I used to sit on the bench swing,
My skinny legs feverishly kicking at the dome of the capital building.
With one gutsy breath, I'd topple off of the swing and roll down the hill.
Grass stains, bruises, brush burns were all totally worth the thrill.
We carelessly ran back and forth across its ledge,
The hill swallowed a glut of our frisbees.

The park was almost always quiet,
My peaceful escape from the noisiness of my household.
A place where I was elevated above the city,
I felt like it elevated my writing as well.
Its view was far more beautiful than the park itself.
I'll admit I brought a few boys to that spot,
How could I resist?
But I don't really remember those rendezvous,
What I remember is jumping off those swings... and finding peace.

On Walt Whitman

I am re-reading Leaves of Grass.
I read it once a long time ago,
When his passionate words made my virgin cheeks blush.
Now I picture that Walt Whitman is sitting on my front porch with me.
His long gray beard is softly moving with the words on the page.
I try to pry deeper to understand him more.

I always thought Walt Whitman was such a brave poet.
And he was in many ways...
He was controversial, opinionated, and passionate.
(not to mention being a nurse in the Civil War)
But he still hid some portions of his life in the innuendos of Song of Myself.
We still don't really know the details behind the poems.

Sometimes, I write about very personal things.
It scares me.
It feels as if I am lying naked on the computer screen for the world to see.
Some of my thoughts, feelings and fantasies are so private,
I would rather post a naked picture of myself than have those thoughts shared with the world.
The security of poetry is that you can relay deep emotions without the details.
It is a lack of details that makes me feel secure in my writing.
But I am still a timorous poet,
Wishing to draw from Walt Whitman's strength.

Sorry....

I feel like I've hurt you.
That is the last thing I wanted to do.
If the pen is mightier than the sword,
My fingers are a six-caliber pistol.
My miss-aim can have lethal effects.
I know what words can do.
I know the truth has a bitter aftertaste.
As a poet I could make things prettier for you,
But that isn't My Truth.
That isn't real.
And in a world of insincerity,
I can't mirror your truth.
Though your opinion matters more than it should.
If my poetry doesn't reveal My Truth,
Then I am completely lost.