I Don't Care/The Invitation

A poem strengthen me many times through my teenage angst.  I have always called it "I Don't Care" because that was the version given me.  This version:

I don’t care about what you do for a living.
I want to know what you love most,
and if you dare to face your own demons.
I don’t care how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
I don’t care what your sign is,
I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow,
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or
if you have become hard and closed from fear of further pain!
I want to know if you can tolerate pain, mine or your own,
without trying to hide it or changed it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own;
If you can get crazy and dance, letting the energy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be
careful, be realistic or to remember the limitations of being human.
I don’t care if the story you are telling me is true,
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty
even when it is not pretty every day,
and if you can source your life from Wisdom and Compassion.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,
And still stand up and shout "Gabba Gabba Hey," for no reason at all.
I don’t care about where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done for the children.
I don’t care who you are, what band you are in or how cool you are.
I want to know if you will stand in the middle of the fire with me
and fight for what we know is right.
I don’t care what religion, race, sexual preference or political stance you have.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Not to take up unwanted space, but I found the original today.  Apparently, the version I enjoyed for so long was "edited" (that makes me think of the World's Greatest Shakespeare Company) by someone.  Here is the original.  The themes are very similar but the tone is different.  I like different parts of both more than the other, though I cannot say which I prefer.  I hope you have a moment to enjoy.

The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The Several Fails in the Tales of Lucy Gale pt. 5

Hot steam rises.
My skin ripens
brightens
except the lines that never healed,
lines too geometric
too designed to deny.

No longer that girl
I am now Lucy!
And yet, with a sneer,
her perverted tattoos
still stain my veneer.

Why can't my skin
hide the sin
which departs
from my heart?
With the inside clean
how can the out beam
darkness?

Dead Cats and Rabbits

Have you ever heard a rabbit purr?
I have, when I saw them cuddle with you.
How can you not smile nuzzling that fur?
Innocence, I see, is in their soul's hue.

Have you ever heard a rabbit scream?
I have, when I saw my cat drag it in.
Hoarse lungs flailing, all light failing to redeem.
My heart recalls pleading against such sin.

Have you ever heard a child pray?
I have, as my voice was led in its words,
earnest and pure but unsure what to say.
Through that sweet peace more than my heart was cured.

Have you ever heard a rabbit cry?
Remember that does not mean it will die.

A long time ago, I was awoken one night by the most fearsome sound I've ever heard.  I walked out of my room and found my cat, Kippie, pawing at something.  I knew it was another toy he'd brought home.  Normally they were in perfect condition, no blood or broken bones.  This time he'd gone too far.  It was a bunny, barely bigger than my fist.  It wasn't moving.  I saw it take a deep breath and as it exhaled the most disturbing sound came with it.  (When have you ever heard a bunny make noises?)  Imagine screaming after never having used your vocal cords before.  There was no blood.  I tried tickling his feet to see if he could use them.  Nothing.  His neck was broken.  He was just suffering under his last breathes.  I held him.  I...had a long and deep discussion with God for a long time.  I asked the common whys.  Eventually his eyes glazed over.  I got to asking if he could come back, if he'd be okay.  He did.  Suddenly he jumped up in my arms, looked up at me, and bounded away!  And now I had to chase him down...  He ended up alright and I got him back outside.

Years later, right before I left for college, in the same corner of the hallway downstairs I was again awoken by a strange sound.  The exact same spot.  I went out and found another dying animal.  This time it was my cat.  We had found out a few weeks earlier he was severely diabetic.  We tried doing what we could but apparently it was not enough.  He had lost the use of his back legs and could not see.  So he was lying on the floor crawling around in a circle meowing as loud as he could.  I could do nothing.

I loved Kippie.  He was the greatest cat.  He slept on my bed.  We hunted together (well, he'd bring in a toy and we'd chase it.  If he won he ate it.  If I won another critter lived).  He would step on the lever to hang up the phone if I was talking to someone for too long.  He would crawl on top of books I was reading.  He would wrestle with the dogs.  Fabulous friend.

Kippie being dead hasn't been hard.  Watching him die and holding him, feeling every breathe get lighter and hearing each meow get more desperate, was rough.  I felt powerless.  Something so thorough that it overthrows life, how can I contend with that?  I don't have to.  Funerals are for the living, not the dead.  We need the closure.  So for my own death I do not have to worry, I won't have to attend (I ain't no Huck Finn).  I'll be dead and gone.  That is why death has never bothered me but I really don't like dying.  That and I know my Redeemer lives.  That comforts me a lot.  I'm not invincible (though I've never been proven wrong) but I won't be beaten by death.

The Several Fails in the Tales of Lucy Gale pt. 4

Salt crusts the window, refracting the light,
(she'd never clean it, she hated the view)
breaking his promise and dimming her sight.
She left it dirty to hide hopes she knew.

They'd now been apart more than together.
Each hopeless dawn somehow brightened her day,
but fleeting light did not help her weather
and the cold, empty rooms were not okay.

As weeks turned to years it weakened her care,
but she missed the mornings with steaming tea.
So some part endured and she kept her stare
through troubled tides and the mountainous sea.

Inside and out it is crusted with salt
from the waves and the tears which never halt.

Dante's Couple

(So this was written quite some time ago. I keep editing it every time I look back on it, but will post it in its present form. It is inspired by the sign posted at the entrance of Dante's Inferno, which was conveniently posted on the door of a couple friends)

Part 1:

By Zeus' mighty arm, I spied a man, with not guile nor charm, bent upon a hill with his wife, ill. A brilliant flash with thunderous crash illuminate actions rash. A bold oath to slay them both so he'd not live to cry. A simple lie to keep them together in the tumultuous weather.

Part 2:

A tisket, a tasket, a journey in a basket to the place of forsaken race. Where men are treated as beef on their way to eternal grief and women lose hope as they learn to cope with the pain for their vain gains. Lucifer's domain.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here,
for ye shall learn to fear.

Hope is no blessing, but a curse. Only evidence of worse, much worse to come. For the sum all the forsaken souls is equal to but one righteous' whole. God's eyes do not blink, but nor do they think to judge a man as a man, instead of a tool in His hand.

Part 3:

A wife lays still. A man becomes ill. A bloodied knife claims a life. Now two. He knew the cost of having lost his life, his wife. His soul departs as his heart breaks in the wakes of despair. He no longer cares. A journey together in order to weather the slaying storm which formed in her heart. A parting act. A death pact.

His soul froze as he witnessed his rose's ascent with the consent of St. Peter, who freed her. Chilling hands wrapped bands about his soul and began to pull. As tears filled his eyes he heard her sighs. He realized his mistake. She had been faking for their sake. Her sinless soul saved to walk the gilded path paved in Heaven. His corrupt corpse condemned to forever dwell in the hushed silence of his own Hell.

The Several Fails in the Tales of Lucy Gale pt. 2

Lucy Gale was a merry ol' soul and a merry ol' soul was she. She was taken by the hand of a sickly old man, whom, with she, tried a real man to be. With a quickie outside and a rather fast drive, she was left unsatisfied by he.

His words had tempted her with fruits of knowledge and fruit of another kind. He had perverted her body with a snake and with fantasies her mind. She now had knowledge of good and evil, but knowing lust and slut are anagrams only gets you so far. She had been forced passed her bar and down on her knees, but all her plees and nos came out as please and knows. She judged him by the fruits of his labor and her sins began to show. Her innocence did little to protect her as the only response he ultimately heard was "sure." In the end, she had consented, but that was the only option he ever presented. She had said no and he said experiment. She said "I can't" and he misunderstood what she meant.

It happened. It was fast and dirty, in the gravel and dog shit. It seemed so appropriate in hindsight. Her feet and hands were scarred where they touched him and the ground. Her side was blemished where he came. It seemed so appropriate in hindsight. He sneaked off into the night, she retreated to her home. It never seemed appropriate.