Homeless, Wild, and Free
... a work in progress ... a very very rough draft ... something special for my friends on SF ... I hope you enjoy it.
scraping on the surface
with man made metal
honed sharpened unnecessary tools
i push away the earth
leaves sticks and wet garbage need to go
new sprouts are showing
new growth is coming
i want to see what's happening
last year i did a lot of planting
not much cultivating
not much composing
too much caregiving
not enough listening
i am listening now
scraping on the surface
pushing earth and moving soil
listening to my heart beat
and nothing else
What am I cultivating?
Who am I helping?
Where am I going?
Is this my home?
my eyelids open
my roots go down
slowing pushing against the ground
the ground pushes back in gratitude
life in the city
surrounded by concrete
a false world that maybe will someday slip away
i like to walk
unfocused on periphery
if it's on my back
or in my heart
a tiny spark
a cycle's terminiation
i like to walk
away from the lights
the city's creatures
and find my place
in the trees
among the moss
away from these
and find some snow before it melts away
Emotional story given thank you for sharing
I hope you don't mind but I have found inspiration and resonance in your words and wanted to say so.
I've been thinking an awful lot about what home means lately and writing stories a lot in my own personal green coloured journal about it.
Finding ones internal home in whatever landscape of one's transient life is an interesting idea to me... I guess the nature of impermanence is a good motivating factor to being at home with oneself... Anyway...
I'm trying to leave a useful response haha but think I might be failing. Lol.
I always feel more at home outside. Sometimes it's hard for me living in the city. But it's nice having a garden.
On my spiritual journey, I am feeling torn between polarities: returning home vs. making progress; cultivating vs. wildness; freedom vs. restraint.
The concept of the poem is that all three things: being Homeless, being Wild, and being Free can be both constructive or destructive for me. Being homeless seems intuitively negative, but it also contributes to being natural, wild, and free. Being wild can be a bad thing, but I generally think of it in the positive. Being free always feels good to me, but too much freedom encourages a lack of restraint. And again, for me, all three develop and influence the others.
I hope to continue to explore these feelings in this thread.
Homeless and Free, yes, I relate.
Wild?, maybe. If living this life while forgetting how vulnerable and fragile this physical life actually is wild, then yes.
I never found my home.
It does not exist in this physical realm.
Freedom is an illusion
As I am trapped in this physical life
Being wild has been knocked down each time.
After all, I am reminded of destinies and fate
Thank you for your reply. Wild for me, in this set of poems, means uncultivated and natural.
I like the small poem you wrote above. I will look for more of your writing.
The air was thick when I got there
Emily opened the door
but didn't welcome me in
straining to speak
my words were like strangers
distant, unfriendly, unapproachable
her voice was clear soft and flat
her face expressionless
we stared at each other for a while
"we're supposed to be friends"
I finally said
"i don't know what happened"
"you're a fool, if you think that" she said
white as a ghost
behind dark hair and thick frames
I didn't know what to do
the rain was ready
so I left
and that was the last time I spoke with my friend
on the way to waking up from a very strange dream
Waking from a dream is like coming home
unpacking and remembering where I've been
slipping into my old skin
finding myself again
sometimes it's like I've never left
sometimes i can't shake it off
it feels so real
or it feels so false
so rarely in between
someone told me that dreams are real
that we can control them and drive them like a car
i haven't figured that out yet
everytime I try to do it
it gets jumbled up in my jaw
in my dreams i wander
never knowing who I'll meet
or what to say
my emotions sink like butterflies
carrying an impossible weight
when I was a kid I had flying dreams
but now, those are gone
and now the only way I know
for sure I'm dreaming
is in the dreams
I never sleep
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