#freewriting

With one arm, I can’t serve.

With both arm, I am called to enlist

Enlisted to serve until I have one arm

One arm given, One, One, One

One of me, but how many have I

To give is to serve

But to serve is restricted to what you can give

My self, my arm, me, just one of me

Margaret stays awake at night, wondering and praying

Deep inside she is wailing

Her wonders grow continuously into acceptance and certainty

The certainty of what I serve to be myself

And that the little sweet boy she knew would be no more

No more filled with exploration and joy

No more able to have a spark in his eyes for what is to come

He will be No - More -

Julia also prays

Chassa, Michael, Mawuli, Anna, Jullan, Jerry, Deji, Vijay, Geordi, Jojo, Fede, Johnny, Jim, even Karo…

Even Karo

Broken from contact still thinks and prays and wishes

Servitude is an act of honor

But this act only seeks to dishonor a person

A whole person, stripped of honor, and flesh and blood

What is country

If not the chance to be within a familiar culture

The same culture one serves until they are - cast away

Stay both hands

Still!

As still as possible to keep the hope in Margaret and Julia’s eyes

For I do want to serve

Serve hope to those that make up my country

Not the lines drawn to depict a map that should be followed

Serve the ones that honor me with honor

Take but give back

Appreciate and withstand the times with my ever withering body & mind

For those I would unfold my still arms

Serve one - And then the other

For we truly see,

That we are one.

How I wish you were still here with me

Oh, children. Oh, children.

The words are beating at the back of my eyes like things with wings like hope like angels like a murder of crows and they want to come out but there's a disconnect between my eyes and my hands today and the words are stuck on the back of my tongue, halfway between them.

Tom Waits wants me to hold on and I think he's right but lately it seems so futile. So much shouting out into the void too much asking for a hand to reach back and actually provide the "hold on" Tom, baby. Words are nothing without actions.

Words are nothing without actions. You have to voice them or write them or action them in some way that makes more noise than thinking because not everyone is a noisy thinker and be glad for that because the world is already too full of useless noises and could you imagine if we could hear the unvoiced noises?

So I watered yours the way you needed me to. Every time the leaves drooped, I poured a little more. Every time the blooms faded, I reached for the watering can again. I loved you the way you asked to be loved because I believed that if your garden felt safe enough, one day we'd both grow.

You watered mine too.

But somewhere along the way, I realized we weren't watering the same places.

Your flowers kept asking for more water.

My roots kept waiting for rain.

When I finally noticed how dry my own garden had become, I stepped back and started watering my roots. I hoped you'd join me. I hoped we'd learn to tend to ourselves so we could return to each other and build something that could survive every season.

Instead, your garden began to dry without mine.

That's when I realized I had mistaken being someone's rain for helping them believe they could weather a drought.

I kept tending to my own soil, hoping one day you'd notice your own. Hoping we'd meet in the middle, each carrying our own watering can, each responsible for our own roots, so that when we stood beside each other, we could bloom together instead of depending on one another to survive.

By the time I looked over again, your garden was green.

But there was a fence around it.

Not to force my way in,

but so you could see

I was still on the other side.

Just to remind you

that I'd still be here

when you were ready.

As time went by,

you never looked through it.

Sometimes I'd knock on the glass,

thinking maybe

you just needed a reminder.

But you never answered.

So I built myself a window.

Not a door.

Just a window.

Something to look out of,

so I wouldn't spend my life

staring at your wall.

Then one day,

you finally looked through your window.

You saw me

looking through mine.

And brick by brick,

you covered the window

I built for you.

But I never left the room.

I could have built a door.

Instead,

I stayed beside your wall,

hoping one window

would be enough.

When I finally gathered the strength

to break through the wall,

I found a door.

You had built it

on the other side.

This might be just free-writing, maybe.

I wouldn't say if this content can even be labeled as "poetry" as this might be just my way to vent all my frustrations in life in this blog.

“My favorite example would be from <a href=”https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monty_Python&#8221; target=”_blank” rel=”noopener” title=””>Monty Python</a>’s Flying Circus when they would transition to an absurd bit by saying: ‘And now, for something completely different….” <em>Robb Lightfoot</em><br><br><strong>Divergent thinking is the ability to generate multiple ideas, possibilities, or…