#postry

If I Were to Grow and Live Happily...

If I were to grow and lIve happily 

I would embrace the risks and pitfalls of loving,

and pray unashamed for grace to love again. 

I would confess my trespasses freely,

putting pride behind me,

for self regard is not worth

the loss of a friend or living in a pattern of deceit.

I would revel and enjoy the laughter of children

and let the young inspire and assist me

in keeping my feet on the ground 

and my eyes and heart fixed on the stars.

I would act honestly, hold on to less

and accept my flaws and idiosyncrasies joyfully.

I would seek to joyfully participate in all the pain and blessings of life. 

I would rejoice in the successes of my peers and neighbors.

I would never allow envy to spoil my heart, my goodwill

or my friendships.

I would accept my friends as they are

and act benevolently and patiently 

toward the proud, the foolish, the rash and the ignorant 

for I have possessed all of these qualities

at some time as well. 

If I would grow and live happily, this is I how I would live.

My father reminds me that poet isn’t an economically viable job description as though

1. I do not already know this and

2. He does not still dream of being a history professor. 

I never said I wanted to daisy-petal peel myself for grocery money, but sometimes I let myself dream of small fame. Chapbooks or having my lines scrawled on the pages of someone’s diary or the grey of dorm room walls. Some answer from the void. 

“As a girl, the fairies came to me; they whispered in my dreams and left songs in my head. I went to the glen and found them there. We danced and played. They took me into the fairy realm and showed me their life of joy. A life with no possessions and no want. They lived in harmony with the earth. Never again would I know such happiness.”― Ellie O’Neill, Weekly Wrap-up – Dingle Prompt 1.…

Dylan Thomas shouldn’t be held up as a model of anything and likely wasn’t that good of a person, but he is responsible for this poem and it has stuck with me in a special way for long enough, I have to give him that.

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams

Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins

How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind

Hauls my shroud sail.

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man

How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood

Shall calm her sores.

And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb

How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.