Aged Well, but Not Fermented

I write poetry on the inside

Words of the heart

Exclamations of God.

It may not rhyme

(please, no empty meaningless rhyme)

But it’s rhythm is the heart beat

And I can hear mine

Until I wake up

Until they cajole me into waking

The words stir me

They often bother me

Or disturb the unshaken, stoic glass cover

That wants to be shattered

So that others can get underneath

“Let me in,” they say.

And the words immediately give one access

into the Self

“Here, come in. Let me expose myself,

Let me share the rawness that’s inside

So you don’t have to feel alone.”

Come with me, in here

Where the truth is loud or silent

But wants to be shared.

Share this realness with me

And let it take us Home.

Funny how being raw and vulnerable

Has Home in it.

Maybe, when we were younger, we had less clothes

To hide our smile lines, our sad lines,

Our knitted brow stress lines

– or there weren’t any to hide.

Rip open this heart

So that it can be shared

So that something feels real

Besides the sound of rain outside

As it tiptoes on the window pane

Like mice feet dancing to nursery rhymes.

Come in, it isn’t raining in here

Not within the depths, past the illusions of self-pity

Past the corners of old thoughts

And stale memories

Deeper than that has no sadness

But is dry,

Like a mudroom in August in the Midwest.

It is safe in here, only way inside this beating heart

That one day needs to be shared

Like a big Thanksgiving with the world

In the meantime, the table is set for two

Won’t you come in

And pour yourself a glass of my heart wine

Aged well, but not fermented

Sip with me on this romantic heart beat

But, this time, make it real.