–a poem by Rose Guildenstern
Why do I write?
At first, I wrote to face the pain
and the emptiness.
I wrote arms around me,
holding me close.
I wrote those peaceful moments
when I knew whose I was and
where I belonged.
I didn’t write the truth,
I wrote me.
I wrote what I saw
what I felt,
I numbered my days.
Soon, I wrote to make sense
of the inconsistencies
and injustices
of this world.
I wrote through the insanity
the inanity and the chaos…
to find clarity and constancy,
to grasp the core of myself
and understand my own reactions.
I wrote what seemed real.
I finally accepted that
I am responsible for my own reality,
not anyone else,
and I’m only a victim
in the tragedy of my own making.
My life is ultimately what I want,
or I wouldn’t write it this way.
Now, I write because writing
is the only action
that truly makes sense
in my world.
I’ve fallen in love
with the written word
that is made flesh among us,
or perhaps that we use
to give flesh to the
bare bones of our lives.
I want to indelibly record
every glorious sunrise and sunset,
to remember his first kiss,
and the way the lights glisten
on December’s frosty tree.
I write to recall every moment,
shaping each into a story
to share with myself and others.
I write to bring forth
the worlds inside my own mind
for at heart I am Creator.
Part of the fun of creation
is sharing it with another,
and writing is my favorite method
to share my play.
I write because it is a solitary activity,
and although I cherish those I love,
I realize I am ultimately alone.
I am always writing
—in thought, word or deed—
whether I discuss my ideas aloud,
ramble on and on in the first draft,
nip and tuck in the second draft,
or preen and fuss over the final draft.
I love visiting libraries and bookstores
to play amongst all the words
to select a few minds to uncover
to smell the centuries of thought.
Every time I open a book,
I am meeting the mind
of a new friend.
I write so that someday
unnamed others
whose faces I have never seen and
whose lives are foreign to me,
will read my words and
meet my mind.
I write that my words are made flesh,
give substance in this world,
just as so many words
have given substance to my own!
And because every person
occasionally
stumbles upon the truth,
I write to find truth
mixed in with all my perspective.
Our Stories
I love listening to your stories
…your grandmother’s albondigas soup
…your first disastrous kiss
…the day your father left
…and the intricacies of fly fishing.
I love sharing my stories
…as you listen and laugh
…grasp my hand
…experience my memories with me.
For we ARE our stories
…and I never tire of knowing you better.
Even the second or third hearing
…reveals a different side.
I love when we share our stories,
Because I love everything
…that is you
…and me
…and us.
Without stories our lives are meaningless.
Anti-climactic…
Forgotten moments…
Someday you and I will tell
…the precious stories we’ve built together.
Our myths
…will become a part of our souls.
An experience is a four-fold joy
…one in the anticipation
…one in the doing
…one in the remembering
…and one in the telling.
No action can be repeated
nor should it be…
…except in our stories.
So tell me another story,
Let me love another part
of the miracle
…that is you.
Celebrivirus
Mask up
Keep your distance
Listen to what we say
We’re on the screen and
Dominating your feed so
Apparently, we’re the best
Beautiful people,
Successful smiles, rich
Followers to prove our worth
With so many watching us
How can you doubt
We’re above the rest
Join us
We’ll show you
All you need to know
Together we’ll create a scripted
Reality from our imagination
You’ll, too, be blessed
Don’t worry
Inject yourself with
Us to numb your painful
Mind’s raging cytokine storm and
Let us entertain you
Stay transfixed and obsessed
Ignore that
Man behind the
Curtain, for the Emperor’s clothes
Are what you want, we
Play our pipes leading
You children to progress.
–by Rose Guildenstern
FULL
–Rose Guildenstern
Life is sweet…
take a bite.
Don’t be ashamed that you’ll seem–
gluttonous
self-absorbed
trendy
or of juice dribbling down your chin.
Imagine the cool mouthful
the tangy taste
the refreshing pulp
the sumptuous filling.
Take pleasure in
the sunsets and sand
flexing your muscles
driving to work
dancing at dawn.
When life tears and hurts
when you get a worm or pit,
Don’t give up all fruit
and resign yourself
to bread and liquid.
(unless, of course, it’s wine)
Take bite after bite
don’t recreate the last mouthful
Enjoy the current morsel.
Sensuality requires neither loveliness nor togetherness,
It demands experiencing life with all the senses–
Ardently.
So take a bite of life–
and if you find life wanting
Look within.
For you bring the lack with you.
–Rose Guildenstern
This poem is holy. Now, this may sound like sacrilege to some, but hear me out. This poem is framed by emptiness, by silence, by space. It is a moment of thought or emotion or experience captured in words and framed by space or page or book. Some poems are framed by music and become lyrics in songs, but some are best expressed against the background of silence. We all frame our artwork and use them to beautify our walls, but do we realize what we are doing? A frame sets apart a piece of art, causing us to pause and notice what we might otherwise pass by. Poetry, art, plays, movies, miracles—it is their “set apart” nature that makes them special and sacred to us. They take the truth that is always before us and present it in a new way, forcing us to notice the magnificence of LIFE. That is what it means to be “holy”—to be set apart, to be set aside and framed, so that when others experience you, they see God. Set apart by a sacred frame to help others perceive the marvel of their own existence. Some frames are simple, some ornate. There are natural frames like the rock monoliths in Utah’s Arches National Park or the mouths of caves or a chink of sky surrounded by clouds; there are manmade frames like doorways or windows or camera lenses. A frame causes us to stop, look at the landscape, notice the beauty that is always a part of our lives, yet we miss in our hurried, distracted, taking-for-granted oblivion. We must stop and put a frame around our moments in order to perceive their holiness. A poem is nothing special—it is as holy as we all are meant to be. This poem is holy.
–Rose Guildenstern
Organized Religion
I tried you on for size,
…attempted to squeeze myself
into your zippered reality…
but found that (to put it plainly)
my ass was TOO BIG.
And although I
squeezed, and forced
nipped, and tucked
tried to trim the excess
through daily denial,
I was much too massive
for your proportions.
I watched others wear you
with such ease
as you loosely enveloped
their being,
and I tried all the harder
to fit myself into your
carefully trimmed pattern.
You convinced me that my extras
—unnecessary and unhealthy—
were “fat.”
I finally succeeded
(after destroying half of myself)
to wear you in public, and
for a time I was content…
even haughty of my
empty physique.
Yet eventually…
the deeper, richer, tastier
sustenance beckoned me,
and I began “cheating.”
A Morsel
of the metaphysical here,
A Bite
of bodhisattva there.
A Pint
of closet philosophy.
Soon my spirit began
expanding
outside of the outfit
you’d insisted
suited me so well.
I was embarrassed
by what you termed
my “weakness”
my “addiction”
and I tried to hide
my growth.
I even seriously considered
plastic surgery
to cut off my curves
and sew my open mind
shut.
Miraculously,
my blind eyes were opened
by a solitary physician
who admired my shapely
breasts and butt,
and pointed out the
beauty of awareness
over acceptance.
My roundness
doesn’t make me a sinful slut…
it distinguishes me from the herd.
Now I have shed
your confining garb
and streak skyward,
dancing in discovery
(naked as a banshee)
—every expansive inch
quivering
in rhythmic delight.
–Rose Guildenstern
Poison
is obvious,
right?
It smells rotten
or looks dangerous
or feels scary.
But the insidiousness
of a good poison
is that it’s none of these things.
It smells sweet
tastes delicious
feels so normal…
like cyanide
or antifreeze
or refined sugar.
And then there are the poisons
that fool us entirely.
The invisible poisons
we aren’t even aware are
slowly killing us.
Like a bad relationship
a smothering job
a noxious environment
or our saboteur mind.
We slowly asphyxiate
engorge
lose consciousness
assuming the poison
is either essential
or unavoidable.
Eventually, we believe
we are the problem
and thus we become
our own
Poison.
–Rose Guildenstern