Wear Your Socks

Some poems are like splinters,
you either get them or you don't.
Some splinters are like poems,
you get them, or you don't.

No one invites those splinters;
But a few invite a poem.

Some poems are as splinters –
They pierce you where and
when you least expect it.
They niggle at your soul-nerve;
Yes, there in that most sensitive place.

Some splinters are as poems –
They poke at your humanity,
in their own penetrating way;
They let you know you're alive,
especially deep under the surface.

Who ever mused over a splinter, and said,
"I liked that. It meant a lot to me"?
Who ever pulled a poem, and said,
"I don't need that in my face"?

Still, we keep reading and we keep
finding ourselves, just a bit at a time.

Like those thoughts and feelings
we never believed we had, nor wanted;
Some we wish to just disappear.
Perhaps we see those personal parts
we thought we'd secreted away;
Long gone, boarded over,
dead and buried, supposedly –
Until they got splinter-stuck.

And it is so weird walking on bare
unpolished poetry with just socks on –
They make me shiver right up my spine,
tingling and teasing the back of my head,
jolting deep down into my mind and heart.
It’s just like walking on raw floor boards;
They give me the heeby-geebies as their
sharp edges pull and grab (try it sometime).

Better the splintery boards, I figure,
than to walk on the fiery coals
of soulless indifference.
Dead meat knows no pain --
It just stinks, it fouls the air.

Some poems ......
Yes, some raw, unnerving poems,
with their pokey, little splinters,
come expectedly to do the unexpected.
Best that I keep feeling and reading my way.
Come, join me, and wear your socks, too,
I am sure we will discover
a whole lot more of ourselves.

~~~
Paterson Potpourri - June 2005