Poetry Dare: Day 3

I have absolutely no idea where this poem came from.  It began from the first two stanzas and then just kind of took on a life of its own.  I think that poetry is a state of constantly questioning the world.  The answers we get may not necessarily be the ones we want to find, but it's important that we keep questioning nonetheless.  Writing allows me that outlet, and I would encourage anyone feeling at a loss for words to pick up a pen or pencil and tell your story straight onto the lines in front of you.  After all, lines won't judge and your story is beautiful... And this rant reminds me of a poem of mine that a friend really likes, so I'd be quite lax in not including a link to that poem here.

A big thank you to anyone who has been checking out my dare/blog, and a big thank you to the person who made the dare in the first place, even if it was for the selfish reason of hearing a new poem of mine every day =D.  Consider this me saying "You're welcome."

But seriously, thank you to everyone for your support!




You've written another language for your story, drawn
a map but forgot the key.
I'm just trying to understand, so please
help me.

What does the sunset mean to you? Where
has the sunrise fallen? What
do you wake up to? Why
is your life calling?

Before you can answer who, you
have to find a reason to be. Sometimes
somethings get lost, but these answers
are too important to lose, so

don't loosen your grip. Who
are you? Where
do you want to be?
What makes you so
special? Why are you with me?

Questions, rather than answers, are
the way in which we explore the world because
answers are an end but questions are the means, so
forgive me for asking so many, but
I've got a wanderlust which feels
unquenchable.

I want to explore your eyes like they
lead me to the fountain of youth; I could
think of my fingertips as children running
through your hair like fields - there is
no end to the exploring and the adventures
on which we could embark; I'm
not even sure I'm asking for answers
anymore, but if you have some
you're willing to offer, I'd
be happy to sit and listen like
ancient mariners would stare
into the sky for guiding stars while
listening to the power of the ocean
as she gently whispered
against the sides of their craft
like the way your breath
washes across my chest.

Thankful

I am thankful for so many things it's difficult to know where to start.
So I suppose I'll begin from the ground up.

I'm thankful for my legs which learned
the value of standing strong, knees bent over
toes turned straight forward. My legs keep me grounded; they
know how to kick like Chuck Norris, and they're balanced
from years of walking, kicking, and standing in the right direction.

I'm thankful for my hips which sway
for the grace of songs. Hips are the centered energy
points of power, and the place from which gravity stems.
They communicate with intimate others, keep my legs aligned,
and keep a contact point between the ground and my stomach.

I'm thankful for my stomach which has kept
digesting even though other parts of my system shut down.
Somewhere along the line, my stomach lets me move because
the sun still shines. I've digested so much light
over the years that clouds hardly have a say anymore.

I'm thankful for my heart who's been giving me a meter for 26 years. Blood
runs 60,000 miles a day, and my heart takes center stage; it's
neither vain nor selfish but beats out of love - the lungs
can be told to slow, but the heart knows its way enough to run forever.

I'm thankful for my hands. They
know when to clench into fists, when to stay open, when to hold -
palms up toward the sky - they know when to catch rain or cover -
they are my connection, and they are never empty, they hold my
story, and they help me tell it.

I'm thankful for my shoulders which are broad,
large enough to bear the world, but
have a tendency to stay tight and unrelaxed,
unsure when I'll call on them again in order to keep
the world centered.

I'm thankful for my mouth which makes shapes and,
aside from my hands, is the only part of me able
to make the sign for love. It's a sign my lips may not
wear often, but the value of something so rare is incalculable

I'm thankful for my head which senses most of the world,
converts nouns into ideas, and connects everything to itself.
This is the place that the pen goes to refill itself; this
is the place that I go in order to say I love you; this
is the place that regulates the heart, and this is the place that knows
most of this poem was found in the pages of someone else, so
I'm thankful for so much - almost too much to count - from everyone
around willing to share their hands, hearts, legs, brains, and space.

Without you, this would be a thought without a mouth, a pen minus
a page, and a poem
falling on deaf ears.