Perspective

My friend Elena
thinks you’re very cruel.
She’d like to tell you a thing or two.
Yet I know, what bothers her
is but an aberration
of your soul.
Your caring is, I think
the cause
of the fleeing.

You’re tender, and funny,
Can make me laugh.
It exasperates my friend
to see me care
while you seem, to her, to find it easier
to discount a friend she holds dear.

But I know your heart.
I saw you vulnerable, without the layers
we usually erect to those we serve
and who serve us.
I saw you trust.

I tell Elena,
when she calls you cruel,
and says you’re wrong to be so cold,
that I feel your heart.

She shakes her head
and tries to find a way
to set her friend free
from knowing what I know of you.

Yes, this current season is surreal.
I don’t understand how and why you stay aloof.
Yet I know that for every moment we disagree
there are many more when we’ve affirmed
in each other the truth,
delighted in and blessed the spark
that lifts the spirit to the crest
beyond where most mortals
consider themselves richly blessed.

Yes, sure I’ve shed some tears.
She’s been a faithful ear.
Yet you’re as faithful
in your way
as even my protective friend,
who’d like to get your ear
and tell you
what I think you already know.

This I know.
You are kind.
You are dear.
You are tender to those who no one else
will stop to recognize
or even care that they exist.
You’re as honest as you can be.
You’re as steady as you are able.
You’re a delight to me.
You make me laugh.
You help me cry.
You’re not the cause of who I am or how I feel.
You inspire the joy
and sometimes the tears.
My friend Elena is very wise.
Yet this I know:
I know your soul.
-- By Faith Chatham
copyright 2009

A Bit of the Bard

I wrote poetry when I was young,
I’d carry a book of sonnets in my purse.
Friends would gather
in each other’s living rooms,
read poetry and divide up roles.

We’d read Shakespeare and modern plays.
Even the shy ones, who would never act upon the stage,
would giggle with delight and spew out lines,
sometimes carrying leading roles!
Those informal nights were a delight.

Time passed, and we scattered, going different ways.
Responsibility, careers, sometimes ambition,
sucked up the time.
I ceased to carry sonnets in my purse,
or jot down verses that flowed through my mind.

I’m much older now than I used to be.
Some euphemistically say
“more mature” is a less strident phrase.
I’ve begun carrying a notebook and a pen
when I’m at home and when I’m away.

I spend time waiting for vans and friends.
I wait in offices, a lot it seems, these days.
I scribble thoughts that dash and dart
and let them surprise me
when they are penned.

I write it down, then think it out.
It shows me feelings, thoughts
I didn’t know I thought.
Occasionally a phrase escapes,
a succinct summary of special grace, capturing reality,
whether wished or anchored in actuality.

I like the rhythm.
I enjoy cadence as much as rhyme,
syncopation and inflection on a verse.
I like to break a sentence
to emphasize
a special thought
or coloration of meaning,
a vision or feeling that comes to mind

Friends I haven’t heard from in years
are surfacing regularly, now it seems.
Perhaps, we’ll try another stint,
set out the tea pot, the silver set,
gather informally and chat.
I hope someone pulls some sonnets out
and begins to read.
Others will probably jump in
and lend whatever talent they can find
to utter some old or current bard’s limber line.

If we stumble and miss the beat,
botch a cue, step on someone's line,
we'll recover,
it won't be a disaster.
Among friends, what does
a little laughter matter!
---Faith Chatham
copyright 2009

See Chatham Poetry Sacred Spaces for content

http://jchathampoetry.blogspot.com
More excerpts from Sacred Spaces will be posted on this page soon.