Worth, part 1 [poem]

What is my worth?
She asks me, a good idea from the shower
She says, she struggles too.
Again I feel the question
the depth, an eagerness to know
Both of us.

Pulling clothes from the line, sandy feet
Shuffle on the marble rooftop
Nothing, I smirk
At the easy answer, my attitude
my honesty, my pride
There is no value, no real worth, inside
my moments
It’s all just now

No different am I from the tree just beside
She has no leaves, no blossoms, no bark
yet is
Holding tight to the ground
yet gives
Shade for the man in gray
View for the bush-tailed chipmunk
Perch for the pigeon pair I saw mating once
a lustful quickie on a pillar
Silent picture for the neighbor servant
girl wearing red.

Who am I but the dust that flies
into my child’s eyes, my own
Belonging neither to me, nor life itself
Able to die more quickly than one
Takes, chooses, a life.

It’s all a dream, I fear, I feel
jaded as the years drag on.
Is awareness always so solemn?

I’ll ask her that,
I think.

My world, my life, these days…

Poetry is happening in my world, my life, these days…
My mind has much to process, but it comes in much too open, much too raw, vulnerable, frightening ways…
I don’t write as I used to, feverishly penning words from in my head.
Now stories come out on my mat, alone, with students, with tears, with breath…
Now they come out in songs, sung in a voice I’ve never known.
They come out in melodies from ancient times, in rhymes, in imagery, in visions, in the building of a home.
Beauty is being channeled, from above and to the now,
and I’m watching from afar, mesmerized, in awe, at how.
Gifts are given for a time, never knowing when they’ll go.
But I am surely one to take each chance, each step, sharing what I know.
It’s scary yes, I’ll stumble and I’ll fall.
But if I don’t listen, act, then I’m ignoring your clear call.
I am just a vessel here on earth, in this time.
And all I ask is to live your truth, and give it, always, every time.
Judge me if you want, ignore me if you must.
But this life is much too short, too frail, to live without trust.
Poetry is happening in my world, my life, these days.
And I am ever grateful, healed and whole,
for my world, my life, these days.

— robin

“What you think your vulnerability, is really your magic!”