Being Me
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"Confidence is a very strange thing. I just don't know how to put my finger on it. It dissolves so easily, is destroyed by sensitivity. Yet sensitivity is almost the prerequisite of the writer. I was amazed to realise that I wrote this poem some fifteen years ago. A lot has changed since then, not least my body and my ability to power walk up and down hills as I did then! Still, at the time, it was a valid testament to my honest feeling one day - a day when my wife was visiting her parents some thousand kilometers away in another country." - Allen Ansell The wind of change blows, through the unfurling leaves. Raising, silently, steam – from moist sunlit soil that only feels this heat once each year. A light mist fogs the slanting columns of Spring sunlight, and all could be well with the world ~ only, of course, the world is far from well. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … Warm balmy air to sweeten your breath fills this tunnel through the trees, and soon it will become a refuge from the relentless Summer heat…. I feel your breath tickle my cheek, your fingers tingling my neck, trailing through my hair ~ only, of course, you are nowhere near me. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … Clean fresh air fills my lungs as I pace, panting my way up this hill … it’s just the same gas that we breath daily - the spoken air: that once fueled the lungs of the proud Robin … that mixed inside the frog’s croak … that bore your sweet kiss ~ only, of course, it is far from being fresh. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … My virile mind maintains it’s old lie, my heart boom-booms to my step … for I am young, and fit, and full of vim … Legs of iron, lungs like silk, going on for ever – like the sun - doing exercise ~ only, of course, I am far from being young. It is an illusion then … like all things … something and nothing … there and not there … So I stop and turn back, without you I fear my mortality … an old, tired man, who power walks each day, but is fearful without a plastic identity card, to tie on my toe ~ so that ... someone ... could tell you that I am ... 'me'. It's no illusion then ... the cold hand of reality … something and nothing ... there but not there. © Allen Ansell 2022
Thoughtful and wonderful poem.
You can certainly see your writing skills in your work. All the time go after your heart.
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