It was what one might call a rainy day, but I had called it a melancholy of nature. Everything had been sorrowfully drenched as if the rain itself was weighing on their minds. A heavy mist had settled just above the cold ground, one that limited your vision to only a few feet. The pavement had no cracks, no indentations for mournful puddles to dejectedly form.
   Indeed, as I walked down the endless paved path, It seemed as though I was the only one here. As though an eternity had stretched itself around me, around this single moment in time. And I could walk, and walk until time ended.
   As rain rolled down the hood of my gray raincoat, thoughts and memories ran slowly through my mind like a slideshow of bittersweet emotion. I fingered the strap over my shoulder. I had, of course, brought my camera.
   My camera, an old Polaroid, had served me well. I had once dreamt of being a photographer, but as my dreams for the future had disappeared, my film was eventually empty. Now, it was nothing more than a memento of the past.
   I began to approach a figure standing alone in the rain, though they seemed dry. They wore a raincoat, much like mine, except a dark shade of purple. They had no camera, and would not face me, but followed when I began to pass. As we walked together down the paved road, they continued to face the ground, seemingly avoiding my gaze.
   I did not know who they were, nor where they came from, other than the mist. They seemed almost familiar, and yet they did not seem tangible. I heard them take a small breath, as though they were gathering their courage. Then, they said,
   “Always. . .” They stopped for a moment and then began to speak again. “Let your heart decide what is the truth. Then, let your brain decide how to explain that to others. And never be ashamed of who you are. For when you are true to yourself, your creator cannot be disappointed; they have made you be that way.”
   I heard the sigh, who I then guessed was a girl about my age, and then watched her stop, fading out of my view as a continued to walk through the mist.
   I cannot say with certainty that I ever saw her again.

Underneath the overhead window, overlooking a chaotic city,
on cotton sheets,
gathering breath longingly like
soft blades of sawtooth grass in a woven basket,
I store them in this vessel, the size of a pea.

As humans we cannot truly feel the present moment,
as all sensations of the present have already been devoured by the past by the time our brains can reckon with them.

With each word that you read of this poem, another micro moment will have passed, and the seeds sewn by your consciousness will already be
setting to sprout.


But underneath the overhead window, my fingers circle the center of my sensation,
and my consciousness is caught beneath their pressure,
and submits
to their rhythm.

Outside a storm converges. I hear soft thunder,
the wet smell of rain, and the pinging of
droplets.
I devour their energy between my legs,
surging into a complete connectedness
with the world
and with myself.

And although the present charges ahead, I’m carried now languidly with it: eyes closed, legs spread, breathing the world in deeply.

Sitting on a putrid mess
Of solitude and homesickness
I wish I had someone to which I could shout
But hey, look at it from the bright side, friend:
At least you can finally breathe out.

Still
there are days
when I feel
overcome with feelings of missing home
as I stare at
my own ceiling in bed.

l.s.

I need to go home
This isn't home
I need to go home
There's snow
And clear air
And clear eyes and heart and soul
Things die fully
And come back new
Night is night
Day is day
The ground is there
And I can touch it
I can't touch it here
I've tried
Oh how I'm weary of not touching the ground.
And the dead and the earth and the universe
I can touch it all there
I need to touch it again
Or I will die.
My immortal soul will grow old and wither
Just as souls aren't meant to do

I need to go home
My eyes are beautiful there.
I want my eyes to be beautiful again
Even more than I don't want my soul to die

It's time to go home.

Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.

stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor