2
" My Song
So many memories,
and I'm still young.
So many dreams,
my song's just begun.
Sometimes I hear
my private melody grow,
then the sound vanishes,
but returns, I now know.
I've heard my heart break;
wounded, I've felt alone,
but slowly I learned
to thrive on my own.
I want to keep learning,
to depend my song;
in whatever I work
may my best self grow strong.
It's still the morning,
the green spring of my life.
i'm starting my journey,
family and friends at my side,
my song inside,
and love as my guide.
My family wonders
where I will go.
I wonder too.
I long to discover
how to protect the earth, our home,
hear world sisters and brothers,
who feel so alone.
Hearts and hands open
to those close and those far,
a great family circle
with peace our lodestar.
No child should be hungry.
All children should read,
be healthy and safe,
feel hope, learn to lead.
It's still the morning,
the spring of my life
I'm starting my journey,
family and friends at my side,
my song inside,
and love as my guide.
I'm take wrong turns
and again lose my way.
I'll search for wise answers,
listen, study and pray.
So many memories,
and I'm still young.
So many dreams;
my own song has begun.
I'll resist judging others
by their accents and skin,
confront my life challenges,
improve myself within.
Heeding my song-
for life's not easy or fair-
I'll persist, be a light
resist the snare of despair.
Mysteriously,
I've grown to feel strong.
I'm preparing to lead.
I'm composing my song.
It's still the morning,
the spring of my life.
I'm starting my journey,
family and friends at my side,
my song inside,
and love as my guide. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
6
" Mysterious
My paper shines
White, like snow,
but the paper looks empty.
I could decorate it
with tiny spiders
or stars or sketches of me
looking at a blank page,
but the clock ticks,
and somehow I must write.
I like the sight
of untouched snow.
Gentle, slow, silent,
it drifts and swirls,
layers itself, and I see
a new world of mysterious,
inviting shapes. I walk in its white
whispers, susurrus.
I drift
back to this paper that feels
hard on the disk, and I begin
to listen-
to the story I tell myself.
The paper is a white, patient place,
my private space
for remembering,
saving: spring sun on my face
venting and inventing,
arguing with my mother,
wondering: who am I,
wandering through cobwebs of old dreams,
crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so blue
listeners forget to breathe,
playing the sounds, jamming with myself,
changing
....into the me I can't quite see. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
7
" On Guard
I know how
to build fences.
I've built my border
for years.
Routinely, I repair
attempted entries
into
my space.
Everyone is suspect,
gray-haired women,
a child's hand
reaching in,
people disguised
as rocks,
all possible invasions.
Don't be deceived:
I savor
my isolation,
my dark interior.
Silence, please.
Your opinions
are unwelcome.
Your jabber,
your many tongues
bore me
but will never bore
into my well-guarded
space. All the un-me
is alien. I take pride
in being on guard.
I'm willing to share
my strategies–
threats, barks,
explosions–
for remaining untouched
–in here–
by the world's
garbage. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
9
" Mysterious
My paper shines
white, like snow,
but the paper looks empty.
I could decorate it
with tiny spiders
or stars or sketches of me
looking at a blank page,
but the clock ticks, and
somehow I must write.
I like the sight
of untouched snow.
Gentle, snow, silent,
it drifts and swirls,
layers itself, and I see
a new world of mysterious,
inviting shapes. I walk in its white
whispers, susurrus.
I drift
back to this paper that feels
hard on the desk, and I begin
to listen–
to the story I tell myself.
The paper is a white, patient place,
my private space
for remembering,
saving, spring sun on my face,
venting and inventing,
arguing with my mother,
wonder: who am I,
wandering through cobwebs of old dreams,
crying, sighing at people who don't see me,
hoping to write music so blue
listeners forget to breathe,
playing the sounds, jamming with myself,
changing
into the me I can't quite see. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
11
" I write what I can't say out loud.
I'm trying not to think about you, but
I can't resist.
My mind drifts to your slow smile,
how it moves
from your lips to your eyes–
or is it the reverse? How it lifts me
from my ordinary self.
Do you ever want to hold my hand?
When we're talking, and others join us,
when you laugh with them, I feel tangled
up inside, angry. I struggle not to be rude.
I want to be alone with you.
I love our aloneness.
When I listen to music, I imagine
slow dancing with you, and you whisper
into my hair, 'You are my one true love. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
12
" I write what I can't say out loud.
I'm trying not to think about you, but
I can't resist.
My mind drifts to your slow smile,
how it moves
from your lips to your eyes–
or is it the reverse? How it lifts me
from my ordinary self.
Do you ever want to hold my hand?
When we're talking, and others join us,
when you laugh with them, I feel tangled
up inside, angry. I struggle not to be rude.
I want to be alone with you.
I love our aloneness.
When I listen to music, I imagine
slow dancing with you, and you whisper
into my hair, 'You are my one true love,'
and I smile
and know
why people write music and paint
and dance, lifted as if they can fly,
because this ache
crashing inside
needs to be free.
Sometimes, love
becomes a melody
others hum for years. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
13
" Questions
When she asked me out for coffee,
I knew she was different.
Her words were funny but lonely.
Her eyes nervously asked questions.
I was looking into a murky well,
but I couldn't turn away.
Sometimes I wish I could take her away.
We could walk a beach sipping coffee,
and she'd laugh and feel really well
and not start crying. She'd be different.
No one would ask me questions
about being with someone so weird, lonely.
'Save me,' she whispers. It makes me lonely.
My life before that first day seems far away.
Her cutting habit scares me. I ask questions
so maybe she can say what hurts. I offer coffee
with lots of sugar and milk, something different.
She dries her smudged eyes, sighs, 'Oh, well.'
I wish we could hold hands by a rock well
and fling in her thorny wounds, fears, loneliness.
Maybe things with her will never be different.
Maybe I need to pack up and run far away,
but then tomorrow, alone, she'd drink bitter coffee
again, and I'd be asking myself what-if questions.
My counselor asks me confusing questions
about whether I can cure her, make her well,
and what if I hadn't gone out for that first coffee,
can I really save anyone but me. 'But she's so lonely,'
I say, 'and I love her and can't just turn away.'
I even pray that she'll wake up smiling, different.
My family says, 'Think of college, a new different
life, a clean start.' Maybe a roommate will question
my politics, sign us up for a trip to the mountains far away.
Can, should I, forget her, and focus just on me? Well,
I'd miss her too, digging into my skin, lonely
for what I provide, warmth and not just in the coffee.
People say I don't look well, I stopped coffee,
but the broken questions just replay, won't go away.
I want to be different even if I'm lonely. "
― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
