Will
I may not believe in God
But I do believe in saviors
And I very much believe that you are mine.
You came into my life
Not like a wounded animal on my doorstep
Begging for me to save it,
But like a bird flying down from the sky
With an offering of peace.
No, in our story, I was the wounded animal,
And you were the one who saved me.
I fell down at the doorstep of your heart
Looking for a friend who could heal me,
Who could be there for me,
And you opened the door wide and
let
me
in.
And not only did you welcome me with open arms,
You shaped me.
You made me the person that I am, and
Although that person is far from perfect
– Very far, in fact –
He is better because of you.
You
are the one who keeps me holding on
You
are the one who gives me my courage
You
are the one who keeps the light inside of me,
The light that may sometimes flicker
But refuses to go out.
I pour out so much of my heart into you
And yet the amount of me I give
Never seems to be too much,
It’s always just the right amount,
As much as I want to give
And as much as you want to receive.
Whenever I am with you,
Sitting next to you
or
across from you
or
just anywhere
in the same room as you,
I feel at home –
Because for me, my home
Is wherever I am with you.
It’s something I can’t explain,
Can’t put into words,
But being with you
Is the best medicine
I’ve ever taken.
So I guess what I’m trying to say
Is that this is my incredibly cliche,
incredibly cheesy,
incredibly roundabout
way of saying
I love you,
I really love you,
and thank you so much
for everything
you have done.
Cameron Carter is a 9th-grade writer, artist, and amateur musician at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department. He is passionate about using poetry and other forms of art to express himself and raise his voice. Through activities like writing, drawing, playing guitar and drums, and singing (or often doing metal screams), he pushes himself forward to achieve his goals and make himself known for who he truly is.
The Mouth that Roars
Just the sound of his voice,
Awakens memories of fingernails on a blackboard,
Of tires screeching outside at midnight,
Of coarse sandpaper on raw wood,
Of babies crying and crying and crying,
Of a neighbor weed-eating at 3 am!
It’s an audible recording
from a medieval torture chamber.
Without even considering the stupidity
And malevolence of the words:
Point guns at Liz Cheney,
Paint Kamala with “low i.q.,”
Shoot at him
through the dishonest media,
Vow revenge on all who disagree,
Proclaim “rigged”
even before the votes are counted!
How can the most immoral man
In the universe
Get a single vote?
They are wrong, those who say we dissolve in connection, as if we have worn special clothes, handmade shoes, paid for unneeded lessons, all to lose individuality.
Maybe it’s the separateness we crave, the remembrance the song will end. We will be free to return where we laid our wallets and purses, our IDs, keys, lives beyond
the dance floor we will never abandon for bed or bank. The mouthing of words soothes more than the meaning: how wonderful to regain the infant’s unmediated cry,
or, like a cat, live by instinct, not by choice, free of the burden to make our lives what we desire, irresponsible, for a moment, ourselves given, in total,
to a rhythm, a melody, a touch, a body, a god, that has taken control and absolved us of sin. We want only so much freedom. It’s too much to bear.
Some of us hold on too long. Others, too brief. As if touch were a measure of our commitment to one other. There is always a reluctance to betray the embrace.
That is why we rely on patterns but praise spontaneity. Even the virtuoso dances sequences yet unrecognized. We are like lovers trying to make memories,
looking forward to a future that is not yet when we will look back at a past that no longer is, discounting the present as a means.
Dreading silence, some of us never rest, as if motion were truer than stillness. This is wrong. So what does that leave us in our needs?
I say, the dance is in the emptiness, the quiet, the balance that reminds us we are mortal. We always want more. That frightens us. The staying of time is enough,
one step, held for itself, its own entrance, its own resolution, unconnected to a before, or an after, yet unseparated. It’s in the stasis where we find the dance.
No dance floor is ever empty. I see them, the ghosts of past dancers. They left the touch of each step, each turn, each embrace pressed into the wood. You can see them, too.
Look, in the corner, the couple falling in love. Besides them, that pair already fallen out. Here, to the side, the forlorn who clutches a partner like a fetish to ward off an overwhelming loneliness. Across the floor, the married one who dances to return resigned to a spouse who is content, functional, incomplete.
There are the comfortable, those who know little of sadness and suffering and are perplexed by those who do. Even they leave bits of thin souls underfoot.
When you are on the floor, give your attention to them, the ghosts. You can feel them brush against you, see their invisible shadows, hear the softness of their voices. It is they who fill the void between us.
Listen to me, my friend: you, too, will be a ghost, you, too, will leave a trace of your dance. If you are blest, someone will enter the dance floor, someone born after you have died, and will see what you have left. They will know, at one time, someone danced here and gave what there was to give.
Leading is like writing a poem, isn’t it? The amateur constructs plans, sets milestones, identifies goals, chooses an end and steps backwards from there. I’m that, at times, with an idea of where things must go: a brilliant image or turn of phrase; a cleaver pattern or adornment; an intention to display my brilliance that will elicit a smile; a somewhere where I think the line of dance or of metaphor should end. When I try, I succeed, unfortunately. We all confuse what we desire with who we are. If I’m lucky, then I’m lost, a child in a dusk woods, the shadows, the trees, the calls; the music, the dance floor, the body of another. Some other thing, some other self, not me, as I think I am, but some part of me I cannot, will not, name, chooses me as its object. I follow. Could I say my life is really my own?
Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. His work is inspired by dancing Argentine tango.