real love

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“I won’t sing you to sleep

But I will press my lips to your ear

And hope that my heart’s terror . . . stirs you.”

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This poem is disturbing. Most of us don’t like to be disturbed. So we avoid things that stir us.

This poem haunts me because I’m tired of “life on the surface”.

Pat answers to ease my pain.

Smiles and hugs and “it’s OKs”.

Cute sayings on church bill boards.

“Have a ‘nice’ day” bumper stickers.

Elevator music.

Don’t count the cost, just ’stay the course’.

Don’t feel, have faith.

Don’t think, just believe.

And heaven forbid, “don’t ask questions”.

“How are you?” “Just fine, and you?”

Life must be more . . . it better be.

But how do I find the “more”?

The “more” must lie deeper.

But who’s going to begin to peal back the layers . . . and seek the “more”;

going deeper, sometimes into the darkness, the fire, the pain,

sometimes into the valley of the shadow of death, facing the shadows, head on.

Who’s going to “stir” you?

Are you sleeping?

I have been . . .

Should real love sing me to sleep . . .

or should it stir me, wake me, shake me, disturb me . . .

make me uncomfortable?

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“Wake up, the world’s on fire!” (Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet)

(written April 19, 2006)