Duvall O'Steen - New Headshots from the amazing Paul Greco Photography. A more serious side here. Gritty New York Drama shot. The poetry in this one is daring you not to read it!

Me Time

Today was delightful.  I finally had some downtime. A full day without so much to do.  Me time. Time to take stock, step off the ride of life and reflect a bit. The noise of my barking To Do list falling to a faint far-away buzz. I am smiling more than I have in months.

Amazing how refreshing a simple day without obligations can be.

It got me thinking...

How much of my life is lived genuinely for me? Do I prioritize duties and obligations over my own joys, desires, goals?  What IF I spent more time doing nothing?  I wonder...

There's a story inside me
a glory
yet to be fulfilled
an explosion of sheer beauty
treasure
uncovering a pristine truth
so detailed,
so refined,
it sparkles like a gemstone
as facets of my mind
spark within my heart
like lightning bugs that dance,
shaking the cocktail of my soul,
piercing precisely to the core,
an excavation and removal of who I was before.

There's a story inside me
that's brewing
an aging vintage
molded, dusty, torn
deformed from years of storage and abuse;
it's shaking loose the old familiar chains,
like a sprout, it's busting through
a blossom on the verge,
a star's initial burst.
If I stop the go-see- do
and quiet ushers in,
there's a new and deeper listening,
silence becomes my friend,
my ears make out a melody
that's always been  humming
close to the horizon of my consciousness,
a glimpse of genius
draws me in
and I recognize,
with great surprise,
my own breath on the wind.
My every smile is singing
as chapter one begins.

Mortal Mystery

Yet another shooting today.

Not in a school this time, but still, a child was shot and is critically fighting for his life.

What has happened to us? How did we get here? When did LIFE become so de-valued? It is the single most precious thing we have. All of us. Without it, we have nothing.

How do we not see ourselves in another? THIS is what baffles me. THIS is what motivated my response to gun violence... I share it here in fully as we cannot partially respond to this gun violence issue. Life is worth fighting for.

MORTAL MYSTERY

What is it 

in you

that cannot see 

Me?

That does not recognize the familiarity 

of my tears, my needs, my eyes?

How can you not smell my love,

the floral fragrance I whisper to this world,

my smile a mighty atomizer

spewing pleasure through my teeth 

as beautiful truths come bursting forth. 

Is there no value in you

that you cannot value me?

Are you lacking certain bones or muscles that pump your heart

to keep it soft and steady, alive?

Is your soul so hidden in your pinky toe

that you do not know

that we are kin

Sisters in sisterhood

Brothers in brotherhood

Partners in being 

Homo sapien?

Journeying in lock step 

on a planet racing toward extinction?

Are you so convinced of difference 

that you cannot spot the evidence 

of sameness all around you?

Do you hunger? Do you cry?

Does your left ear itch when you fly? Like mine?

Have you ever tried to taste the rain?

Or catch a bubble in your hand?

I wonder if you can.

If you have the capacity 

to see my vulnerability 

and its undeniable resemblance 

to your own. 

When you hold your lover's hand,

does it paint your cheeks like mine?

Does your mother's face bring swirling thoughts, memories, scars to mind?

Perhaps it is the viewfinder 

you look through

that distorts your vision 

blurs your judgment as you aim,

my nose transformed into a bullseye 

as your finger strokes the trigger

stoking up the flames inside your mind

muddying the watery weak excuses 

that you claim 

grant you some kind of permission 

to do the unspeakable

Here and Now.

Why do I sense fear 

in your bloodshot eyes?

As you pose in your mock state of strength?

Could it be that you are afraid of unarmed me?

Your power-gun nothing but a mask

to hide the blackest blasts

of your inner shame?

Does your eyelid know my name?

That quiver in your palm,

perhaps it's picking up the rhythm of my pulse

our heartbeats quickened 

by the fatal proximity of an early grave.

What score will you celebrate today?

As my final breath blends with yours

the air we share an equalizer,

our need for it the same.

Have you no burning in that smoking fingertip?

No chapping of your grimly parted lips?

No resonance within your vocal chords that vibrate just like mine

as you chant your victory cry

while I whimper my last words?

You see me as an apple in those orange eyes of yours

but surprise!

We are family

fruit from a familiar tree of DNA. 

You're shooting off my nose

to spite our collective human face. 

Duvall O’Steen ©2016

Beauty of Interest

I was walking through Central Park the other day, on my way to the public restrooms near the Delacort Theatre. An older, well dressed lady stopped me to politely ask if I knew where the Great Lawn was. I am familiar with the location of the Great Lawn inside the Park, but as I explained to her, I am not sure exactly how to "get there from here," so to speak. I basically advised walk East and South a little ways. She was concerned about the curving trails and winding pathways inside the Park, fearing she might get lost if she merely ambles East and South.

"Well," I quipped, "at least you'll be surrounded by beauty as you wander along."

"Oh," she sighs with a dismissive gesture of her pale hand. "I am not interested in beauty."

And just like that, I was rendered speechless. Simply smiled, shrugged my shoulders and made my way on up the hill towards my destination.

But ever since ... I have been thinking - how could anyone NOT be interested in Beauty?  ???????????????????????

Isn't there something inherent in human nature that is interested in Beauty?  Isn't that why it often stops us in our tracks? Isn't that where inspiration dwells and where great art comes from?

Is it even remotely possible to NOT be interested in Beauty?

Perhaps this lady had seen enough beauty (with a small b) in her day and her quota was full?  Or perhaps she had no capacity to take in any more? Is this what we all have to look forward to in the twilight of our life? Being too busy or too lost or too distracted to be interested in Beauty??  I am personally planning to travel the globe in search of Beauty before my days in the sun are through.

I got to thinking about the little things. All the little bits and dabs of Beauty here and there. How they sneak up on us and demand our attention.  The curve of a laughter-filled face. The first little blossom in the window box after a long rough winter. The particular shade of blue in a clear summer sky at dusk. The possibilities are endless. If we are not interested in Beauty, how much of our experience do we reject? Or hide from? Or repress?

Sometimes the little things strike me, stick to me like glue. Until words eventually come tumbling out to explain.  Join me as I indulge  a secret Beauty that found my fingers one fine day. That little curve beneath the pelvic bone, so large and tender and fragile. One day I found it mesmerizing. Sacred.

She Sleeps

She sleeps
in fetal pose.
I trace the curve
of her hip with my finger,
that pocket of Divinity
where complete surrender
resides.
I could take her hip bone with me as I go.
There is no need.
For I know
that she would give it me
if asked.

Duvall O'Steen
© 2014 Duvall O'Steen LLC

Branded

There is a danger
that lurks
in every label

a searing pain
singed
into the first impressions
the value judgments
the assessments made
at every preconceived twist of phrase

the narrowing of minds
the blind spots
that hinder the kind of knowing
that releases us from shame.

There is a lie
of omission
in every title
stamp
status
stereotype
a speck of blinding dust
that conceals the vision
of the multitudes
and darkens our inner light.

There is a blast
to the very base
the foundation
that makes up my fragile soul
each time you mark me
with that irritating name,
stinging my skin
with corporal confinement
and deadly chains.

There is a voice
that quiets
stills
surrenders in vain
silent screams
unspoken
made miniature
by the pigeon you have holed me in,
a depth of melodic range
never to be sung again.

How can I ever let you
know me
when you already
chose
my fame?

That Fear of Generosity

So, I'm standing in line at Starbucks (yep, guilty pleasure time) and the young lady in front of me is paying for her beverage. Searching her wallets, her pockets, the compartments of her handbag, etc., literally looking in any possible place where coins might hide.  She was searching for quite some time, effectively holding up the line and causing me to feel a bit uncomfortable for her.  So I offered to help. "Can I help? What do you need?" My wallet open and ready to pitch in the necessary coinage.  She looked a bit startled, glanced at me with furrowed brow and uttered a forceful "no", then promptly went back to searching.  The perky young gal behind me chimes in "I'm sure she meant to say 'no thank you'."  I just smiled at both of them and stiffened up, feeling like a creature from another planet.

The undercurrent of hostility in this young lady's reply to my offer baffles me.  What is so wrong with a generous and friendly gesture?  It was clear from my tone that I was not rushing her, nor impatient with her. I was simply trying to "pay it forward", as they say, and offer a small token of generosity to a complete stranger.  I went from feeling magnanimous and kind to feeling naive and a bit gauche in a  matter of milli seconds.  I shrugged it off and ordered my daily dose of green tea addiction and walked to the waiting area at the end of the bar.  Here she is again.  She avoids eye contact and moves out of my aura to wait over near the napkin bar.  Again, I am baffled and feeling like I've done something wrong.  Weird.

What is it that is so scary about generosity?  I found myself thinking of this on the way home.  I myself have been guilty of such an ungrateful and proud response.  I will never forget it.  I had a very kind-hearted friend once go shopping with me to buy a gown for a black tie event.  She graciously offered to pay for these two dresses because I could not decide between the two and my budget was meager, to say the least. I adamantly refused, as pride kicked in and my do-it-your-self-sufficiency bristled up my spine.  I did not need a hand out and would not even consider letting her pay for my dresses.  A mutual friend who was with us at the time said to me, "Duvall, why can't you just accept a gift with joy in your heart?"  And I was floored!  I stood in complete silence as I realized that my adamant refusal was potentially hurtful to my very generous friend who only wished for me to have lots of great reasons to get dressed up in my near future.  Wow.  I gave in then and there - "you're right - you're absolutely right," and we proceeded to check out.  I walked out with two dresses and two very dear friends that day. 

I learned that giving is, in fact, a gift to the giver.  It feels good to be generous.  Not allowing someone to be generous to us can be hurtful and offensive.  Pride is one of the seven deadly sins and its lashing hurts, sometimes piercing the skin of those who only want to do something kind for us.

I like to be generous and I recognize the lift it gives my spirit whenever I commit an act of generosity.  Sure, I understand the impulse to shy away from it or say "no thank you - I couldn't possibly accept".   But now, I try instead to say thank you, and really mean it!  To accept a gift with joy in my heart.  It is amazing how good we BOTH can feel when we simply open ourselves to the act of giving AND receiving.  Two mood lifts for the price of one, so to speak.  ;-)

Along a somewhat similar line of thinking, I once wrote a poem about learning to love without need.  Adoring, offering, receiving, enjoying without the weight of obligation or neediness.  Somehow it rings a bell and feels relevant here...

Without Need

Like the Sun

with rays of outstretched arms,
I can love you
            and not want.

Shine my fingertips across your skin

reflecting all your whiteness
allowing shadow underneath, accepting;
the powerful tenderness of Touch

soft, deep shade of bluest Trust.

 

Like a Circle

with its never-ending band, complete;

I can lack

no thing from you

wrap myself around

just to glory in your you-ness
breathe in the blossoms of your Spring smiles
mourn the winter in your eyes
catch the falling leaves of truth you speak
melt in my desire for your summer heat
revolving all around me.

Centered, I can see all sides of you

captured by your gravity;

swells my soul

to recognize your melody 

You are

and   All That Is

in Me

rejoices

in the vastness of your presence

and sings my life for me!

©2013 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Becoming the Background

Sometimes the universe speaks to us, whether we listen or not.  I recently heard a song lyric that continues to stay with me.  Or more accurately, I mis-heard a lyric that still stays with me, a threat, a warning sign, an invitation...  The line was something along the lines of "I am becoming the background."  Oddly enough, I cannot name the song, the artist, the date, time or place that I heard it, but boy, do I remember that line.  Strange how it keeps repeating in my head.  Things that make you stop and go 'hmmmmm...'

Also, interestingly enough, there is a current documentary film making headlines all about back-up singers ("20 Feet from Stardom") which comes highly recommended from a friend.  The thought even came up in a game recently - 'would you rather'?  The game question reads something like this --"Would you rather live a short life and become famous in your chosen field? OR live a long life knowing you were meant for greatness but never quite achieved it?"  Ouch.  Either way - ouch!

I find myself wondering more and more about legacy and what my efforts in the theatre are achieving and whether or not it is somehow self-serving to just keep doing shows.  I do believe in the power of live theatre to heal, to change people's lives, to increase awareness and tolerance, to touch people and expand their compassion.  So, even something as simple and seemingly self-serving as "just doing another show" is meaningful.  Truly.  I just wonder about the bigger picture.

And now it is father's day.  I find myself aching, quite literally, to make my father proud.  He was always very proud of me, no doubt. And he taught me that I could "do anything I set my mind to" and he was right.  Everything I have ever achieved, I earned through hard work, determination, humiliation, passion, enthusiasm and time... And to this day, I am not one to let fear hold me back. So, why is that I now feel 'I am becoming the background'? 

As actors, we are taught to "find your light" -never be in the darkness on stage.  If an audience can't see you, they can't hear you.  So where is the spotlight I am now supposed to find? What is the foreground of my life?  Am I committed to finding it?  Or better yet, to painting it?  Creating it?  Who is the hero I am waiting for to come and nudge me on to center stage?  I am becoming the background.  Can you hear me in the dark?  Am I brave enough to truly make my voice heard?  ???

I once wrote a poem called "Discovering Me".  Perhaps a perfect pastime for summer 2013...

there is a stillness
to my listening
inside.

Tiny seeds of my soul
are bursting forth
quietly
like jonquils
dancing their yellow youth
to buoy my cheek bones
into lifesaving smiles
much to my surprise.

...

My womb is swelling

I'm giving birth
to someone I've never known
the petals pushing through
untie the brilliance of red shoe strings
my sash askew
girl toes freed
begin to tap
and chase the butterflies
head thrown back
as Roots of a Voice
vaguely familiar
uniquely my own
gnarl and twist and effort their way,
with the help of spring,
to the bright blueness
of the expansion
beyond...

©2013 DOS

 

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

New Year - New ... what?

January!  It's always so full of promise, so alive with expectation and resolution and mystery.  I often look forward to the beginning of a new year, never really knowing which way things will turn.  This year, I am lucky to ease into 2013.  With only part time employment, winter weather and a shrinking local community of friends, I am blessed to have some time on my hands.  I've soaked it up with culture.  Movies, museums, books.  Even upgraded to the new I-phone 5 so that I could properly balance that feeling of enlightenment which art imbues with the healthy dose of stupidity that new gagdets bring.  ;-)

And therein lies the conundrum... in this new year, I feel both empowered/optimistic and bewildered/lost - all at the same time.  The world feels ripe, alive with opportunity and possibility, and yet I feel like the man on the brink of "two roads diverged in a yellow wood" (Frost)... not knowing which way to go or which prospects to pursue.  The typical artist struggle between commerce and creativity throbs inside my brain. I need to earn more income and yet I long for more fulfilling projects and meaningful ways to spend my time. Perhaps this age old debate is at the heart of my dichotomy of emotion.

Some people long for a crystal ball and even seek one out.  I recently had a friend gift one to me.  A free session with a psychic who uses lots of numerology.  Granted, she said some amazing things, but even her inner future spotlight could not predict a path, a direction, or any usable advice for me.  As usual, the answers lie inside.  Time to turtle duck inside my shell and simply "be" with all the energy and all the possibilities.  Time will tell.  And Guidance will instruct my feet.  For now, I give in to the humility and the vulnerability of confusion.  In fact, I welcome it.  I open myself to every path and every option and I embrace the cornucopia of opportunity that 2013 brings...

As we ease into this year, let us all pause and bring awareness to the full potential of the present moment.  It sings with unpredictability and joyful creative power.

This wee little poem is called Temptation.  Perhaps written at a time like this - on the verge, on the brink or in a lull between great things.  Somehow it feels relevant at the start of something new to simply stop.  To quit.  And then, perhaps, begin again...

To quit

a striking chord
the rhythm of cessation
still
disconnected from the Blood
the pulsing river of change
that is today
Life
 

To stop

for just one Breath
clear and deep
unsolicited
a breath like Birth
to let me start
Anew

©2013 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Parents. Can't live with them or...

Let's face it -none of us would even be here if not for our parents.  No matter how good or bad they are or were, we often take them for granted.  The sheer fact of their existence is proof of ours, or at least a conduit for it.

I've had several friend lose a parent lately, and I just lost one of mine last year.  My friends' hurting hearts bring all of my grief top of mind; it resurfaces in surprising ways that humble me.

As human beings we tend to glorify the dead, and maybe rightly so.  What we take for granted in life is somehow magnified in death.  The tremendous power of loss breaks down those defense mechanisms that limit our gratitude or constrict our capacity for love, appreciation, tolerance.  I believe I love my father even more now that he is gone.  The value of his impact on my life becomes ever more apparent as I face the many struggles and joys of this life without him. It is only in the losing of him that I found him as he really is/was - a slightly more objective view perhaps.  Hindsight, as they say...

The fragile continuum between life and death feels like a thin rubber band, variable, taut and oh so easily severed.  We are all eagerly fooled by the illusion of strength and evolution - believing our human bodies can adapt to any circumstances that may arise.  I've developed a profound appreciation for how foolish I am, especially after sitting vigil as my father slowly slipped away in a Hospice ward last summer.  Death, in all its forms, is like a mirror for truth, forcing us to face reality head on, in all its raw and precious glory.  Magnifying the goodness of those who've left us behind is probably our way to count the many blessings they offered us, belatedly.

I warn you this poem is rough, but God, is it truthful.  Proceed with caution...

Hospice Blues:

It ain’t for the faint of heart.

Smells of sanitizer
and inside air
sounds of gurgled breath
the date in erasable blue
leaving no doubt
of how many days are left.
"Billie" the kind one
serves
bringing drugs and quiet chats
as memory goggles
shade my eyes;
I sense the Billie-Shellie-Deb du jour
but see only
the snowmen, stories, silly surprises
that would not make up
the scrapbook of my life
were it not for this gentle man
they tend,
who lay struggling
with the decision
tween this world and the next,
considering slowly and precisely
the perfect moment to give-in,
depart.

Time slows

to a steady rhythmic pulse
as jobs and loves
even dinner plans
fade to back
as the dashboard of my days
wipes tears or prayers
on intermittent speeds;
phone-rings, car horns,
even hunger pangs
do not disturb
the trance-like watching
waiting
in this stark and joyless room
my Daddy's pit stop
on the arduous race
to a hopefully pain free place.

I cannot bear to look
yet dare not look away
a treasure map of torture
dots his legs, fingers, face
He's molting
day by day
shedding this emaciated shell
removing All
that hinders him from Grace.

... and later ...

Thinning days

drying lips
the graying of knuckles
that weight upon my heart
to be with him

or

to let him go
an hourly quiz
that jars my soul
swinging like a metronome
tween morbid valleys of gripping fear

and roller coaster heights

of grateful wonder, honor, awe

to share the final moments

in his quiet denouement.

 

I think
   perhaps
        I'm lucky
I know
   that I am older
         without the wiser
         of Goodbye
the one and only gift
I could not wrap myself to give.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Branching

I sat beneath trees today.  Leaves all green and plentiful.  It's springtime and everything is aflutter with life and liveliness and growth.  Another cloudy day in May that brought depth to my favorite color and made greener my every wandering sight.  As I looked up into the trees all around me, I began to take note of the webs of branches, reflecting the map of my thoughts reaching this way and that. I love the way trees grow. Firmly rooted in one solid, still and significant place, they reach out and defy all sense of reason or gravity as they try new routes and altering angles to bring breadth and circumference to the shade they provide.

Being a curious soul who has often wandered down varying paths and in multiple directions, often at the very same time, I am delighted by the wayward nature of tree branches.  They give me hope, as they fork and splay and traverse various trajectories, always staying rooted in the glory of the trunk, the core, the life force of their being.

Oddly enough, I found an old poem, a short one, that is more about tree rings than branches but the tree imagery is somehow relevant here.  See if you agree...

I wear a stack of rings

around my finger
Each with its own story
of who I used to be
the many lives I've lived
the ages of this gnarled soul
roots twisted between greens
sprouting through seasons
dying each new death
A grand victory of survival.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Crying Tired

Have you ever been so tired that you were "crying tired"? I am guessing more women can relate to this than men. Maybe "crying tired" is a female phenomenon. I wonder...

I've been traveling so much lately for work that I find myself fatigued a lot. Between the Godforsaken wake up calls to catch ridiculously early flights, to the barrage of spring time allergies, each onslaught stronger than the next as different cities greet springtime differently and the long hours on my feet in retail stores or working special events... all these factors converge to produce one extremely tired Duvall.  Innately, I like people. So, I can always be counted upon to overcome the fatigue and smile, chat, shake hands and "represent" with the best of them. But in the strangest moments or the weirdest of times, my energy will wane and tears will flow out of sheer vulnerability.  The circumstances may not warrant tears but the energy flow (or lack thereof) simply melts down and things do not compute and emotion overtakes reason every time.

Crying tired is a curious phenomenon.  It's like some part of me inside can see it happening, and I know that my tears are foolish and I am aware that my behavior is hysterical and yet I cannot seem to stop it.  I despise that feeling of being out of control, of being lost, of being a victim of circumstance...  I am lucky that crying tired is a not a natural state of being for me.  I have sincere and deep compassion for those who suffer depression, as I suspect bio-chemical depression must feel like crying tired all the time.

I tend to feel very deeply, either highs or lows. My passion abounds, bringing me to the very depths of depression or the heights of great joy and gratitude.  I feel very lucky and blessed to have access to such a free flowing river of feeling that abides in my soul.  But I have often wondered about such extremes, questioning if perhaps I might be bi-polar.  I believe all of us are to a certain extent, and luckily for me, my case is not one of abnormal psychosis or non-functioning neurosis.  I am just like everyone else - full of ego enough to wonder about my own amplified neuroses.  ha!

Sometimes when I feel low, I get out a pen and generally the word speak for themselves...

Broken

Heavy like a burden
weighted, rusty chains anchor
drowning
into a sea of marbles
cool glass sparkling
sucking me beneath the light
rolling me down
down
low.
Eyes unclosed
effortful lids beat my lashes
against the fray
swallowing
half-chewed lies
that settle deep inside
Me.

Sack full of bones

deaf
to the rattle of strings
loose
untied,
a wheel that will not turn
a voice that cannot sing
a poem torn into
the end forever gone
needing to be renewed
invisible
to eyes of worldly man
crowned the Queen of falling tears
heap of refuse
still unseen.

Braided mats of hair

that ache too tight
melted wax that burns
snagging fingernails that scratch
bubbling bile that belches
creeping up my back
ancient hymns of shame
retro baby steps
skidding on my rump
those race track welts that will not heal
back scrubber bruises
branded intact.

I am broken, bedside
cannot crawl to peaceful dreams
or fight you from behind.

Trusting your Instincts

Sometimes you just know.  Who knows how or why you know - you just do.  Yet all of our polite, well intentioned social upbringing seems to teach us the very antithesis of the old adage "trust your instincts".  I was walking around downtown Indianapolis today and a woman walking nearby caught my eye, primarily becuase she was not really walking, more like staggering about.  It was a warm, beautiful blue-sky spring day, and she was wearing a black backless halter dress with an odd pair of souped up track sneakers.  She stopped every so often to check herself out in the glass reflections of the street level windows in the large downtown skyscrapers. During one of her Narcissus chats with her beloved reflection, I sauntered by her, keeping my steady amicable pace on a rare and gorgeous day that did not call for rushing anywhere.  At the next corner, waiting for the street light and the infamous green hand signal, she made eye contact with her head slightly bowed and politely inquired if I could help her and her kids get something to eat.  Somehow, I did not believe she had any kids, nor that she really needed something to eat.  So I declined, equally as polie, referring to a lack of cash in the wallet at the present time.  I flat out lied - told her I was on credit for the time being.  She thanked me and ambled along not far behind me as we crossed and made our way around the circle surrounding a large public monument.  The welcoming spring weather brought everyone outside, so it was merely seconds before she found her next victim, and I could barely make out the sound of her voice in the background as I heard her ask a business suit for some lunch money.  I did not linger to discover her success or failure, but made my way as planned to Starbucks for my "fix" du jour.

Standing inside at the SB counter and waiting for highly customized beverage, I began to feel guilty.  Here I was traveling on business about to enjoy my favorite beverage on someone else's dime, and I could not even spare her the couresty of checking the spare change in my wallet?  I thought about turning back, quickly, to find her and give her at least a dollar.  But my addiction prevailed and I waited for my cup of happiness.  Inwardly, I chastised myself a little and agreed that the next needy person who asked for my help, I would be more open to. I am blessed, after all, and have a responsibility to share my blessings with my less fortunate brothers and sisters on this lonely planet.

I sat outside on the steps of the public monument, sipping away and making phone calls till I ensured the beverage was good to the last drop.  As I made my way around the sqauare, heading back toward the hotel and seeking a nice spot for a late lunch, I caught side of her glamorous sneakers and turned with the idea of making amends.  As I approaded her nodded head, I realized she was working on something.  On closer inspection, her efforts revealed themselves in the clear blue light of day. She was scratching off LOTTO tickets with a long fingernail. Obviously, someone else had bought into her story about children and her fragile plea for lunch money.  I laughted at my own foolishness and couldn't help but think "Trust your instincts".

How often do I go through life ignoring that little voice inside and accusing it of being stingy or closed or lacking in altruism?  The inner judge is often harsh, but luckily she's a bit slower than my initial impulses.  How I envy people who trust their instincts?  I wonder how often I have kicked myself for not doing this or that, when all along it was for the BEST that this or that not be done.  I suppose hindsight is 20/20, but it's the forward sight that appeals to me.  Sometimes you just know.  And when you know, you know.  So why balk or doubt yourself or refuse to trust?

This little episode got me thinking about trust, in all its weighty implications.  I am proud to say that I have trusted a time or two.  And will trust again.  Now, if only I could find the weight within me to extend that same precious gift to myself...

trust

a high dive spring board of Olympic proportion

free falls to the deep end;
the pool of sound that is my voice.
ripples resonate upward toward your ears
echoes of your Grace
pierce the aqua filter to my core
synchronized hiding in slow motion fades
reverse tucked pike
I break the surface of Awareness
a glowing ring of honesty you perspire
you smile into the eyes of my five year old
in that instant, I am alive.

the giant of your Soul swallows my bean stalk whole

leaving me tiny, grounded, ill-prepared
you make friends with the little girl inside
sliding down my esophagus with every gentle glance
lapping up the love within my ribs
breathing in unison, We stare
there's room for both of us inside your rejection of before
a wonderland of Joy that you call now,
without knowing why or how or when I jumped
the trampoline of your broad shoulders grinned
and caught Me.
I blink and think
and do not dare to close my eyes
I trust You
standing naked in your sight.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Rant

I hate people who are entitled. People who think others should accommodate THEM!  Who are they?  And why should I be socially acceptable and “nice” to accommodate them when they were irresponsible to begin with?  For example… I hate people who come to the movies LATE and then expect other people to shift or move or reposition stuff to make room for them.  Why should we?  Today, I went to the movies.  I always arrive early, so that I have time to make my selection and choose the best seat for me and my preferences.  As other people sat around me, I ended up with one free seat on either side of me.  The theatre started to fill up and naturally, long after previews had started and literally moments before the actual film began, a couple showed up and wanted me to politely move and reposition my hand bag, jacket, phone, self, etc so that they could sit together.  Of course, one is socially obligated to get up and move but it just annoys me!  Why are they entitled to sit together if they arrive late?  Why do I have to move myself and my stuff simply because I am solo?  I couldn’t resist. I grumbled at them that if they wanted their selection of seats, they should arrive BEFORE the movie starts!!

Not particularly graceful, I know.  And honestly, I am ashamed of myself for being so perturbed by it.  But it is very annoying to me.  And then… naturally, they both got up, at different times, to go to the bathroom (or whatever) in the middle of the film, disturbing everyone as they walk across the theatre in front of the screen.  Not the kind of people I feel like being nice to!

And then, I get subjected to a Hollywood version of romance, where the boy and girl do everything BUT come together, until the last possible minute. Their friends are all married with small booming families and finally they come together too.  Because, naturally, life always works out that way.  Two beautiful people end up having a beautiful life together. Oh how very sweet!  Such B.S.!!  And believe it or not, I cried.  I cried for her when he rejected her.  I cried for him when he finally figured out she was “the one”. I cried for all the millions of people who never figure that out. I cried for the many more millions who cannot seem to find a him or a her.  (Did I mention that the annoying entitled young latecomers to my immediate right were a couple??  A romantic, kissy-face, hand-holding, happy couple???  Grrrrr)

How is it that happy things begin to make us sad when they happen for other people?  I’ve never been the jealous type, but lately, I find myself thinking things like “why not me”, instead of “good for her” or “oh, I am so happy for you”.  Luckily, I am not the only one.  A very dear friend confessed to having similar sentiments over tea the other day.  Both she and I are generally very generous, kind, positive souls. When did we become bitter or empty enough to see our own lack in someone else’s fulfillment?  I hate it whenever I think or feel that way.  Thankfully, it isn’t often.  But how shameful it is!  I am stuck on a recurring refrain of  “glass half empty”.  In truth, my glass is not only FULL but overflowing. I live a charmed life.  True, I cannot seem to attract a single, available, age-appropriate man in the same time zone, but so what?  I love my life. Why do I let Hollywood or society or other people make me feel inadequate?  Just because I don’t have a life partner?  Because I go to the movies alone? Because I am comfortable in my own skin and not needy or reliant on someone else?

It all just makes me mad today.  Why I even bother going to romantic movies is a mystery.  Of course, the theatre will be filled with couples!  Of course, it’s a great “date” experience! Of course, it will highlight my solo-ness.  Naturally, it will elevate any sense of loneliness I feel.  Why am I surprised?  To be so close to romance, with couples on either side of me and four couples on the oversized screen in front of me, just made me feel how very far away I am from any real proximity of love. Or union. Or togetherness.  It’s all about longing.  Desire.  Some vague feeling of emptiness… Not a sickness, just a symptom.  Why can I not believe that I am “enough” – just me, just exactly as I am?

 Proximity

The space between my sighs

is yours
to fill
to munch
to claw
gather, grind,
then gingerly release.

The curve of my waist

is arching
tilting
leaning
lurching forward
towards a dance
with the comforting crook
of your left arm.

The silence of my toes
is beckoning
searching for your rhythm
hunting for your laughter
a whisper for the music you make
which taps me to an alternate time
where All
is
at once
complete.

The hollow spot

in my biggest bed
is empty
nothing
near the back of my knees
the small of my spine
the Y of my legs
so restless
‘neath the ample sheets.

(the poem continues but you get the idea… it ends with...)

How much more

could my world become
if you chose
to be
nearer than near
to me?

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.