"Accolades For Valor" by Matthew Johnson (1993): "She goes through life, gliding, a benevolent seer/ Stopping constantly to aid those in need, those not even dear/ I, an individual, swept up in the storm/ Of a woman, who, in search of herself, defies the norm/ As I, an outcast, fighting myself, yet daring to believe/ That if I ask her aid and succor (and possibly love) she won’t leave/ Giving her heart, mind and soul to every known cause/ Causing me to look about my selfish malestrom, and in introspection give pause/ For all her words, she won’t write about me, does she fail to perceive/ What the object knows to be true and what make believe—/ Words rarely present, presence much more of one/ Is to wish for more as good as wishing for the sun?/ Energy is precious, as I know well to be true/ And I am curious to know, Lorraine, what I can ask of you/ Names are important, they make us who we are/ Much more important than people give credit, by far/ The masses may cry “Lori!” and let them do so!/ For the numbers who call that cannot understand/ They will never know the Lorraine inside, the one crying to live/ Will be forever frustrated by those whose minds are like a sieve/ There may be those who rob her of her world, let them scratch the skin/ They are as pinpricks to the steel within/ These accolades are not exaggeration, not pretentious/ I Just want you to know that there is at least one who is conscious/ That the world is a better place for the life of a woman named Lorraine."

Friday, September 05, 1997

Here I Sit

My heart screams to understand
what was placed in my hands.
When I'd burrowed my way out of a pit,
to find a wave and roll with it.

Perhaps a silver lining in a dark cloud;
perhaps merely a flash in a shroud;
whatever it was, it made me smile,
like I hadn't in quite a while.

I wonder what it might have endowed
if it had only been allowed,
but the brew of others' voices and tales,
seizing its flavor; rendering it stale,

and timing--another link in the chain;
If I'd had time to wait out the storm,
could I have danced in the rain?

Here, cast out and left to think;
alone with just my good friend, ink,
I plead with myself not to wonder,
and the carpet sweep this under,
yet, here I sit...

September 5, 1997

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