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Tonight I want a Deep Song. Wednesday night is the hardest night for me, which I’ve told you before and will probably tell you again. But after the events of this week, things are starting to feel a little better, as we all process and come together. I shared last night’s effort with some friends at school–yes, lots of my friends are adolescents–and realized again that one of the most beautiful things we do as humans is make things out of our pain.In fact, it’s one of the things that I’m pretty sure we’re here to do.  It put me in mind of this:

I know misery has to be part of me“.  See, Billie Holiday makes some beautiful music from the sadness. I’m not quite close to it yet, the far-flung joy of the sad music, but I’m closer, I think, than I have been in days. I promised unicorns and puppies, and actually, a weird part of my job today required me to sit with an overwhelmed student and look at videos of Grumpy Cat:  grumpy cat

I’m no therapist. I’m an English teacher. So when Grumpy Cat is what will help, that is what I provide.

About the deep song, though, it is a translation of sorrow that is so sweet, and it’s one of the things my soul craves. What does your soul crave? As clichéd and silly as that sounds, I really want to know. I want a deep song. I’m going to try to make one, and then I’m going to crash in bed, and then I’m going to work one day, and then I’m going on vacation. MWWWUUAHHAHHAHHHAAAAAAA!


Deep Song

Time to retire hard, to an ancient mountain.

Time to step skyturned from the blackest hiding.

Carry inside a dancing god.

Let loose the strangled wings.

Time to break the wee nets that attach bodies to the ground.  Allow this bucking heart to go godwild.

Time for the untethered falcon,

to float as near to purpose as these cracks will allow.

Up there is a gurgling chuckle.

Take it and let it pour warmly on the earth’s ears.

Seek the higher rhythm. Seek it.

Drink the waters slow,

and stir it until nameless seeds rise to the surface.

Let the dark ashes sink to the bottom.

Polished from the sandstorm, there’s new skin opening to the chill.

The nervous fibers all reach for honey skies.

It’s favorite thread used for a lasso thrown to sunlight. And grip dear the laughing heart tonight.


So, Bukowski should get credit tonight too. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. But I still want to know, what does your soul crave? Happy Wednesday, Poemhearts. Love you. Anna