Monday Night

I'm afraid of what the night will bring.
I'm terrified of what he'll say.
I so want this man's respect,
more than I care to admit.
His approval means everything
and I'm scared he'll say, "Go away"
and that he will reject
me and see me as unfit.


I'm scared he won't even look at me,
indeed admit I'm even there.
To be treated as unreal
would afflict me to the core.
Just to have him look over and see
me as a person,  be aware
I'm there would make me feel
that I am someone worth more.


It is sad to say I'm in this place
desperate for him to like me;
that I can't stand on my own,
accepting what he discerns.
I need to reach within and embrace
all the things that make me unique,
trust the need to stand alone
so that self-respect returns.

One

I do whatever I can,
whatever it might be;
a solo raindrop in the sea.


So, does it really matter;
anyone even see;
one single leaf on the tree?


One voice, one solo person
seems so very lonely;
grain of sand on the beach.


It seems so ineffective
pointless for me to be
a lone picket on the street.


The paradox is, of course,
that one voice is so unique;
like a comet's flash and streak.


And the other truth is this:
single voices join as We;
a chorus in one strong key.

Vertigo

Vertigo


If the psyche has an inner ear
mine must be infected
The unsteady whirling 
of my soul leaves me off balance.
Emotional dizziness, spinning,
always uncertain where the
merry go round will stop.
Never sure on my feet,
uncertain at best, and falling
headfirst into the blackness 
below me. Catch me, I'm falling...

Politics of Illusion

Like lines in the ever shifting sands
or winds that swirl and cannot be seen
reality blurs and truth is at risk
when politics blend with demands.


Magicians of circus reflections
bend truth and distort reality.
Shimmering figures make us laugh
sending us in different directions.


Sudden awareness that we are lost
shakes us awake; it might be too late
but we must try to find our way back 
to who we truly are - any cost.


Drowsy from illusion's sheer blur
The way back home not easy to see
Our voices must rise loud and strong.
Voting the only path back that's sure.

Winter Eyes

His steel blue eyes,
icicles piercing my heart
freezing it in love.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow has never been my friend
so I have no idea why I should
decide now to give it one more try.


Tomorrow is always round the bend
making promises to me, "You could"...
somehow always turning out a lie.


Tomorrow never comes in the end.
Hope is an illusion, it's no good
waiting around, so I say good-bye.


C. Boeneman
6/24/2012

Spiral




Jobless
Useless
Erased
Older
Aspie
Fighter
Trying
Bolder
Reaches
Stretches
Mockers
Colder


Endures
Persists
Defies
Moulder
Burden
Heavy 
Atop
Shoulder
Jobless
Useless 
Erased
Gone...


C. Boeneman
6/23/2012

A Tree in A Forest


I'm trying so hard
does anyone see me?
Does anyone think
I 've a right to be?


I talk no one hears
I write and no one reads
Does anyone feel
my tears as they stream? 


I get no response
I feel invisible
Can anyone touch
my hand as I reach?


There is no me
I think all to myself
Does that mean, I am
if I can still dream?


I feel like a tree
in forest so alone
falling quietly
no one can hear me.


So now if I go
will anyone miss me?
Does anyone care
if I cease to be?




Cherie R Boeneman
6/22/2102

Hitching A Ride

Hitch a ride to the edge of the solar system
see all the wonders only imagined,
feel infinite wonder of everywhere
take in the bulk of limitless choices
knowing we are a piece of the whole.


We are just as much a part of the energy,
matter and physics as any black hole,
or sun or planet. We are expressions -
Galactic greatness,cosmic cohesion,
so much to let our minds enfold


We feel small because we see only tiny threads,
a tapestry of which we see little.
if we could only see the everything
we could comprehend the beauty we are -
golden threads in the heavenly soul.




For the little spacecraft that could: Voyager

C. Boeneman 

6.2012

Me

Yes, I know that I'm different.
Give me a chance and you will see
how good different can be.

Open your heart, open your mind
look past my social clumsiness
gaze into my eyes, see me.

See one whose heart beats as yours does
See me who bleeds and just like you.
Touch me and know that I feel.

Can you see that I yearn for love
or feel how cold alone can be;
Reach out and grasp my lonely.

I know it's hard to reach that far
outside your own experience,
I understand, believe me.

I have to reach that far each day -
just to look in your eyes and speak,
a frightning challege, you see.

Not knowing if I'm being weird
or if I'm fitting in with you
scares me and makes me leery.

It tires me more than you can know
and I can become quite depressed
sick to death of being me.

If someone would just listen, see,
how I think can be helpful to you.
I see things differently

What seems to be bad can be good
depends upon your perspective:
Weird or creativity.

So how will you choose to see me?
How will you react when we meet:
Welcome me or bully me?

However you act is a choice
that affects not just you but we.
Kindness we grow: cruel, I bleed.

C. Boeneman
6/16/2012

A Paradox Reconciled

Why do we see justice as blind 
when, in truth, she must be able to see 
more clearly than all of us in order 
for any of us to be free? 

Why do we seek peace with a sword 
when swords only divide; bombs cannot bind? 
Together is how we must learn to be, 
Living as one, all humankind. 

How can we value our freedom 
yet use that freedom to oppress others? 
We trap ourselves in our contradiction; 
our own liberty then suffers. 

We say that love is the center 
of all that we are, of all we can be. 
If that is true we must learn from each other, 
reach out in trust and harmony. 

4/27/88  

The Tragic Soul

The tragic soul yearns for better things: 
it looks beyond the cross 
and reaches past the tomb 
to seek for life unbound by age, it sings. 

The tragic soul yearns for lovers' sighs: 
it soars beyond itself 
and reaches past body 
to seek for love unbound by lust, it cries.
 
The tragic soul yearns for bluer skies: 
it leaps beyond itself 
and reaches past the clouds 
to seek freedom unbound by Earth, it flies. 

The tragic soul yearns for some answers: 
it looks inside itself 
and reaches past questions 
to seek faith unbound by death, it dances. 

The tragic soul yearns for better things: 
it looks beyond the cross 
and reaches past the tomb 
to seek for life unbound by age, it sings. 

March '92

We're marching towards the future 
with deep reverence for the past, 
heroes of a struggle ours, not yet won. 
  
We're marching in a line unbroken 
stretching 'round the world, fates linked 
as arms, with all workers 'neath the sun. 
  
Fists thrusting skyward, we move forward 
through the moral greyness towards 
times when justice for all is done. 
  
For now we see that fairness, 
respect and justice are a global matter 
and not a fight for just some. 
  
From Pretoria to Peoria 
we understand that the struggles 
against injustice are one. 
  
3/12/1992 

In Articulo Mortis

She is a fleshly ghost
Who walk and breathes,
Yet lives not.

She is a sorrowful
Sight who all her
Dreams forgot.

Her soul-less bones walk in
An endless night;
a six-foot plot

That cannot support the
Weight of living,
Growing crop.

She smells the dank decay
Of loveless life's
Deathly rot.

She is a fleshly ghost
Who walks and breathes,
Yet lives not.
  

Share!

On Watergate

Richard Nixon: President, 
Tricky Dick or King? 
Anarchist or patriot; 
Impeachment charges bring? 

Rucklehause and Richardson, 
Cox and missing tapes, 
Judge Sirica, District Court, 
the press and sour grapes. 

Who is right and who is wrong, 
One Branch or the next: 
Senate, House or President, 
Sirica, on the text? 

Blow men blow, oh blow him down; 
Nixon, prangster, clown. 
Dirty tricks and politics - 
to whom shall go the crown? 

11/7/1973  

Summer Eyes

Green brown eyes await


embrace by queried seeker


soaking in his warmth.






*For one who will never know how I feel about him.

Flotsam

She was an infinitismal 
piece of universal flotsam 
acknowledging 
her reality with a 
final flight to a grey 
cement grave.