Thine was the prophet’s vision, thine

The exaltation, the divine
Insanity of noble minds,
That never falters nor abates,
But labors and endures and waits,
Till all that it foresees it finds
Or what it can not find creates.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Keramos"

The children's eyes see too much;
They peek round corners,
Poke into truths ill-hid
Beneath a placid Mona Lisa smile
Or the diplomatic word.

Their lips, with bubble-laughter
Hide secret pricks, that burst
The slim and slippery facade,
The many-hued oiliness
Of one's so-careful layered face.

They see too much, and speak too much as well.
Their eyes are sharp, their quips acute,
Their grins a razor, delicately slid upon the skin -
They sever.

How to stanch the flow of blood?
A smile will not do - and so I frown;
Distance becomes a bandage
And chillness a scab.

I close my mouth lest other words slip out
Than those I have so fragiley composed.
I lower my eyes when you enter the room;
I blush when you sit near me.

They see too much - they sever.

The blood they spilt in carelessness
Creeps upward from my heart
Into my very cheeks.
It leaks from toe to fingertip,
Suffuses my brow and lips -
It blinds me.

I cannot let another see
What these children saw.
I cannot see the truth myself.
Run from it, hide from it -
(Strange that children's laughter
Should still affect the soul)
Trap it in a box and cover it with earth.

If I run fast enough, will time reverse itself?
Stop up the mouth that first trapped me -
Keep myself from turning -
Smooth my features, suffer nonchalance -
Brave further whispers
And smile when you arrive?

(Whispers beneath well-gloved hands
Between young girls just old enough
To wonder at those older than themselves.
Their eyes pursue me - they see, farseeing -
I run, yet hear their laughter still.)

Hide your hearts, all those in first blush, do!
Bind them deep within your breasts,
Let nothing flush them out -
Not laughter, nor accusation, nor knowing eyes.
Hide your hearts.

Else, brought forth too soon they shall whither and die
Like a babe before his time,
Or the bud plucked before in bloom -
We all shall whither and die.

But in our time, oh in our proper time!
Until then, look not at me,
Nor wonder when I raise not my eyes
(Eyes that solely long) to look again on you.

Mood: Confuzzled and self-kicking
Music: Norah Jones Come Away With Me which Is Not Helping
Various Other: Y'know, I manage to dramatize everything? Thirteen stinking hours at work today. But, alleluia, great retreat for the Sophomores. So, I'll forget my own stupidities if their souls were in anyway drawn to God. Progress Reports finished for the nonce. St. Anthony - I need to find that one paper, please! So tired! Good auditions this afternoon. First auditions I ever felt completely calm before - most likely due to the stress of everything else. Concerned that I don't have enough actors yet. Aaaaaaaah! More auditions on Thursday and Friday. Chaperoning dance on Friday. Full full full week. I'd love to sit down and just be with my family. I come home and more or less fall down face first on my bed. Or rather, I had a few days there - maybe a week - of wonderful discussions. I sincerely hope I haven't blown in it. I'm just ubersensitive. What's up with this? I can speak candidly of so much, and then when faced with that one fault of my character (not that there aren't plenty faults - but this one in particular) I grow distressed. I'm like a hawk caught by her jesses. But caught by whom? By what? When? That ought to be its own poem. I'll need to think about that. My many apologies for the above poetry - poor, I know. Deal. Tired tired tired. Gute nacht.
What made my day: Reading A. McC's quarterly
What ruined my day: See above; my own emotions; progress reports
What I hope for tomorrow: A sudden surge of energy and joy!