Strange Compass

“I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.” ~ Herman Hesse, Demian

The road is mapped out for you matter of factly
twined and braided into your umbilical cord
and you are fed instructions with your cereal
but nobody tells you how those paths wind
 and turn and twist
or disappear
or that some may drop you into a pit…
Your blood will lead you, can speak to you
 but first you need to learn its language
and fear its messages 
just a little
for fiery blood carries all your pasts
as well as your present. 
Can you bring that lodestone with you?
Can you cradle it,
bend without breaking under the weight?
Can you expand inside to absorb,
to imprint that compass rose across your lungs so that each breath is magnetized…
 to gather the lessons 
 dropped like acorns across these bisecting roads?
To accept those as gifts
even when they hurt?
Then believe.
 and add your own footnotes to this unwritten tale,
add your footprint to the trackless 
and add the calling of your blood
to that strange compass. 
Toss a coin into the crossroads
and leave it lying unchecked in all its shiny wishfulness
as a beckoning.




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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One Response to Strange Compass

  1. chimerapoet says:

    Reblogged this on Chimera Poetry and commented:

    One year ago…..

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