Well. I'm not a blogger at heart. I don't think you will benefit from seeing the inside of my neurotic mind. Some day it might be less neurotic. Some day, I might be a wise old woman with great insights to impart, and then, perhaps I will put down my thoughts more often.

But for now, the few insights I get come after writing a poem. Then I look at the ending and think, "Oh, so that's what's going on." There are times I don't get it even then, I'm sorry to say. Sometimes a friend will explain it to me.

When I do get it though, when I come to an understanding, it clears the psychic sludge out of which the poem came. Here's one I've titled, "Prisoners: Mother and Son".

he says, what is the color of sunshine?
she says, what feeling is a milk thistle?
he says, sunshine is the color of freedom,
     and a milk thistle is prickly anger
she says, sunshine is the color of blistered skin,
     and a milk thistle is lightness and letting go
     and floating in the wind
he says, I want freedom. Give me sunshine
she says, You can have freedom. Here is a milk thistle

Ah, yes. Do we listen? Do we honor each other's differences? It seems like it should be simple, when it's put down on paper.