Where is your hiding place?

Up in a treehouse...
               In that old closet...
                               In an open book...?

I favored a certain window above a small yard for a time. I had a lot to learn about boundaries, and these poems help me to explore. They aren't earth-shattering, but sometimes the subtler changes mean more to someone. Please join me in my search, or if you like, just quietly look on as I try to find where I stop and the rest of the world begins.

I am sorry that none of the following pieces have titles, but they each sort of move towards the next, so perhaps they are different chapters of one thought. With this in mind, I suppose you may collectively call that which I have here 'looking for the lines'.

Sitting in a window, apart from the world
Is a silent observer, so sad
She speaks another language, her very own tongue
And quietly looks on, too bad
Alone among many, belonging with none
She waits while time ticks, so slow
The tears will not fall for others to see
Tho' her spirits, they know no glow
The world passes by, travelling its own path
The observer draws back, in fear
Never in with the crowd, a track of her own
A song of sadness that no one can hear

Go to a window, look, tell me what you see
Do you see a whole other world, or a reflection of yourself?
If you see another place, you are gazing, not looking
You are sitting in the dark, feeling by yourself
But if you're enlightened, letting light shine around you
Then as you look to the glass to the world that lies behind it
Then you will see, as one with the outside image, you
And your torch of belonging and identity should be lit

Controlled freedom is sitting in an open window
Seeing the world beneath you, but feeling the solid straight planks of the sill
Feeling the battle between the shipped in heat and the free moving wind
Hearing with one ear, the ceaseless chatter of life and songs of the wind, and with the other, the electronic programming of a television set
Why should we think of scratchings on paper as poetry if we do not consider markings on a leaf the same?
How can we design music, when it roars from the mountains and whispers from the trees?
How can we so define expression as to 'teach' people to write, and worse yet, to say to anyone that they are not good at it?
How can we watch from a window when we could be experiencing the world?

Okay, okay, so it's not Dickenson, but I didn't exactly intend to have anyone else look at them when I wrote these things.
If you would like to look at something a bit better, I suggest going back to my main poetry page.
Or, if you are interested in having a page of your own, check out the GEOCITIES homepage.
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