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 A poem

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Treemaid
The Gullible
The Gullible
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Posts : 1927
Join date : 2016-02-03

PostSubject: A poem   Tue Apr 11, 2017 3:12 pm

I was having a conversation with Floris about how we all have layers like onions, layers in how we interact with each other, and to what extent we choose to reveal ourselves to others. They are different aspects of who we are, but also aspects that differ in how willing/able we are to reveal them to others, depending on how much we trust them and how safe we feel.  (Yeh…deep stuff, huh? Who would have thought it of our Floris? …Just goes to show! lol)

Anyway, it brought back to mind a poem I wrote some years ago that I’d like to share with you. It's using the metaphor of doors to both represent and reflect who we are to the world, and also to provide an opening under our control, a passageway through which others can travel to find out more of who we are, or through which we can travel to find out more about the character/experiences of others - doors as a point of potential human contact and transition.

DOORS

Our lives are full of varied doors. Some are open, some are barred,
High tech doors that whir and beep, doors with vandals’ slogans marred.
Some, lion knockered, brass plate studded, roar to the world of who we are,
Some, passed unnoticed in the street, stealthily standing still, ajar.
The silent sentinels to all we are and all we see and do
From one dimension to the next, we’re scarce aware as we pass through.

Smelling of  paint and polished brass, the widow’s door, so smart and slick
Through which the lavender ladies pass, that closes cleanly with a click.
A family door, no fussy frills, once scuffed by children’s happy heels
And looking down at scraped door sills, we hear again excited squeals.
The battered door that hangs off hinge, sings of laughter, love and loss,
Of turmoils, toils and terrors, memories sealed in peeling varnished gloss.

And on the way to where I am, my outer door is open wide.
The next, ajar; with gentle push it is not hard to come inside.
Then next, a door still often used; though closed, you will not find it locked,
And then a door that bears some dust, with scattered obstacles it’s blocked.
So, if with perseverance soft, each wary door you tiptoe through,
Then, if you search and don’t give up, the last small door now comes to view.

This last small door, which shuns the callers’ taps and knocks, and few have seen,
Is set back deep in darkened hall, where few feet pause and few have been.
It’s dusty black, and firmly closed, and people rarely notice it.
Behind that door, with trembling heart, within the dark, alone I sit.
And should you dare to try this door, this tiny door to inner me
You’d find it locked, yet left in hope within the rusty lock,
A key.
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Floris
The Chatterbox


Posts : 54
Join date : 2017-02-03

PostSubject: Re: A poem   Tue Apr 11, 2017 3:58 pm

First Freud made me look at doors differently (especially the locks), and now you.
And how quaint, that little key.
Spoiler:
 

Beautiful poem Tree.
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Alj780
The Four Leaved Clover
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Posts : 149
Join date : 2016-07-12
Age : 17
Location : Australia

PostSubject: Re: A poem   Wed Apr 12, 2017 3:31 am

This Is Amazing Smile
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Mirai Leah
The Scaredy Cat
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Join date : 2016-04-02
Location : USA

PostSubject: Re: A poem   Wed Apr 12, 2017 6:10 pm

Love it! Especially the ending. Smile
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