True Story Of My First Poem

images
suppressed for over
thirty years

tucked away
in a locked box
in a collapsed tunnel

somewhere
in my
subconscious

were emerging
unbidden and
uncontrollable

we had met
at a local
meet and greet

more like
two old friends reuniting
than strangers meeting

he was sober
for thirty plus years
(first thing he shared after handshake and his name)

we talked extensively
about the bdsm community in general
and sadism in particular

at the end of the evening
as the barista was closing up

he gave me his number
said “call if you ever need to talk”

i assumed he meant
to continue our
conversation about bdsm

months later nightmares were waking me
shaking soaked in sweat
(sweat of fear and sorrow)

day dreams kept me from
work and society
unable to focus

blood
bombs
dead people

waking nightmares
intruding into
awareness

after three days without sleep
i felt compelled
to call him

not friends
not family
not a preacher

when he answered
i identified myself
nothing more

he didn’t ask
“why did you call” or
“what’s wrong”

he said
“how can i help?”

baffled
i blurted out
“i’m having weird dreams”

he immediately said

“get dressed
meet me at the park
picnic bench nearest the mountain trail
ill be there in twenty-seven minutes”

then hung up

i’m not sure how he knew but
i lived directly across the road from
a local hiking trail

i put on some shorts and hiking boots
walked to the park
found the bench closest to the trail head

twenty-seven minutes later
he roared into the parking area
on his harley

he smelled
of sweat dust
cigarettes and gasoline

not the sweat of fear
but of hard labor
in a hot climate

not household dust
but fine airborne
desert dust

settling across from me
leaning on the table
he looked me in the eye

“tell me about it”

i rambled on about the dreams
blurted a few sentences about the bombing
shaking and near tears

he said “salt water is
always good for the soul
whether tears, sweat or the sea.”

“i've seen this before,
you’ll be stronger
on the other side”

his acknowledgment
and confidence
calmed me

he said ‘write it down, that will help”

i said ‘ive tried journaling…’

he interrupted:

“NO!
Write from your soul!
Write poetically!”

then he stood
said
“call me in a few days”

climbed on his harley
and roared away

two days more without sleep
until
i finally took his advice

the poem poured
effortlessly
onto the page

and then
i slept

(C) 2021 Raibeart Bruis