Turntables ('Round This Way) - a poem about perception versus reality

You may recall me mentioning the lovely Judy Rodman here on the blog before. I always like to note that she wrote one of my favorite songs, One Way Ticket (Because I Can), which was of course recorded by LeAnn Rimes. That's the part that always gets me a little starstruck, but it's only one of so many credits to her name. She is a vocal coach, vocal producer, music producer, songwriter, artist, and public speaker. Judy took the time read my previous post, a poem called Unauthorized, about misunderstandings and legacies, and she suggested on Facebook that I write a poem about perceptions. She elaborated:

Your take on the phenomenon of perceptions of reality. If someone sees a mountain only on the sunny side, they'll describe its reality as filled with green trees, while someone on the dark side will describe bare colorless rock. If they put their perceptions together they would come up with a description that's a much better match with reality. Or, if you look through different cultural, gender based or tribal lenses, a situation can look diametrically opposed. Wisdom would be to know that we all have lenses, and we all need to be humble about how close our perception is to reality, which would create more tolerance and community.

Beautiful words from a beautiful soul! I took her inspiration and turned it into the poem below. What differs in this piece from any other one that I've ever written is that each of the first three stanzas is written to a different person or group of people in my life, and the final stanza is written to all of the aforementioned people.

It compares my perceptions with theirs and highlights the fact that in the end, we were all correct from our particular viewpoints. I'm generally able to see the black, white, and gray of any given situation, but most don't seem to be able to, and that's what the ending deals with. All of these breathtaking mountains I climb, none of which are ever able (or willing) to occupy the same space.

I've been posting my poetry without any explanation or fanfare lately, but this one seemed worthy of a little backstory. I won't divulge more than that, so you can dive into it and apply it to your own circumstances.

I hope you do enjoy it, and if so, please comment and perhaps take a moment to check out Judy Rodman's site and follow her on Facebook and Twitter as well. She is a gem, and one day when I finally get these vocal nodules fixed, I'm going to take advantage of her expertise to bring my singing voice back from the graveyard! Thank you, Judy, and thank you to my readers!

TURNTABLES ('ROUND THIS WAY)

The northeast expanse seems an impassable cold space—
to you, a southwest summer's drive to the good old days.
The landscapes we paint with our words or lack thereof
could be collaborations of celebratory shouts or silence.
The actions we take from each side spell the difference
between a tragic ending and a triumph we've never seen.

The concept that we are separate has been disproven.
For a time, we viewed each other from disparate peaks.
We slept in the valley on certain autumn afternoons,
but only when it softly rained or beneath a certain moon.
We predicated our passion on it proving to be evanescent
but believe me when I say this open door is only yours.

The battle wore us all, now didn't it? Though you started it
with intent to build yourself up and break my dreams down.
I didn't believe the lighthouse keeper when she said to me
it was jealousy—gleaming green jealousy—emerald envy.
Here I stand in the tower, inhaling the breathtaking scene,
and I see that she was right. So were you. And I was too.

Well meaning, you warned me not to give my heart to fools.
I clipped along at a lightning-like pace. I cried continuously.
I kept a bleeding organ on a tear-stained crimson sleeve
and wondered why you were so much more joyful than me.
I had to come 'round your way, steer my steed to your street,
to see embracing reality is not so tragic, just bittersweet.

Your records spin on segregated turntables. You don't play
well together and often you just don't bother to play at all.
All these circles—all these grooves—all these cycles—
still dictated you can't print your lyrics on the same page.
But I'll forever be the needle, decoding wax messages
and interpreting the vestiges of so many good intentions
while speakers sing of lovely things we never manifested.