Moon

Moon

Each night I am captivated,

drawn by her light,

anxious of her whereabouts,

relieved when I can locate and gaze upon her charms.

 

Capricious, she flirts with the tides,

pulling them toward her and pushing them away.

She vacillates predictably: shifting shapes

throughout time and space,

offering different facets of herself -

She is always fully present, solid,

but the perspective she allows others to encounter

depends on both their vantage and her phase.

 

I am comforted in knowing her place;

my secure base from which to venture forth

and encounter the world she illuminates.

When night falls I search for her,

await her resurrection,

exhale and return her beam once discovered.

 

I often wonder at her temperament:

Is she lonely? Independent? Self-assured?

Perhaps she is insecure, so distant and isolated.

She is beautiful and mysterious,

steady in her own perpetual sequence

which enables our own to vary.

Strong and lovely, necessary and untouchable.

She is essential

yet we casually ignore her in sleep

when she makes herself most visible.

 

What will she wear tonight?

Will she dress in gossamer clouds or liquid rain?

Will she stand boldly – revealing the fullness of her round form?

Hang naked – almost too risqué to gaze upon directly

lest we feel the embarrassment she refuses to carry?

But we cannot avert our gaze when she ascends

her beauty absorbing daylight,

wearing dusk like an evening cloak

Perhaps she will expose only her crescent silhouette

against the backdrop of the nocturnal sky.

 
No wonder when we draw near she makes us weightless.

 

7/14/2011

Irrational Fear

I have this fear,
(I know you’ll laugh)
I cannot tell you why -
But the thought of one approaching
evokes a sudden cry.

It makes no sense,
(and hence the name)
I did not say I’m proud,
It is of obscure origin -
in mystery it’s shroud.

Or maybe not -
(my mom may know)
but no one’s let me in
On when it started, or how long
I’ve nursed this av-er-sion

They rumble past
(you never know)
when one will sneak upon -
the shoulder of the lane next door
Then quick as that! They’re gone.

Their speed is strange
(unnatural)
I think this is the source,
AND something’s missing on their end
that sends my blood to course

quick through my veins
(do not make fun)
I never claimed it right -
but does not every one have their
own un-explain-ed fright?

A semi-truck
(you heard me true)
Is MEANT to carry MUCH!
Without a load it’s just not right - 
like velvet without touch.

In my rear view
(they seem so close!)
I watch as they propel
Inching, lunging, closer still
Wait - is that Kurt Russell?

So there it is,
(I must confess)
I do expect your goad -
When I say, my ”fear-irrational”,
Is Semis that carry no load. 

 3.11.2011 – For mom

M.A.N.

I miss him, 
while knowing that the him I miss no longer exists.

Memory has an editing process of its own:
often merciful; we forget painful details,
sometimes dangerous; we airbrush faults.
Why is it so difficult to see clearly?

There were parts that were real
weren’t there?
Arms that belted my waist
pulling me close enough to
whisper joy into my ear.
The way my head fit
like a puzzle piece,
nuzzled into place on his shoulder,
my arm laced across his chest.
Did I dream the safety of his embrace?
I could doze forever there.

But life happened, 
and with it growth;
not always in the same direction. 
I don’t even remember the first snag -
What was the thorn that began unraveling
a once vibrant tapestry?
How long had we been dragging it?
Perhaps we both thought the other
would keep it off the ground.

I think it was my idea to put it away for a while,
did I think there was magic in the attic?
Perhaps it needed a rest from our tearing,
long distance tug-o-wars can leave such raw and open sores.
“We could bring it out again
when we were ready (and able) to mend it together.”
That was my thought. It didn’t work.
We were never ready,
or able,
or was it willing?  

I still have it,
though many have begged me to get rid of it.
I pull it out on cold nights, 
and sometimes it warms me, a little.
But my shoulders poke through, 
exposed, and I shiver.

Or cry.

It is old, and familiar - even if it’s only of a
ragged scrap of what it used to be.
  
It’s never enough – but I can’t seem to throw it out.

Borrowed Words

Haven’t we all lived on borrowed words?

Words from parents we gripped tightly when we were too young and the world too big:

You are special, I love you, You belong.

Words from lovers that we desperately wanted to be true, poetry that seemed to speak us into existence:

You are wanted, seen, chosen.

Words from friends that lifted us up when we limped along, dragging our damaged wings, forgetting we were created for flight:

You are valued, I am here, I like you.  

Words from stories we wished we could write ourselves into, descriptors we longed to define us:

She was beautiful, He was brave, They were wise.

Ah, but we’ve borrowed poisonous words as well.

Words that found their way deep into our hearts and minds and settled where they did not belong. Messages we feared true; proof that we could not hide our inadequacies:

You’re too much, You’re not enough, You are crazy.

Words that provoked unbearable pain and made us fear:

I am all alone, nobody understands, nobody cares.

Words that prompted protective pledges, vows we made to ourselves:

Never again, I will hide my true self, I will not trust.

Some words taste sweet and we devour them swiftly, an insatiable hunger for more. Others leave a bitter aftertaste and hang like dry wine in the mouth; residue remaining until the palate is cleansed.

Are we aware of the words on which we feed?  

We chew borrowed words, until they harden into something like our own, 

Do I agree? Do I believe? What do I think?

We gnaw these morsels, shape them with our own ivory incisors,

That is not my experience, That resonates, You are right, You are wrong.

Cutting, dividing; they swish around our cheeks, roll over and off our own tongues;

Do we  know we are allowed to spit them? Do we know we have the power, the choice, to swallow them – partial or whole – to make them our own?

Are we mindful of our nourishment?

Or are we feasting on words that should be challenged? Refused? Discarded?

February 2011

Help

I need a catalyst.

I’m learning that when I feel blocked as writer there are benefits to inking that truth across a page (or in this case a screen) and asking for direction. The truth is,  

It’s been difficult for me to write lately

So in the interest of keeping this practice going I’m asking for your help: 

Tell me what to write.

Perhaps the student in me misses the safety and structure of assignments. I’d love to hear your requests and use them as a springboard for my own creative process.

It could be topical - ’write about love or God or freesia or your irrational fear of semi trucks carrying no load” for example. It could be a perspective request - ’tell a story from an obscure character’s point of view”. It could be a style challenge to write a metered poem or some other combination of directives.

My only request is that it mean something to YOU.  I’m hopeful that knowing that will inspire me – be it comical, serious, random or sad. Thank you in advance for being a part of my artistic journey.

Spiderman

You wove a web of words I crawled eagerly into
mesmerized by the delicate silk that surrounded me.
Too beautiful to be real, dressed with beads of morning dew
I allowed myself to sink deep into your glistening net,
laying myself open without knowing what I had entered.
The strands laced my back and lulled me to sleep as I waited
for the creator of this landscape to reveal himself,
grander than his creation

Was it the ethereal world you created or your bite that paralyzed me?
Was the poison in the threads you spun or did it drip from your lips?
Perhaps I already possessed the toxin your venom stimulated,

I can no longer remember.

If not for the imperfection of your original design
that first visit would have been my last; Entrapment and death.
Instead I fell from your wraith-like net.

How did I become free?

I lay gazing up from the mossy ground
rejoicing in my narrow escape,
lamenting that such a captivating labyrinth
could not exist or sustain.
I stared transfixed in disbelief.

“It was SO beautiful and felt like crawling into a carriage fashioned uniquely for me…how could it break? Why must it? How could such splendor be hazardous?”

I watched as you methodically began to eat your own spindled lattice,
then turned your back to fashion another web and wait.

Expressionless in front of one more perilous masterpiece.

2011

The Clearing

The Clearing

I hadn’t heard your voice for so long
I had resolved I never would.
It was finished.
Sealed.
Over.

Then you called me into the clearing,
told me what you loved about me,
what you missed,
what we had.
And I remembered.

I held my breath -
Could this be?
No.
Yes!
Dare I hope?
How could I not?

So I stepped out and began to undress,
to reveal myself
(I always went first)
and your face went long,
cold,
rigid.

You were silent for what felt like eternity
as I shivered in the breeze.
You could not bear to look at me,
to join me in the meadow you cleared.
I could barely hear you as you retreated
into the dark comfort of the forest.

Where did you go?

Grief gathered in threatening storm clouds
chilling me to the bone with confusion,
the pain of bargaining alone in my head:
“This cannot be the way our story ends…”
But it did.

Then anger struck like hot lightning
splitting my heart in two.
“How could you declare such beauty with no intention?”
“Don’t claim to clothe yourself with cynicism
when it is plain that fear is the heavy cloak you wear”.

Reality rained down hard as I fled that clearing,
my own tears washing my eyes clear.
Oh how I wished you were different
unafraid to show yourself,
able meet me face to face, palm to palm.
But you’re not. Or you choose not to.
It matters not,
it’s over.

My toxic hope for your future return
was keeping me from living my present life,
my “real” life.
Finally I saw that what I had longed for was always a phantom.
The disparity between your words and actions
killed it once and for all.

It was a painful,  merciful gift.

2010

P.K.

I’d wake up to your whisper
ringing in my ear
Promises delightful
declarations so sincere
Your openness surprised me
when your feelings would shine through
and soon I knew you loved me
and I felt that I loved you 
But my fear of getting hurt
pushed my hope for you aside
and although you could not tell
it was agony inside
I never meant to hurt you
this I hope you know
I think the best for you and I
was when we both let go

1994

Madison County

Never have I loved another with feelings quite like this
Never have I been elated with one tender kiss
I feel as though my heart may burst with happiness and glee
and stricken mad with joy to think you feel the same of me
Held within your cradled arms the whole world disappears
You’ve laughed with me in joyous times, you’ve wiped away my tears
And when I look into your eyes the color of the sky
Alone we are the world outside quickly rushing by

1997

Iambic Penta-what?

This is one from the archives… My first shot at Iambic Pentameter for Mrs. Engdahl’s Sophomore english class back in….well a while ago.

Pretty sure this came on the heels of reading Romeo and Juliet as a class…lets blame the tortured love-sick theme on that.

Request

One gentle kiss is all from you I ask
One sweet, one tender, that I’ve known before
Oh do not deny so simple a task
Your love I have lost, so this I implore

Thinking of love brings me nothing but pain
Since you said goodbye I no longer dream
My hopes, aspirations, all have been slain
Was it I who was blind? Yes so it seems

Now I lie here in this bed all alone
My heart a prisoner of your blissful cell
Shackles here binding I’d gladly disown
Oh let me break free from this living hell!

The strength of my love cannot be conceived
I only wish this you would have believed

1995