I stand here, you there
separated by a chasm of disbelief.
I know me, I feel me.
Who then, are you?
You must be from another place
or time or universe.
When I turn my head away,
will you laugh at my derision?
Will you reach out,
pat my back and mutely say
There there, you’ll be alright.
Are you sympathetic to what I see?
My memories are inside of me,
hidden to the outside world.
I do not wear them for all to see.
Why then, do you?
Photo by Torli Roberts
Come prowl the streets with me
this night of the macabre and strange.
Ghouls, skeletons and witches brew
street lamps flicker, shadows dance.
Don your mask and walk with me
on all hallow’s eve.
Plop
Patter
Ping
Slow steady nocturnal rain
taps on the yellow-green ceiling
of my ancient canvas tent.
Comfort seeps in as I burrow deep
in my cocoon zippered bag,
crisp cold nose, just outside the seam.
Lids shutter slowly as ears perk to listen.
Thoughts float in a cool haze.
A hooting owl sits sheltered
by spring’s green-yellow canopy.
The drip, drop, patter
plops above its feathered head.
Dreaming now,
a moon sliver guides me
to a sleep moment of clarity.
These rain notes are nature’s evensong.
A prayer
for all who sleep in this forested place.
Revised from one of my very first poems written in February, in my first class with Holly Wren Spaulding. Posted so early in March (as Rain Song) , I doubt but five people saw it!
UPDATE: I am in Alaska, as you read this! Will be posting every other day for two weeks until I return. Mostly new — poems that is — although I will be rejuvenated (love that word!) even more upon my return to Boston, our city by the sea.
Breeze whisper-whistles through window
lids struggle with sand-grit eye corners
brain muddled like dislodged silt
no sun, energy slogs, slowly moves
gives in, gives up, covers over
it’s a turtle kind of day.
She grew up in the heartland
with ribbons in her hair
and saddle shoes that skipped to school,
unlocked doors with swings on front porches
yards strewn with bicycles and holly hocks.
She kept a carefree heart these many years,
her memento of those bygone days.
…and I shall flourish my paint brush
great swaths of cerulean blue
splashes of fuchsia and lemon yellow
not sepia and certainly not grey
and it shall be a glorious day!
Pull down pale green husks
some easily, others with a yank
discover soft fine silken hair,
gossamer strands cling to yellow gems
kernels of sweetness
in perfect rows of delicious.
Assaulted by bubbling water
slathered in butter
ear by ear, cob by cob
they succumb to energetic chomping
sacrificial sustenance
for the Summer Devourer.
She sat with the counselor
and tried to explain
to divulge in words
what had not been said
for too many years.
Over-size
dime-store dark glasses
hid the terror trail
as she sat, tense
alert, waiting.
Hands clasped in lap
hid fingernails
chewed to nothingness
feet pressed on floor, heels together
knees together too.
A posture learned
to pull in, retreat
be small
in the smallest
amount of space.
She flinched
as he leaned in
and so he adjusted
settled back in the chair
to listen with his eyes.
And finally
she answered
slowly
each word mumbled
yet distinct.
I feel like
a sandwich cookie
pryed open
pulled apart
licked raw
and gnawed upon
crumb by crumb
and now
I am totally consumed.
The earth belches and spews forth her fury.
Oh Pele, goddess of volcanoes,
your power and passion are evident
as you hiss and ooze red-hot anger.
You are the earth’s psyche
and we the defiant trespassers,
over cracks and fissures
glass-sharp edges of your hardened crust.
Arrogant though we are
we step gingerly,
awed by your magnificence
as we retreat to cooler ground.
Posted in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Beneath Your Feet. Photos from our 2005 Lava Walk on the Big Island in Hawaii. A once in a life-time experience, to feel the volcano beneath our feet!
The house is quiet again
all things-children put away.
If I close my eyes
I can hear their laughter echo,
see small bodies
clambering on to youth chairs.
Stillness surrounds me
memories sustain me.
Families, and time
move on.
Toys packed away until another time.
lillian the home poet 