Next Christmas

Forgive my lack of merriment,
       I’ll forgive your lack of presence
                             and the only gift I want
                                   this year is for this not to become tradition.
                                                                 Next Advent, I’d rather wait for Jesus.

I’m asking grace
for my lack of cheer,
and extending grace
          to all.
But I need flesh
                for this skeletal
                family,
just a manger for my heart.
              Next Christmas, I want you here.




submitting at Gooseberry Garden

Old and New

Schmaltz, I want to call it but this is mere self-protection.
       Memories pose no threat but tears, and might those serve me cleansing.
Families flow as do tears and strength is formed through both.

So, I’ll name it clarity rather than sentimentality as I pave uncharted territories. Photos, mementos and recollections, these my map
                                            and treasure.
Let’s deck the halls this season,bravely,
                                               both with old and new. 

submitting at Jingle Poetry 

Bring it on

“It’s a great day for ducks,” my dad would say whenever it would rain.
                                               Yes, and a great day for me. 
Today, I will join the ducks.  I will let
the rain pour upon me.  My umbrella, my rain boots and a smile on my face, I’m here to say,  
‘Rain, bring it on.’




submitting at bluebell books

You Decide

In your own mind, you are a superhero.
The pages glossy as your mind,
         and me,
              maybe I'm catwoman, loving you or hating you
                 and you decide.
You write the story, you choose the ending
and somehow you see not that a victim should not be offered a cape.

Time

Time, no longer in tempo, and I've forgotten the meaning, anyway.
Here, now, it feels like hell but in another time and place, we'll meet.
This is hope.  These are prayer said as the hourglass of our lives, slowly drips its sand.
Which epoch began last Friday? Was it last or a week before?  The calendar keeps better time than I but doesn't help if I never look at it.  You, I want to look at but you don't see.  Time is elusive as love.


bluebell books

dverse

"The saddest thing I ever heard,” Maggie answered. 

But, no, she hadn’t said that. That’s just what Jess had thought she’d say and hearing what she'd wanted to, she now couldn’t educe what words Maggie had really delivered. Too much was clanging around now. Had she suggested even the word sad? A word close to sad? It was awful, tragic, sickening, heart-wrenching.  It was. It was when Jess had witnessed it, and still when she remembered it for it wasn’t gone.  It had made a home within her and sometimes she was successful at locking the door to that abode, travelling elsewhere, but when she came back to her heart which sometimes and unfortunately beat on solid ground, that was what she had to return to.  So whatever Maggie had remarked, it should have been what Jess had wanted to hear.  Something, anything to mitigate the fact that here, her heart was a shack and that only in her dreams was there a safe place to dwell.

“You’re angry today, Jess and that’s okay.”  Maggie voice softened as she continued, “But I wonder if really you’re just sad?”

Could she be angry and sad at the same time or was the anger holding fort, keeping the tears at bay, avoiding any healing or reconciliation between one world and another?

 Jess protected her face with her hands to hide its contortion when she squeezed it tight, willing anguish of some form to alleviate. 

Maggie stood from the chair by the bed and approached the bed where she then perched, placing  her left hand on Jess’ thigh by her knee.  Jess felt something in her heart burst and she began to now cry hard.  

Maggie didn’t speak but nor did she act as though she were uncomfortable with Jess’ show of emotion. 

How would she ever be able to do this? Retain that peace and joy she felt with him, and bring it over?  She wasn’t strong enough.  In this state, even with Maggie’s presence she was fighting hard against the voices and the smudges of what she thought she’d polished in strong veneer.  Now the tears exposed her own truth, perhaps, that she was weak and weary and bone scared and sad but actually furious too.  Furious about the situation.  This was a no-man’s land for her. It was built for others- not for her.  Her diagnosis only proved that. She’d barely been able to walk through it before, and now how would she ever?

“You aren’t alone here,”  Maggie said finally as Jess’ tears ran dry as the land she felt she lived in.  

When you don't know
where your story's going
because you don't know where
             your life is going.....


             Keep going.
                               Go with the
flow or go against the grain
but, go.

There is healing in movement.
                             Move loudly in protest
                                or move slowly in silence
but be
moved.  To tears,
             to action,
             to goodness,
             and on toward necessary change.

You worry
you're wandering.
but steps mean trust and the path is hidden only from your weak eyes.
      Strain, seek.  It will one day be made plain.

“Would you ever leave? I mean, would you leave if I wanted you to?” she asked Josh. 

It was evening here.  He'd been waiting and they sat side by side under a willow tree.  The sun was turning in for the day and Josh’s face appeared shadowy. 

“Would you want me to?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted, a deep regret for asking him that question rising in her.  How could she want that? How could she possibly want to give up the one thing, the one person, who bestowed upon her a sense of belonging.

“I’ll stay with you for as long as you want,” he declared, leaning back, placing his hands behind his head for a pillow.  Jess did the same and they stared at the sky which was canopied in clouds tonight.  Starless.  

Why was it night?  She sat up with that thought, knowing it had never been night here before and then when she was sitting, it was in her bed.  

She peeled back the curtain and looked into her backyard.  The sky was cloudy and starless.  

Art Every Day - My first time

She had walked home without really being aware of her steps. She had grabbed her lit assignment and drawn a bath.  She'd set her fattest towel (her special bath towel) on the sink, poured the bubble bath and lit the candle. All these things her mom had sent her for her last birthday.  Perfect gift for a lonely, dateless girl.    Her tears had dried but her insides felt raw, as if the salt of her crying had done permanent damage. She started in where she'd left off on A Room of One's Own.  The words blurred strangely together but she gave attention to focus and when she read the lines, "What is meant by "reality"? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable"...  she put the book down, carefully on the sink so as not to get it wet. She turned the water on hotter, and then let the faucet pour the water through her hands as she tried hard  to recall the most recent memory of him.  The moment had endured deliciously but of course, had ended too soon.  And so here she was again in this world, immersed in the hottest water she could stand,recalling his face, his feet, his hair, the way he'd looked leaving.  She needed some comfort. Surrendered to the warmth and the water, she inched down so her whole body, face included, was covered.  She lay there listening to the sound of engulfing water.  She was sad.  That was just it.  Sad.   The confusion had dissipated but she was left here, in this house, this town, this world, alone.  Her heart had not broken when he’d left but it was breaking now in his absence.  He came at will it seemed and she wondered if she had any say in their meetings.  Underwater, she imagined for a brief second what it would be like to scream soundless, submerged; to let the water fill her lungs.  Coming up, she gasped for breath and reached blindly for a towel for her eyes.  She wondered if he could see her now, see her choice, however meager, to live.  See her pain.  It was a strange thought and one she hadn't considered before. She whispered his name.  Nothing.  Finally,when the water had cooled, she rose and wrapped herself in that fluffy, thick, white towel which spoke of her solitude.  She didn't even bother with pajamas.  She just walked into her bedroom, laid down on top of the covers, thoughts of him, her blanket and fell into a deep sleep.

Fire (excerpt)

We are learning to make fire, she thought.  What was that from?  That was exactly what it felt like.  As they kissed and she learned of earthly passions, yes, it was like learning to make fire. That first discovery of creating sustaining heat.  The excitement  of the first flickering spark and then  it spreads and grows more glorious, casting dangerous but delicious heat and they gathered this from each other’s embrace, feeding each other of these brilliant moments, this shared coursing of desire in their limbs, their tongues, everywhere.   

 “Did you hear me?” Keith asked. 

  She looked up at him, his fork down, waiting for her response.  He’d said something stupid, she thought, trying to recall his question.  It had been something cliché.   It was better when he didn’t speak.

Submitting at Kristen Lamb's blog, too.  (author of Are You There Blog,It's Me Writer and We Are Not Alone, The Writer's Guide To Social Media.)

excerpt 3

It was eight am.  She'd been up for half an hour but hadn't moved from bed.  She didn't feel good today.  And she was trying to remember.  She needed to remember.  More so than usual.  That dream had been important.  For she hadn't spoken.  She had listened only.  This much she could recall.  And what he spoke, was meant to be carried over.  

                She continued to resist the urge to open her eyes.  Over the years, she'd learned that as soon as she let the light of the morning in, the dream quickly faded so that it became less and less tangible throughout the day.  And she'd accepted that somewhat but today she felt a pressing need to recall his words.  They had been an answer, she thought, to some unspoken question.  It was almost as if a language was spoken there, in the night which was also day, a language untranslatable in this reality.  But why then would she grasp for it so? Why this unease at the forgetting? If it wasn’t translatable how could it be important?  How could she love him so much when she couldn’t even identify him, speak his language? 

                But she understood at night.

Excerpt 2

Her hand began to tingle just slightly.   It had originated in her fingers but she had ignored it until it moved across her palm and throbbed.  Still, she resisted opening her eyes.  This happened at times; one or another of her body parts would beg for attention and she'd be drawn away.  Careful to stay focused on keeping her eyes shut, she did allow her mind to wander quickly to her hand.  There she felt her worn, crocheted blanket, tan and hand-rubbed thin throughout the years.  If she saw it, she’d find herself in her bed.  No! If she could just stay a little longer here.  The blanket is with me here, she thought.  And yes, now it was.  She was sitting on the bank and there. There was the rush of the water on her feet.  Her right hand fingered the blanket that lay beside her, grass prickling through its holes.  See.  There were other ‘things’ as well.  He’d brought a picnic basket, plain.  Mmm.  What was it?  When he brought food, it was simple but so delicious, so nourishing.  She looked for him now.   There.  He was walking toward her, and the sight of him stabilized her and her heart swelled.  She swallowed down hard any uncertainty, turning once more toward the basket. Had he remembered something to drink?  

First Excerpt

Novel Encounters:

He carried a peace about him, as though he had never encountered anything harrowing in this world, as if he wasn't even from this world.  It seemed as though nothing could touch him but at the same time, there was no arrogance about him.  In fact, he exuded humility and his eyes held a gentle understanding that defied the notion that he’d not been touched by heartache.  

Vast

Source: None via Nicole on Pinterest

That I could see the world with Wordsworth's hope-filled eyes,

                                   Romantic wonder.

                                              To find within the simple, that which is profound.

                                                    If I could be so close to heaven

                                                                                            and majesty-declaring angels.

But, ahhh, it lays before me, vast, in tiny moments and my eyes are opened wide.

I Will

All girls long for little luxuries,
                             for flower feasts,
                             for deep bliss submersion.

So darling, though they bloom
 not as beautiful as you,
                   I will bring you roses, I will draw your bath.
                   I will paint your childhood with love, colors, vibrant, as best I can
                                                                           and your story, I'll pen with belles-lettres,
                                                                                                         while I'm able.

And when fully blossomed and in love
                                 my prayer will be that he, too,
                                                  will often bring you roses.


Submission for Thursday's Poet Rally, sepia scenes, feeling beachie

Bring me a cup of sunshine,
This coffee, black is failing me.
Yes, I need the warmth,
                   the light, the glow inside your
magic mug.
For mornings are my hardest
                                          time and joy is what I need.
                                          Throat swigs, liquid yellow drink.
Bring me a cup of sunshine,
                                   I'm giving up on the blue pill.
                                   It's air and meditation for me.
Colors,
changing, rearranging, rainbow
      new.
I'll take a cup of sunshine, please and maybe, a good book, too.

But like what?

I collect my thoughts
not like stamps placed neatly in a book nor quarters lined in order,chronological
                                                   but like
what?

Here's one:
It's gone.  Can I conjure?
 Let's see.
 Never use terms of 'we'.
 But I do, to talk
        of you and me.

There's, 'on friends' with 'reflections' and a 'night sky' all together
then there's
 'caught then and still'.

The water dripping
distracts
 but no, there it is.
                     It brings it back.
That simple movement of up and to
 and now I know but that was wasted and it's gone...
come back.
 I think I have it...
If I can silence long enough.

Is the brain betraying,
                     too amped up on coffee and it all?

This:

Words said,
enough;
written, superfluous but
    the much exceeds, spills
and sits till spoiled.

How to quiet the
                   tumult?  Tame the beast or name the beast?
                                       Eat, pray, love.  Could it be that simple?
                                                                             Brought to mind all that calms.

Imitation

Would you catch me if I fall?
I hear you hesitate, I hear you stall
like one tripping on a crack;
stammering foot, stuttering answer
would you cure the cancer
eating angrily at my well-formed thoughts and creeds
like the insect intent on destroying weeds?
Answers though, don't come sailing
but instead with fractious failing,
They topple with the vicious waves.
I know you might
if I would fight.



Pretty sure that no one would recognize this as modeled after T.S. Eliot.  But I had to attempt.  Not because I love him so much (quite the opposite) but because this was too coincidental.  I'm currently a student of English Literature.  I'd been sailing along quite nicely - until "The Waste Land".  I read it and didn't understand a word.  Furthermore, I thought, "This is insane.  He was insane!  And yet, he's supposed to be some poetical genius.  And surely I'm supposed to 'get' him.  I have to 'get' him.  If I don't, I've made a mistake in my field of study."  Frustrated, I grabbed my six year old daughter and said, "We're going to write a poem.  Go grab some random books - we're referencing them."  So we wrote a nonsense poem including nursery rhyme references as well as references from Hemingway, amongst others.  The next day, my teacher admitted that she found this poem to be 'exclusive'.  That the references were so many it would be hard for most to follow.  The above poem, I modeled after the first stanza in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" which I enjoyed so much more than "The Waste Land."  


Submitting at dVerse

Wonder

I could stare at you this way forever,
                        Your perfection and wonder how from me you came.
                                                 And why.
                                                         Why I was blessed in such a way, entrusted. And how,
                                                                                                                                    How, beauty born
in this cruel world could be.  Can I protect you?  And I wonder if.
If you'll be okay, if I'll be enough.

 And as
I wonder,
You sleep, at peace, so sound.
You know not yet of worries and questions and concerns.
                 New still, you know not much.
                             Later, I will teach you.
But for now, I'll watch
                           and wonder.
         

                                                                                                                                   

Lanturnes

Light

shining

through the trees,

casting shadows

here.

Source: vintageous.com via Nicole on Pinterest

********

Dress

of green

hanging there

tempting me to

buy.

*********

Mirror

reflects

an image

me shocked and

still.

Source: thepapermulberry.blogspot.com via Barbara on Pinterest

**********

Mirror

atop

vanity,

I, myself, am

vain.

Source: sunsurfer.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

*********

Lights

leading

to the house

where we will be

one.

*******

Source: upstategardener.blogspot.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Path

checkered,

stone and grass,

leading you to

me.

**********

Lamp

atop

a table,

casts light on my

world.

*******

Source: brabournefarm.blogspot.com via Nicole on Pinterest

White

dishes

overflow

the full cupboards-

crash.

******

Source: discardedforlorn.blogspot.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Bed 

invites

with blankets,

strewn all about.

Night.

*******

Cups

stacked high

pull one down

have some coffee,

please.

************

You,

over

there, inside

my mirror.  Get out

now.

*********

Limerick

A woman in love with rhyme
Seeks but never finds the time
To give to poetry her all
For always a child will call
A woman in love with rhyme.

This mother of a measure
Thought to versify a cure.
She found housework to be a waste
So she slaved away in haste,
This mother of a measure.

She stole away to create
Thieving hours was her fate,
For children, sweet, but desirous;
Yes, they put up quite a fuss.
Now, steal away to create.

She just sits down, up now quick.
Spared not for a limerick.
Pen back, now paper, aside.
Return later to confide.
She just sits down, up now quick.

Green Room

Hanging in the green room at 12 news.  First time here.  I'm excited but edgy.  My stomach's flipping all over the place.  What the heck am I doing here?  Yes, this is my dream.  My face seen, my voice heard.  So why do I feel like a fraud?  Obviously, they want to hear me, see me.  Clearly, someone believes in me. In my message.  I've been prepped.  They've attempted to calm me- but still.  Man, I'm anxious.  It's a good thing they had me come early because I need to breathe.  Would it be awkward if I did yoga right here?  Probably.  No, really, it's quite nice in here.  Hey, it's actually green.  The walls, the couch.  Green.  And a nice, sage sort of green.  A settling green.  And there are plants.  Plants of all shades of green.  Hmm, too much green.    Ok, down dives my head.  Between my legs.  I hope I don't need a paper bag.  Shoot.  They just called my name......here goes.  Wish me luck.

Status Anxiety-Write On Wednesdays Exercise 6 - Status Anxiety: Log onto your Facebook/Twitter page and write down the first status update you see.  Set a timer for 5 minutes. Write the first words that come into your head after your prompt. Stop when the buzzer rings. Do this exercise over and over if you wish. If you don't do the social media thing (there's bound to be some who haven't succumbed!) email me and I'll send you a status update from one of my social media accounts. If you feel uncomfortable about using one of your friend's status updates, consider using the most recent update on Lamebook, the home of the funniest and lamest Facebook status updates. -  prompt from inkpaperpen where I'm submitting today.

My sighs, my heart cries-
fragments of psalms.
Hear me God, like You did David.
I need deliverance.
I need safety and peace.
I need silence and words,
tears and healing,
compassion and strength.
God, hear my heart speak
the words my mouth can't form.

What's Hidden?/ Perfect Poem Award :)

"Poetry is concerned with using with abusing, with losing
with wanting, with denying with avoiding with adoring
with replacing the noun. It is doing that always
doing that, doing that and doing nothing but that.
Poetry is doing nothing but using losing refusing and
pleasing and betraying and caressing nouns. That is
what poetry does, that is what poetry has to do no
matter what kind of poetry it is. And there are a
great many kinds of poetry." -Gertrude Stein




Do you see the trees?  The forest, the scene?  
What's hidden within? 
Are you lost?


Whose lies do you believe?
Whose story do you cover?
Can you call it like it is?


Do we grow together?
Are we growing apart?
What's growing here?


I am the noun you replace
when you silence me. 
But it does not change who I am.


You and I are poetry.
You and I are stories.
Let me write my own. 

Yay! Thanks, Poetry Palace for the Perfect Poem Award.


I nominate emmett wheatfall for the next award.

Sestina

Attempt at a Sestina.  Be gentle.  I probably got it wrong.  :)

He said, 'Obsession.'
and I said, 'That's right up my alley.'
Method as a form of madness,
Calenture of the brain
and I've never been much for medicine.
I'm not looking for a remedy.

You offer me your remedy
to cure me of my obsession.
I swallow hard your medicine,
and find myself in your dark alley.
Thoughts warp inside my brain
and I wonder what is madness.

Sanity or madness,
gives your supposed remedy?
Take an image of my brain,
It's part of my obsession.
The way to get there is the alley.
What effect has had your medicine?

Bitter is this medicine,
inducing only madness.
I arrived through a back alley,
and now I need a remedy
to heal me of my obsession,
freedom for my brain.

I need freedom from my brain.
I need to know who has the medicine
to lighten this obsession,
this certain type of madness.
Who can offer remedy?
I've been searching in the alley.

I must escape this alley.
I must escape my brain.
Looking for a remedy
Looking for some medicine
to stop this sort of madness,
let go of this obsession.

The remedy's right up my alley.
to cease the obsession in my brain.
I'm in need of medicine, I have to stop the madness.


Submission at dverse- poet's pub

Lost

Source: None via Nicole on Pinterest

Lost in your forest
If I see these trees as yours
I can then escape




submission at haiku-heights

Water

Water and Spirit
Unleash your torrent on me
I want immersion

Submission at In Tandem and haiku heights and

Anticipation

Anticipation
Of beginnings and new words,
A sharing of hearts

Source: sunsurfer.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

submission at sensational haiku wednesday

Bubble Vision

In bubble vision,
Reality, the vapor,
We create fiction

submitting at Poets United and Haiku Heights

My heart yearns

Light as a feather,
My heart yearns to be as such.
God, calm my spirit.

submission at haiku-heights

Who was charmed?

I had intended to tame,
            to charm
but
    the strength of a snake cannot be diminished and now the moon's weak light, all I have to see by.
                                                                                  Who was charmed?
                                                                                    What was conjured?

submitting at Magpie Tales

Bold

Bold is the ocean,
Bold, too, the land she tramples,
I, timid as sand.

All Else Corrodes

Do not deteriorate me into a poem.

Yes, I move.  I am

          Moved but I do not ebb and flow by your

          Moods. 

I remain intact despite your efforts at reduction. 

I am truth and if the image

 is distorted, it’s your mirror that is broken. 

                                                                     Beauty cannot be perverted, spoiled or defiled. 

                                                                                                                                     It is

 as I am.

Man’s depravity, adultery has nothing to do with me. 

        Stain not

my words. 

All else corrodes but I cannot be shaken.

                                   The world lays waste, cities crumble,

Motheaten.

     Time

            Eats only man.

              And your poem - faulty, rusted.

I am not a poem. 

I am the Poet.

September haiku

September comes soft.

Subtle, yet I know her scent.

She sings to me joy.

A sensation, if you will

I have this feeling, a sensation, if you will.
                                                 You touch me and the impression left
                                                                                                    lasts for days, wearing a hole in my skin,
                                                                                                                                                    my heart.
I stay in bed when I wake to let it linger.  If my eyes stay shut, you're still here.
    The sun rises and my vision fades.
                  I stretch, unable not to, like a cat and out,
                         through my limbs, my fingers, you move, back into your own world.
                         The world where
you and I do not exist
                        together.

Birth

Slippery and wet,

Furious yet

At the perceived indignity of birth.

Soon, wails die,

You’re resigned to sigh,

As I whisper to you of your worth

And I’ve waited so long,

To hear the song

That I know your life will compose

Only your arrival,

That cry of survival,

Could inspire such glorious prose

But for now just rest,

Knowing the best

Days, are so well before you

I will hold you tight,

And if I have to - fight

To give you all that’s true

For there were months I prayed

Fearing you’d fade

Before you came to be

But I held on to hope,

And He helped me cope

And now through you, it’s Him I see

Only His glory,

Could weave such a story

Of miraculously answered prayer

That’s why now,

I kneel and bow

And place you back in his care

He sent you to me,

And now I can see

Life holds no more meaning than this:

That you are His child

But mine for a while

So I promise, not a moment, I’ll miss

I'll Wait

I'm not going in those woods tonight.
I may not ever.
I'll wait.
Wait until the draw is undeniable.
Wait until the strongest creature in there
comes and takes my hand.
I want, I need that protection.


Linking up at Poetry Jam.

The Story

Written for my teenage niece:





The story is of old.

 Boy meets girl.

Girl gets hurt.

Life goes on.

Source: laceandbow.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

The story is of old.

The plot

       Persists,

 Albeit, thickening,

Thinning by reader’s interpretation, culture’s translation,

                                      Still passing down like a sin

Generation to generation.

It is read, heard, told, seen, felt, and witnessed.

Tellers and listeners alike, each character,

                Author, villain, hero—all have sought

                     to change its ending but though

                     the setting, the circumstances,  these, may alter, nevertheless, the denouement wavers not.                                          

He said, she said,

His fault, her fault,

He hungered, she denied,

She thirsted, he fought,

He didn’t fight, she cried

He died, never though to self.

And the villain slithers away, unperceived.

If you know this story,

Do Dive in.  Absorb, experience, turn the pages, listen attentively to

                                                                  the words.

Are you brave or wise enough to try

and end it?

It is a mystery, a romance, a comedy, a drama, a tragedy but never a farce.

One said,

one wanted,

one fought ,

one cried,

one died. 

He is the True Hero.

He is not a boy.

He is a lover.

He became a man.

He was and is

the beginning

and the end.

Source: 26.media.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Rewrite

The Write on Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the exercises. Don't worry too much about right or wrong. The aim is to Get Writing. Do try to visit the other writers linking up and leave a comment. You can grab the Write on Wednesday button from my sidebar.

Write on Wednesday Exercise 14 - The Mighty Mighty Rewrite...

Zanni: I did a workshop with literary author Mj Hyland, who teachers Masters in Creative Writing at Manchester University. She asked us to choose our favourite book, take the first paragraph and then write our own content into the paragraph, keeping the structure, tone, language etc. It's really helpful!

No time limit. Let's keep up the focus on making each word count. Ready? Set? Write!

Original:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices, had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice. She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, cleaning her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; but she was on the other hand much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.

Mine:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice.  She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, but struggled to keep her heavy eyes open as she cleaned her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; instead she changed into her nightie in the open room but with her front to the wall for  she was much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Freckles all over her arms and face, as well.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.  Charlotte tried not to stare.

(From Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer.  My favorite book as a child.)

Art

She grabs her pencils of many colors and she grabs their essence, adding randomness.
 Her hand flies almost as
quickly as her muses
                     move and she finds freedom
                               as never before.

The hues no longer harness but rather create a chaos
            she then tames.
            She lets go of all preconceived ideas and rules, allowing the paper and the medium to discover treasures, stories
     and hidden meanings.

Her heart
has opened to a novel joy; one that comes from within, or maybe from above.

The settings-normal, sometimes mundane- home, space, but the space is theirs.
Where they laugh, talk, eat, play, learn, sleep and she captures its life, its glory.
They compose their songs and she plays them with her colors.

In their gracefulness, she recognizes His supreme grace and now she believes if He can do through her,
    He can do for her.

 He can make art out of what she cannot yet see.

We, poems

We, poems.

Do we know it? 

How like prose transformed to poetry with flourish, with flowering words,

                                                                                We, too may bud and blossom. 

                                                                                               

                                                                                                As a poem may both bludgeon

  Or bolster beauty,

                So, too,

                 Our words, our lives speak out and over creation,

selves created, selves creating chaos, peace, death or life. 

The poem sees what we seek, expresses concepts like eternity, expands on ruminations of reality,

transports us to where the Poet placed us. 

We, poems of infinite form and choice, yearn to know the Poet’s soul.

Grappling with lines or years, we portray profundity, pose and answer questions of the deep as we are

all the while

stilled or shaken

in or by a poem. 

To Know

He could not open his eyes.  He wasn’t sure he felt any need to.  He lay completely still in state, hypnagogic.  No, he had no choice other than this, could not stand or even sit but for the moment he felt peace, even as he heard voices from two worlds. 

                When he had first awakened, only to realize his current state of imprisonment, he had panicked, though, invisibly.  He could not speak but cruelly could hear.  And what he became aware of were the voices of his wife, his brother, the doctors, talking about him in hushed and solemn tones and then to him, pleading with him to hang on, to please not leave them.  He had tried desperately to respond, to move but could not.  It was torment.  But when he had finally ceased his attempts in utter fatigue and sad defeat he had heard the other voices.  He had seen that proverbial light somewhere in the distance.  And he had strained to make out the words of that world.  They were difficult to decipher but oh, how he desired to understand.  He felt as though he had never wanted anything in his life so badly.  Indeed, he began to think he wanted to know that language more than he wanted even to live.  And then with that thought,  he had apparently, unintentionally fluttered his eyelids because the voices on this side became excited, calling for more voices, and soon the Heavenlies were drowned out.

                 Eventually, he had slipped into another deep sleep of nothingness and when he awoke again and was again awake merely in consciousness but not in body, the voices were still floating.   And he found that the voices fluctuated and, at times, those which came from one realm were louder than the others.  In the earthly realm, where he was not quite sure he wanted to stay, the voices were frantic and miserable.  The heavenly voices were indescribably beautiful, luring him with song.  He had no feel of time, no idea how long he had been in between two states, listening to these voices, deciding, perhaps. 

                But no, there was no decision.  He knew what he wanted.  He wanted to be in the light. He wanted to forever listen to the singing.  His limbs seemed to cry out for this.   Though his wife wept, and for her, he felt something akin to sorrow, he knew the glory waiting.  He suffered no physical pain but experience an especially sharp spasm somewhere deep inside him when he determinably, in his mind cast away the earthly voices.  He had seen a hand extended and when he grabbed it, he knew he was making a choice.  It was a hand only, he could not make out the rest of what belonged to the warm fingers grasping his.  He saw a tunnel and he was led a ways down.  And then he was stopped.  The figure halted and so he had no choice but to cease as well.  It was then that he heard the whisper.

 

“It is not time,” came a compassionate voice and he felt as though he’d stopped breathing.  He wanted it to be time.  He had come so close to glory. 

And then just like that, his eyes opened against his will and he saw his dear wife’s face.  She gasped and her hands covered her mouth as tears ran down her face and she took steps toward him.  And yes, he loved her.  He smiled as best he could because of this love.

  He was called to stay for now.  And he tried to listen as she talked, her voice speeding over some story of his bravery, his sacrifice, the boy on crutches in the parking lot but he didn’t really get it and he didn’t really care.  He knew what sacrifice was.  He would tell her someday soon, what he had seen and how wonderful it was, of this certain great expectation he would now hold so dear in his heart with patience in his remaining days.  

Dream

I dreamt I was in love with you again.  In the clouds, my eyes

                     saw nothing of the pain you caused me.   My

 heart yearned for you, not in the aching way it practiced toward

       the end but in the anticipating, longing way of our beginning.  I chased you through a field of passion, and you turned to

 me, to let me catch you.  Playful

                                                poppies sprung all around

                                                                     us, the sun of our youth shining down on all that once was new. 

                                                                                                                                                                                We lay like that sun would never set but when I woke, I returned to the

 barrenness you left me with and the quiet resignation I’ve learned to live with.


Where the hope still lies.