“Exquisite,” he says as he studies my lines, my various hues.
But I feel abstract; complex but not concrete and meaningless in the grand scheme of things
and blurred. The coda so then begins
because I’ll dance before him one last time and take my exit. My hips don’t seem to want
to shimmy anymore.
His hands
shake as I fold, origami like, paper thin these
days.
I fancy a better me at
times,
someone more ethereal, above it but in the mirror, I’m faced with truth, a
cacophony of voices,
cruel, familiar, condemning until I consent, agree. My heart aches but I hear
it’s meant to be. Not one dragon’s been slayed since I’ve arrived
and I fear it must be me. So, I’ve shelved the promise
(premise?), fermenting into what they want. It’s the mouth that’s
screwed me up and I’m
sorry, just sorry. For being sad and that I don’t know what
to say now, for the commencement of the end and how it had to be.
The palpitations, too. I want to
be so much more unaffected by the discord, the hoarseness in my voice. If I
could, I’d write a more melodious tune, but the
sneers of blame
branded
me long ago. When I clamor to stand, they push me down, so I’ve made a
sort-of home on the ground.
Shh. Shh. Child, who are you speaking to? And why not to me? Stand, child. There’s truth you don’t yet know. But you know enough to stand. You know my voice. Listen. Let it drown out the others. Listen, now. I’m speaking. The song of your life is not mere noise, it’s beauteous as you. You are free. From condemnation, blame and guilt. And the name on you is Mine. My joy is yours, as is my peace and Promises, I keep. Come and listen. Come, believe. Oh, child, the mirror. Your mirror does lie and the dance is done by me. I see you. I see you. Rise.
The Sunday Whirl
“My favorite place. Oh,
how I love you.” And yet I wish it were not so. It’s flesh colored here,
disguised in
lusty glitter. I want to
want more. A
wooer,true not
fellow-feeling.and what is more is
I’m betrothed. I’m captivating but bewitching,
seducing, lovelorn and still devoted. Like a spoiled child, I stay and play
when he bids me come away. It’s a circus here but my appetite is such
that
the freak show turns me on..
I’ve run away to join but now I find I can’t
connect so when I’ve had my fill of flips and falls and
tightrope acts, and all
that is not gold, then I’ll return, head hung low,
forgiven.
poetry picnic
II
Waxing poetic, of late. Becoming,
by degrees, the poetess I am, grateful I’m a woman, not
a Poe or po’boy though I do sing for my
supper but
hunger not, as the words fill more than my soul. My woman’s touch,
touches much and my garden grows flowers of age. I tarry at my work and by which...I mean - which? Lullabies
still linger
in concord with
the time.
I stave off victuals but never for them and on them, it’s arguable no
irony
is lost. My fast comes by choice and only from striving comes starving. Our lodgings, here, there, where? everywhere,
like Seuss or in Thoreau.
Today, I sew not (“as
a woman’s dress, at least, is
never done”) but sow
still,
pensive as all
since
Eve but quiet, not – do you hear the roar? Can you feel the thrill
of a day gone well? And as I write- that irony? The littlest, a girl of
three,
two apples holds she.
at
the window now, tempting
me to
up and
at ‘em, grab ‘em, to Goblin Market go we for a lesson or three on the wares of such
monstrosities. Growing, going,
gone.
II
But instead, we dance and I think of Tennyson, meaning to think
of Eliot, mixed up for obvious reasons but also that I’m
thankful for this dance, that I danced with her, that
it’s a gift and she shares her Pink
Lady which I bite as we spin and the juice,no longer forbidden, squirts like a christening as
we twirl until I dizzy first and pass her to her sister.
Do not
the celestial spaces speak
a story we all can hear? The play of color, words.
The rainbow, poetry. Tell me it’s not so and I’ll know
we speak a different language, you and I. The clouds,
a patchwork of paragraphs to form a truth, like the
peacock, butterfly or pearl,
playing, dancing party-colored, as an
invite. All manner of mosaic by a master hand. Come away, they beckon, there is a pot of gold. Carnations blush in answer when
the beryl sky blooms
so why not we? Ultra the marine sea when her waves pull
heavenward. Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly and the sweet
orange tree flames
forth but we…we
want to
be
black or white. Perhaps gray…but that’s
still dull. We denigrate or bleach to stone, forgetting
the possibilities of just the quartz. We sum up the
epic in neat type-print
and the clacking of the keys drowns
out
the melody of
the northern
lights. Hi ho,
it’s off to work
we go and we whistle
out
of tune, pretending solemnly we know – of anything at
all…of literature, polite; the
muses, maybe
and the clouds laugh so hard they cry. We run for cover and they have no
choice but
to match us in our haze. They eclipse, they render dim the
sun, casting over and then exhausted, finally, the
light
retires….we imagine. But the moon in protest glimmers just a sprinkle,
And I write on what’s been said before; clothe in words, expressions I didn't author. I’ve formed
nothing and certainly nothing out of dust. I’m just a beggar canvassing any to
view the canvas painted with an all
inclusive
invite to the
party for the prodigals. The party for the pious and the poor, the Pharisee and pure if they
might see like Michelangelo, a hand stretched
down, look into the sky and hear a story, true.
openlink night, jingle poetry
At once, a mystery and still crystal
clear.
The mind does
not reveal, but the eyes… or the mind’s eye. That tip of the tongue,
untranslatable, heart knowledge, given by the Giver of all good gifts.
Transparent and elusive as water, carried to the
inner man, reserved for the one who
will root through
the rubble of his own encumbrances for the pleasure of He who discloses.
What organ
of sight should
we lean on? And whose understanding? You’ve been told, so listen,
hawk-eyed, wise as and gentle as.
Both.
The hour glass drips her sand, counted, waiting.
But heaven’s been imparted in many languages, human formed.
Or not.
The master key defines.
In other words,
in other words. The marrow within,
it knows,is familiar with enlightenment if but a
glimmer.
The deep
searches the deep and wisdom is for the
taking here.
Instinct causes thirst.
Richer than southern
soul food. Succulent, I savor the taste
of your words, let the wisdom
roll slowly over my tongue and through my mind.
Even the presentation, dramatic, like morning glories,
doing their showy thing
first thing. Daybreak their cue and ‘'Vivid - now, go!”, making
me want to bend right
into
you so I can pop like that. I want to
live on those branches, hold such potential. Sway, too,
to the
song of sunlight.
I want
to unlearn the tricks of dark, the twists of night and instead, sup with you
for breakfast. But the push and pull remains, as the circle of the seasons,
the cycles of dawn-to-dark, . Can I remember though, that
that’s the
thing? To stop the effort, give in to rest, relax,
while you sink in. You come, always, mighty as a river, energy to overtake
my strivings. Your strength
shows forth, your power, when I at last admit
I’m weak. And
it’s
in the breath.
Yours and mine. The breath you gave me and breathing in –an exchange.
More of you and less of me. Just glance my way and let me
catch it. Bring to mind that melody that once I knew, of sweet refrain and
ease.because I don’t fear the
fire.
The flames, they heal me, warm me and I want it, wild,.to overtake. Make
me flexible for
the forming, melt
me for the molding. I am yielding because your hands, strong,
not forceful, but kind
and gentle, and altogether
good are compelling me to good.
wordle 52
