Waking

I am waking to
                     the flames.
Come
                             and fill me.
                                         My knees shake.
                                       
                                                       Stirred by beauty,
                                                                            ablaze to love.
I can feel it rising,
tantalizing,
song
                                                sung in unison and I can't be still.
                                                         I am dizzied, drunk
like
by the grappling between what I want and what I fear,
                                but release is welling up and I am warming to the call, the splendor of all You are.
                                                      Wash these feet of clay so they might run.
                                                       Won over by
                                                                           Your goodness, I waver less and less;
                                                                           Your love, immeasurable.
Give me voice and words,
a
         melody.
Draw me close.
Send
in sheets, a purifying rain - renewal.
                                                   Woo me with in an unrelenting romance because I believe
and I am done with safe.
            I have stood long at
                                          the edge,
yearning for the courage, testing depth with pebbles thrown in plea.

Make
me brave enough
to say
        Your name.
My knees shake
but no longer, in trepidation
                                     and my heart confesses truth of
                                                                                     ownership.
Bend me to Your will.
   Erode my own.

The Sunday Whirl


                                                                         

Tenuto

Hold this note long.  Play it loud
to sound out
reverberation of the past.
Win me over.
I have
                tripped over my own heart and now the knees of my desire, skinned and bleeding.
Your balm
just
                                     might do the trick.
                                         I have been a slave
to the faulty
           fatuous
mirror of love; returned vacant stare with vacant stare,
                     emptied of all I thought I knew,
fawned foolishly
                                    over a man that was not real.
Cheated myself out
                          of every hope.
                                                    Now,
like a
baby mouthing everything,
                    I want
                             to taste -
                             to
feel,
again.
You've proved persistent,
                 unremitting, held out, priming,
                                                    prodding, kept calm in the fever pitch peak of all my fear.
Still,
I want to
  test
your durability-
your lung capacity.
                 Can you survive the swell of my uncertainty; decode my
                 cryptic messages, balance the act between
                             my cleanest meanings and
                                      all attempts at
sabotage?
Will you break if I drop you?
Can you keep me coming back for more?  
Will you lunge
through my limits, veer past my inhibitions,
                                               plunge into waters
deep to save me from
grip of misandry's tentacles?
How long will your promises last?
                        Your garden grow?
                                   Are your vows perennial?

I am sectioned off.
Head,
                                                                                                               heart
and soul.
Can you piece my roving instincts back together?
Create
collage from the amalgam of my inclinations?
                                                     I want a
lot and I need still more.  I have
                                             hues you've never seen
but they
are fading
      fast, trapped
between the black and white drone of dying words.
                                                 Revive me.  Change my thinking.
Show me the strength of your hands.
                                                   Are they tender
                                                   and able?
Can they cradle my undertones, read me like braille?
I have mimed what I should have spoken,
                                   signed consent for you to see
but perhaps the least I could have done was whisper.
                  See, my veneer of
                                    nonchalance is chipping and
                                                         I have nothing
up my sleeve.  I've learned that I'm a novice
                                  and you, an avant garde paramour.
                                         You are ravishing in your
lavishing and I am empty handed, fad worn
  and tattered,
         trying not to
balk at new attire.
Be patient
  as I hone my skills
    so I can play along.  My tongue is dry from thrush
                             of falsehood
 but my fingers work just fine
and I think
                                  I'll find I'm capable of ceding.  I ache like any
                                                 mother and can listen
                                                                           like a friend, so creep like ivy up these bricks I've
                                                                                                                                          built to keep you out.
  Outsmart
           me, baby.  I am close to yielding but
                                                                need you to be nimble,
prompt,
because I am running out
   of time.  I am aging
                    and
so
somewhat haughty; huffy,
                 high and mighty but softening with each kindness shown.  Travail through
                                my raving, flailing protests and I'll
                                                           lay them down.
I want you
but I'm scared I'm broken.
I maintain
  my lack of need but maybe, I'm only talking
                                                trash.
I've fenced off sentiment but there are slots in every story told,
                        so spot
these inconsistencies and if you could, forgive.
         I'll confess to culpability but never grovel.
                 Notice my vices but praise my virtues
and if your
           light is bright enough,
I'll hover moth
           like in the night so you can catch
me.
I'm split right through
            the middle now,
                  move in.
Tread careful.  Kick up gravel
so I can hear you come.


The Sunday Whirl
                   
                                           

Binding

She is
(somewhat) sober now, but sleepy, and so everything is funny. She laughs without control,
                                                                          abandoning herself to
                                                                                                       the leisure of not caring.
                                                                                                               She belches loudly, and this erupts
a new peal, waves of chortling
                                 carrying across the small, dank bar,
                                                                        disgusting some, infecting others,
who giggle along.
                                                                                   The man she is with belongs to this first group.
                                                                                     He is not amused,
                                                                                                 and his stern
gaze
catches hers and she
                 quickly
                 quiets.
His eyes growl
                       the way her father's used to when
                                                   she'd come home
late,
words not necessary to convey the message:  deep, deep disappointment.
She shifts
         on the stool, attempts to make light, a slight joke but
falls
flat
and he responds with a terse command that it is
   Time
   To
   Go.
She shrugs,
as though she gives no credence to his threat to leave without her,
and though past evidence suggests he
                 won't,
she wonders,
                 worries,
just enough.
               He
is worn out,
the
dark circles beneath his eyes, telling.
          Is this love or some strange duty he feels obliged to?  She's not quite sure;
            fears, almost,
                              to know,
though the
lurking uncertainty a consumption almost
                     as complete as drink.  She misses his
                                                       smile, withers inside a little each time she reaches for him and he stiffens, returns her touch with tepid put-on affection.
   Their old way of
playful banter
                   replaced with either
laconism or lectures.  She
     no longer bothers to counter
                          his well made points, slants secretly,
                                 even,
toward his side.
                                                      He treats her
like a child
because she acts like a child.
They
      agree on this.
                       She hands him the keys, chastened and contrite.
Fellow drunkards flash
                                                    looks of pity as
                                                                          she stumbles
                                                                                        behind him on the way out. Still a
gentleman,
he opens the passenger side door and helps her in, his eyes though, cast down, as if
                                        the very sight of her is painful.  She
                                           expects this and accordingly,
                                                                 demurely turns away herself, drops her
                                                                                                   hands into her lap.   Now baneful tears burn,
and she
                          squeezes them back
before he climbs into his side of the car.  She can't stand the way,
                                                                                           when she cries,
his resolve slips into helplessness, fueling her own.  She will not
                      use these tears
                             to trump.
                             The car seems to crawl up the long road home and
                                          she stares
out
    the window at the woods she knows well.
Even in the dark, the leaves on each tree seem to individualize,
wave,
as they creep on and on.
              Born in tree country, in all this green, she tries to think back, to when it all turned grey.
She curates memories
                             in the museum of her mind,
categorizes chronologically events that may have led to current state;
  any proof that she is justified in her slow demise.
                          She finds nothing.
                          He has
refused to speak,
but she curves toward him now, watches
            the methodical rise of his chest as he breathes.
             He pretends not to feel her eyes, fixates instead on the road that's winding.
The entire
world rests heavy on his back.  He is exhausted.
In an unexpected move, he
                 extends his
                             hand.
Stifling a gasp at this
prodigious marvel,
              she gently centers her own
      in his.
Her
          heart thunders
and against her will, she begins to sob,
               so gratefully relieved by this rescue from the hell of her mind.
               She is too immersed in this emotion to notice his reaction,
though
               he is strangely
calm,
less mortified by her feminine bent eruption than he might normally be, despite even,
the continuation of the cantering tears; the effect made of streaks of inky, wavy, stripes
down her cheeks.
By the time
      they are home,
she looks worse than usual.  He carries her, though she is still entirely conscious,
places her tenderly on their double bed.  He
  edges in next
                    to
her slender, frail frame.
They are both still fully dressed.
                      She is both his illness and his cure, and
likewise,
as she
relaxes in his arms,
        she recognizes and gives into
the soothing, medicating effect, of his closeness.
They know this is
               wrong.
This need, this cycle, this
     self-defeating dance they do.
                             Neither is
                                          strong enough to stop.
Maybe if they could, they would,
but they are dependent as though for air,
and
jailed by their
                  respective roles,
duet of denial, a relationship
                         reminicscent of lyrics by an 80s hair band.
She is distressingly
still beautiful to him, beguiling.
He is gracious host to
                  her parasitic nature,
                                  capsized in
                  her raging sea of insanity, soaked thoroughly through in her sorrow.
                                                    They lie here, just on the brink of dawn with these
                                                                            separate realizations.
Morning
will soon arrive with invitation.
The sun will pine across
beryl sky
for their acceptance of her light.
     Their breathing slows in unison and they shut their eyes against prophesying
                                                                 moon glow.
This is
just
    their way.
       Early, before they know they've
       even slept, a goose signals to her flock that
                                                 it is
                                                  time for flight.
                                                                     He rises first, of course, brings her
                                                                                                coffee.
She tells him
she is sorry,
sips the hot forgiveness,
savoring these
symbolic beginning mendings they continually repeat.
                                                 He meant today to
be the day of endings
but rays flicker in, cast shadows on her sadness
and he sits beside her,
                  biding,
                  binding.

The Sunday Whirl
Three Word Wednesday



               

                             

To Go

She is truly seeing stars-
and sight hindered,
                            grasps for a hand that is not
                                                              there.
He had
taken a clean swipe; walked out, unfazed.

Untouched for
 weeks,
           she had fooled herself into thinking
                                                     those days were over.
The flesh on her cheek burns where he struck her.
She wonders how, anymore, she can still feel stunned and she blinks away fresh tears.
        She needs not
                                 to
care.
She needs to think.
She needs to take
her chance.
When her vision clears, she glances up and to the right, hoping to God, he hasn't found her
stash.
She listens for him - the
telltale clink of his keys when he
digs them from his pocket; the clop of his
             monstrous, heavy work shoes making their way down the driveway-
her
                              hearing,
sharp as a night creature anymore.
She knows,
most likely, he'll be gone for hours,
         is at the bar....or with the other woman.  No-
          she cannot
                care.
She rises more quickly than she should-
off-
balance.
She needs to leave now, but she sits on the
     edge of her bed for one brief second to collect her thoughts and to will herself still.
            She is shaking.
When at the bookcase, her fingers gently
                                     sweep the dust off one shelf,
                                                then pluck down the first book.  The money
is still
there.
She feels like she is floating.
Tens, twenties,
one fifty.
Will it be
            enough?
She grabs another book, then another,
quickly stuffs the now fat wad into her pocket,
glancing, occasionally behind her.
                                            He does not read, but is arrogant and just stupid enough to pride himself on the many books he owns.
                    He is a man of appearances.
Urbane, reserved, quietly rigid.  He plays his self created role well.
                                                 He is well respected and refined but she knows his
                                                                   secrets.
Has harbored,
             out
             of some senseless
                 sense of shame,
the truth
of his often calculated violence,
    his clandestine affairs, his double life;
                   suppressed concreteness of his cruelty, at times, from even self.
But she knows.
        He is a fake.
More than
          this- he is mean.
Unpredictable, too,
and by design, she never knows just what will
               spark the kindling inner rage, uncage his brutal savagery.
                She never knows what imagined
                                                   injury she might inflict with innocent words,
                                                                                     what motive he might infer.
                                                                                      What she does know is that he will return with reasons. Reasons weighted with blame.
      She has learned the rules, grown clever
              at hiding weakness and emotion.  He has
changed her.  She is not the girl who stood, shivering on the pier in a white, long, but wispy, too thin dress
                                                                                                                          believing promises.
That girl who pictured a happy little nest of a home took flight, perhaps, with the seagulls, before they'd even left their honeymoon.  For when they'd made love that night, it was not.  He was unceremonious and vulgar and scoffed when she wept.
                      He
                     has taught her who not to
be.
She does not question when he speaks, his mouth frothing with lies,
       distrusts, now, the slobbering apologies, infrequent as they are  His nostrils give away what's close, flaring with an undeserved and misplaced hate, a sign that a second round is coming.
He revels at any rare instance he
might catch her frazzled and off guard.
      He will return.
Fear is rising in her throat.
         She needs to go.

The Sunday Whirl
             
       

Found

Where holy
    hillside spills into the
      low, lush valley of the forgiven, away from light of city
 and
                                     brightened at night by only stars,
                                                             there lies, in forfeit, a pile, high, of ashes -burned fury.
                                                             The journey in
                                                                               is curved, swerves often and
                                                                                                               the air is
                                                                                                                     arid,
though shaded patches bring relief when needed.
                       Past, forbidding, calls continually out;
beckons return to height.
      Keep on, fledged with
                                  wisdom found.
Reward
       awaits.
              The way is written.  Bid not,
               the company of grudge.  Unbind soul of all
               that hinders, tread with perseverance through
               the
sedge where hidden motive pricks, sharp and beast of moral ire hunts.
Savor
                             not
                                 the stale taste
of
what has been.
   Nearing descent, hew with prudence the path alongside sidehill's edges
                                and when just past hedge of fear,
                                                                   gust of fervor will welcome
home the
          tried.
Vainglory now behind,
see gathered swarm of watching saints.
        Absolved
        assuredly in grace, the wretched ghosts of prior scorn
                                                  depart with sighs.
                                                                 Here, the clamor of what is finished is finally stilled,
                                                                                                           freedom finally
                                                                                                           found.

The Sunday Whirl
Write at the Merge