Broken Pleas

Lord, hallowed be your name. Merciful / Lord
                                of reconciliation, hear my / poem as prayer; these broken
pleas in lines,
Lord; /                                        
                                                                             metronomic musings,
unmusical, / heavy with fear.  Lord, hear not my
                                       numb speech /
                                                                                                      but the token−
                                 the meaning.                                                            Take
away / the hindrance of self−
                                the sense of− and leave / with me a greater sense
of your presence; / Your spirit within revealing signs,
                                                                             sight / restored
                                                                       and light.  Within this rare shining, /
shine through
the gift of losing self to You. / This vital understanding
awakened / only in sheets of grace poured out and down /
                                and seen in strips of visibility, / so release me of all pride,
                                                         generate / humility and create connection /
                                                          so I might dine with you in communion /
drink from goblet
                                                                                              of signification /
                                                                                             my sins forgiven
by sipping tipped back / offering and again in harmony / I pray Thy kingdom
come, Thy will be done…. /
                                       Amen.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                                                          

Our Bedroom

The lock on the door that does not keep the children out; every
size of sock, balled up, scattered everywhere, unpaired;
dead
deep-red roses
drooping sadly, heads bowed down, stems entombed in a clouded
vase− eleven of them, so, one short of a dozen
(strange); brown framed
               depiction
of a laughing, happy Jesus beneath a brown for background
canvas of our names in cursive inside heart of petals; bought
for twenty dollars at a yard sale,
          end of day,
two velvety violet-ish
couches, covered in dog hair, one doubling as a desk, the other
as a hamper; on the coffee table, another vase (this one tinted pink)
with withered flowers– these of unknown variety – purple, too many
to count;...

Plants do not fare well here.  Like the best-laid plans.

                         ... edges
everywhere, crossed, overlaid: books, furniture, shoes overlapping
the edge
where carpet meets tile;
edge of dresser, mantle,
nightstands, all surfaced with papers, trinkets, valuables
and not-so-valuables, threatening
to topple
off;...

There are no clear lines here.  Sharp-played piano keys sound
out.  I cannot tune
                        it out.
Not
plunking of rote song
but rather impromptu melody made by small, playful fingers,
moving like geed horses
and also bullet-voices marking breaks, shooting through
these flimsy walls.

...bluest blue sky
seen from my window; subtler blues inside, copycat shades
on candles, glass, hair on a painting where I was favoring
experimentation, in photographs, scarves,
sheets; lip balm in a small, round tin that I can’t open
but won’t throw out; few spots open for sitting or even walking;...

A dismal mess.  Signaling
   disorder
in our marriage? 
So says a study.

...blanket thrust off the bed in heat, still crumpled on the floor;...

What calm I remember, a ruse believed sub rosa, wrought carefully
with such intricate threads of denial.

...words, words, words, meandering across pages and pages−
poems, prayer journal,
notebooks full of distilled hope; (such
              shallow thirst)
attempts to release heavy weight of this; damaged trust
hidden in a drawer;
half-truths pandering to sentiment hanging on all the walls;...

Media in vitae in morte sumus.

...paperwork combed through for clues; in bowls, matching rings,
unworn; captured and enlarged mocking smile; the muck
of bad luck evidenced in disarray; indulged in urges; aroma
of your cologne, distinct; written rants; and more than what
is written here or even seen.

But, oh, beautiful, imperfect man− my room was a mess
before you moved in.

The Sunday Whirl
                       

Belonging

Not long at all
after we started dating, we declared our song to be “Ho Hey”−
which is a stupid name for a song so we refer to it instead
by the lines of its chorus & these lines, I bought for you
on your birthday with a frame & now hanging
above our bed
are the words, “I belong to you,
you belong to me.”  I read recently
that:
“There is a reason the word belonging has a synonym
for want at its center; it is the human condition”
& I suppose this is true, but the thing is, though now
I can’t imagine how I’d live (or ever did) in your absence,
belonging either to or with another was something
that I always feared; autonomy, the language that I spoke,
the rift that I created to exist between us & somehow,
in spite of this, you caught me & being caught
turns out to not be bad
at all.  In ways, to be sustained in union produces certain
new-found freedoms.
Shortly after I ceased resisting, I found
encompassed in your arms, room to move in brand new ways.
                                   Allurement
sifting previous notions, softening
the hard ground I’d stood upon, so flight became an option. 
Beneath my feet, the sturdy rocks
I’d forever taken for granted began to shift like old, rickety
floor boards in a dangerously aging house
& jumping now, a bit more promising…

another strange
fact of speech discovered in what it means to cleave−
the unwritten understanding that inherent in the explanation
of is a choice:  to split from or stick fast to or also
both if interpreted in biblical terms
& I think
my reasons for remaining
in my alienage were simply
tools
constructing makeshift cliff I wished someone would
save me from, quite confused on the differences between
what was desire & what was need until you kissed me
& my bones turned into wings.  I still can’t speak to you
of love without a stutter but at least the subject
no longer renders me completely silent.  Your courage
baffles me & fuels my own.  Together, we
compose unspoken,
unmatched melody reviving romance.  Released
from cloud-capped
captivity, I’m flourishing feet on ground.

The Sunday Whirl

Struck by Lightning

Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. – Joseph Addison

What if I want to write another poem
on love?  Would that be alright?  Would I need
to apologize?  Last night, the rain fell
just when we were thirstiest, and
as I held you, I listened to the whack
of water smacking against the window.
I watched the drops stain the glass, the blowing
thin-twigged bush outside our bedroom that I've
paid more attention to of late, greeting
it when I wake in the mornings, its gold
buds barely visible except in light
of sun rising.  I am trying, lately,
to form new habits, to notice the small
beauties that surround me and to practice
gratitude.  So, last night when the storm came
I remembered that you love my touch, that
the way my fingers skim your back sends chills
so I traced the outlines of your tattoos
again and then attempted to recall
if I’d ever had an experience
like this− if I've made love to the background
sound of thunder and rain pelting louder
than the music playing to set the mood
and if I have, I can’t now remember
so even though I knew I left my books
outside in danger, I stalled, centering
in the moment, hallowed by our presence
and our choice to still and to acknowledge
that inside love there is something holy
to be revealed so even beckoned by
the worry for my words, surely soaked by
now, I waited until I felt the beat
of your heart slow down.  We unfolded
bodies, redressed and walked out into
the rain, letting the cold drops pelt our skin
welcoming the blasts of wind because in
the desert, we’re parched and storms are something
of a thrill, but still, after rescuing
the abandoned books, we sought safety in
the car, enthralled like children, saying, “Did
you see that one?” whenever lightening flashed,
hunting the sky with eagle eyes for streaks
so as not to miss one and I wished for
a moon roof because they seemed to strike right
above us and you said you could under-
stand how people could want to chase storms and
I nodded and said I understood why
kids and dogs are so afraid of thunder-
storms because even inside the bubble
of the car, the sky lit, at times, so bright
and there seemed to be no seconds between
that and the thunder that I couldn’t help
imagining what it must be like when
one is struck by lightning so I dabbled
in the fancy of our house on fire
even once we’d fallen back into bed
but then I remembered that once before
I’d been struck by lightning – it was when we
first made love, so I settled down against
your warmth in the hollow of the blankets,
fulfilled and remembered that nothing bad
had ever come from entering the storm.

The Sunday Whirl

Myth

The men have written the women into stories;
painted them into pictures; allotting
flesh and virtue,
vice but omitting blood.  Captive,

Andromache
stands at center, at backdrop, jagged hills
and clouded sky. 

She is cloaked in rags of mourning, surrounded,
yet alone.
Arms clasped to chest, head down
like bird at rest.
She protects herself from blades of gaze.

Leighton later frees his brooding image, posing
her deep in dream,
carefully

closing the violet eyes
of England’s most beautiful woman,
so that she might not see
the poison that would kill her.

Liberated from laborious mortality, positioned
now as nymph, her sanctuary lies in sea of sleep.
Here, Ada, aka Dorothy Dene
blooms beneath the brush
stroke of a master.

Finally, a reason to be.
Evergreen,
enflamed
in summer slumber,
uneditable,
engulfed in golden
hues like candlelight
that flicker in the distance.

Warmed in still life.
Imagine if you will, relations between
the artist

and his muse; the classicist and his colors;
the fear of lust,
of men; the mission, then,
to cloister
what is mystery, to vilify as sinful,

the simplicity of love.

Or perhaps, blinded
by the spotlight,
long-limbed

inspiration confuses
love with art, envisages romance
kindling in winter,
unaware she’s doomed to neverending May.

Only when finally, flighted
as Iphigenia’s ghost, does she find her voice.
Under authorship of woman, she states
that the lyricists have lied. 
She did not willingly
sacrifice her life, nor did a hind
arrive to take her place.

Weakness strives

then to possess her but myths
no longer
sway
and she reminds her audience
that “women are no good..
dead.”

 The Sunday Whirl

Quote from The Gate to Women's Country by Sheri S. Tepper

Imploration

We pray to a God who won’t respond…or so it seems.

We pray to a father God, a mother God, a man God, a child God,
a Buddha god, a yoga god, a nature god, a million other gods.

We pray for wants, for needs, confusing these. 

We pray desperately in disaster or alternately denounce existence, disseat,
disrate, spit in the face of what appears to be a placid god,
maddeningly calm in midst of chaos,
refusing to intervene.

Inept or cruel?  Easier to efface:  God is dead.

We worship at makeshift shrines of momentary sacrifice.

Congregate in cathedrals of ecclesiastical décor with alabaster
windows with stained hands clasped and our perfume hoarded.

We are a searching people, blind to what we find.

We look for you in burning bushes, in consecrated bread and wine. 
Parched, we need to taste you. We look to the clouds for signs.
We mine the scriptures, memorizing passages to suit our purposes but not to live by.

We confess to priests, we hail Mary, we pay our tithes, we swear off church, disassociate
with those who claim your name, return in hopes. We are gold-diggers. 

We praise ourselves when all is well and blame you when it is not.

In measurement of altitude, we place your elevation low, humbling you and not ourselves.

We,
who are open and bared before you
                              beg for you to bare yourself.

Herald the works of your hand, we say,
                          so we might believe,
                          then we turn away
from words that say,  I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity. 

We hunger for milk.  We try and force your hand with pleas,
with demands, with the works of our own hands.

We drift away and feel you've left us.
We, who are so depraved with such gall, feel deprived.

We fear you and we do not fear you.

We emplaster you in icons-we want you plastic and adaptable.

We want vivid, graphic, blatant.

Our prayers lay out Irenicons- God, sign here, on dotted line. 

We are a loud people, bold in our absurd appeals,
errant in our exaction.
You are a quiet God, slow to anger.

Your gifts are bared before us, everywhere-

Embossed in vein of leaves we step upon, traced in space of sky with argent stars,
sketched in shadows after every storm.

Yet, I am deafened by your seeming silence.
Open the eyes of my heart. 
Take my mustard seed of faith
and multiply it. Perforate my conscience
that I might observe the wondrous
works of your own pierced hands. 
Create in me a clean heart.

The Sunday Whirl

The Sky

Listen to the sky.  The clouds are slipping
                                                 down
coming
closer,
sliding nearer. 
Do you hear
the pull? 
The rain forming, thick?  Ready to release,
pour down her healing…

I hear
her voice in my dreams sometimes-
                                         soft
and whispering
of a coming storm but comforting,
revealing secrets. 
She tells me where there’s shelter.

Can you taste the air tonight? 
It’s sharp and sweet. 
It smells like sleep.
It’s winding
closer. 
There-
it’s settling
in our bed.

The stars position
                                        outside
                                        our window-
flickering night lights
It’s all for us.

Now,
      we wake
to a shroud of mist.
The land
is damp.  The day is glass.  We tiptoe
out
and our footsteps vanish in the grass. 
Our breath appears. 

Listen, do you hear the sky
call out your name?   
There- under feet,
do you feel the rub
of the ground-
          the mud moving
between your toes,
beneath your heels,
responding?

Fashion your feet with the not yet bloom,
the not yet green.
     Soften your skin
with the glisten of the dew.

There – now do you hear
the sky chattering
now shattering
the barely yet
blue?

The sky is shifting, reshaping
but I know where to hide,
where we can watch
the downpour roar.

Listen- it’s christening the earth.
  It’s christening you.   

It’s falling fast, beating out your name. 
It’s all for you.  It’s all for you.

Now, the sun shines.
The sky sighs. 
Now, she’s humming low. 
Close your eyes and listen. 
She’ll talk all day
and tuck you in tonight.

The Sunday Whirl

Body- Held Secrets

I.

I am a secret,
           sealed in skin, 
kept
even from myself.
            Fragment.
Section of a story.
Mystery of a manifold. 
Known only in tidbits
            traveling
like gossip on the lips of women.  Related.
Relished.  Narrated
like old news made new
                  with the retelling. 
Retold
with occasional omission
                  or embellishment. 
Hoarded.  Mess of fact and fiction
upon arrival. 

At times, I am sedulous in my search
for self, sorting
through, separating
whites and colors, or hungry
for more, I cup my ear to glass to soul-door, hoping
to hear what my grownup self might know. 
And, too,
         there are times I turn away,
tired of trivialities,
tired of teleology,
the bother
of knowledge.

I am mere whisper.
Breathed, hushed in the dark. 
Created
        unfinished,
            forming still.  A season –
the blush of fall leaves rustling
under feet or the blossom springing up
pink quick just before summer.
Held by space and time by body
feigning reality. 
Flesh of fiction. 

           And the earth
seems to be more than landscape,
rather memoryscape,
though I can’t recall if this is paradise
or hell. My body
             bridges the lacuna
             between the tangible
and the abstract, refusing
to follow rules of unities. 
My body both belongs
and aches for another home, so I search
the deep, attempting to unravel
                     mysteries
engrafted in my DNA.
I am skin, bones, guts
covering
                    truth
so I creep
cautiously down
to core to excavate whatever’s pure. 
This interfusion of flesh
and soul
       seems so accidental. 
                                    I am in touch,
                                    out of touch,
more than what is seen, seduced
into disbelief by mirror’s reflection
and my own movement. 

II.

My body with its sudden aching
rebels like the feverish child
sent straight to bed,
the child who still wants to play

The day stolen by the sway of illness,
this lassitude, unallayed

The legs on strike so confined and laying stretched, my limbs sink into the sheets

This pain more acute when still. 

Tossing,
turning, left, right, I settle on my back,
hands clasped at chest like death pose and I begin
to pray

First, the furious bargaining that accompanies grief….

Then, finally, in acceptance, abandonment to the discomfort,
the self-admission with some small amount of shame
that this is what it takes to slow me, to draw me
           in
and out.

I cease fighting and the near constant percussion
in the background of this house seems to lower as the paradox
of a newfound, familiar gratitude rocks me
into an almost sleep
where my sight is sharper than when awake
and where when weak, He is strong and I or He prays.

I’ve laid down my one expectant request:  I will still,
here, as long as necessary, only rising when I’m certain
the hour’s purpose has been fulfilled but, Lord, when
I reenter space and time, I must be returned to form,
if only  for remainder of today.

So now, it’s just mostly names, uttered, silent, as I’m reminded
of who but not necessarily what and when my eyes open,
I know what I don’t know, that I’m a little more whole when broken. 
That I’m unfolding and that search for self is only realized in abandonment
of self. 

Only when I am quieted by strain
can I most fully realize
that beyond all
this exists a full reality.

These are mere whispers heard in the hush of light and heaven is closer,
nearer than I fathomed prior.  The earth is just a dreamscape,
His body bridging gap between abstraction and understanding
and his reflection is moving through me.

The Sunday Whirl

Under Cover

"There is something haunting in the light of the moon..." -Joseph Conrad

The moon is pulling waves, even in our bedroom,
tonight, in the middle blue, and I am trying to find
where to talk
from
and my voice.  I rarely speak freely and when
         you look at me, I look away.
I am
trying
to speak from what I know. Simple words
                                     naming happiness or
                                                               sadness.
This is hard because have you noticed it's never
               really fully dark, even at night?  Even
                           under cover
snatched up and around to hide from the breeze
                               or the heat
                               or your eyes?

Under cover of the stars that fall when
obscurity's passion breaks.

I don't know how to unslant
                                     sadness and even less
how to tread
         these tides where my center
bends.

How to say that every single
   other
   other or
nightdayyearlife was a lie and this
  is the truth.

How to unglorify,
             unmuddy
this pastpresentfuture and see
one moment as clay-
just touch
just hold it
               in my hands, squish
               it through
my fingers without some
           grand plan to mold it
                                          into
a gigantic, daunting whole story
paralysis.

I have binged
on words, shoving them
                        into an overpacked
sentiment and then had to lug
     them back home.
I have boxed them neatly, organizing
                      them sterile and tidy.
Square and tight for an overhead bin
      and flight.  I, tonight, can not
                 give them wings but
                              maybe, I can
defer to Angel of One Woman's, All Women's
Blackouts and Clean Sheets
                 and Fire and Hope and Love Affairs
                          and I can ask her,
"Do you know taut pull of moon,
its haunting light(ness)?


Do you know how to speak of one
                     without
                                the other.  Other
without the one?"
Apart from all these words and still pulled
                           everything paired is one.
The moon speaks without
                             words
and I am trying
               to say that (happy or sad) I love you.

The Sunday Whirl

Lectulus

In creating, the only hard thing's to begin...
                                                         -James Russell Lowell


You are Adam
        and
I am Eve,
pre-fall
         and so
vigil held in
pre-nostalgia
waned with wick of wariness,
lessening into daybreak's risk,
and light rising, I signed
             the words, I love you,
then spoke them plain
        saying all I never thought
              I would.
Because lathered in your
before and after
kisses,
        somehow
                        what once gushed
syrupy
seems now likely.

So, here I am, in the wiggle room
  of luck,
believing in the blessing,
            given
           not
by choice or virtue,
but won
by fight,
and the danger of practicality,
looming just above-
        ever easing.

I offer to wisdom all previous
grieving,
repossess
    the wonder.
There is suffering
            still to steer,
              I'm sure,
but together
we
row rapids
  of redemption,
        each wave of what
once was
            and
reaching
            graveyard of the end
                             of what
                                  was once
before,
we'll dig up vision's
bones,
breathe bloom
into the stilted mouths of
                         mocking cynics.
We will
           laugh at sighs and stretching
                         silence,
because now,
voice,
legitimized,
and artificial phrases,
yes, sublimest art.
More is more, and I will serve you
happily
       in return for heart,
because you never gave up
                    chase,
                        and catching me,
you held me long in hidden gap,
wove, like craft, a frame of healing,
waited out derangement
            of my feverish cries
                                              and I
survived.

So, now I give my life to you,
                        my love,
undo
softly, gently,
    false covering of figs,
      abandon fear.
I spill more sumptuous
                           than the fruit
                                              I
tempted with, and ask forgiveness.

Press hard your hips to mine,
                  your lips to mine,
and know the way
by memorizing feel of features.
Know me in the dark and light,
                in the cycles
of our hours,
our habits of formation.
Hear me
in our modern.
In
my notes
            slipped into sack lunch
vows I've never uttered.
Keep them close
as you do my body
in between the sheets
         in early morning
segue.
Taste like lasting taffy,
the sweetness of my thoughts,
        watch my fingers spell
                         in lieu of
                             lines
the pretty gathering of sonnets
                  and regard attempts,
however lowly, to call you home.
Eat with me newly granted
knowledge,
and when spent from toil,
return
   to Eden's bed.

The Sunday Whirl

                                         
           

Punctuates

The rain first falls wishful,
                       wanting more.
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
school blacktop
empty now of lanky players.

It falls wistful
        like
      a grandmother breathing,
                       yearning
    for marshes; dry, praying
                               prairies;
forgotten ghost town
forests.

Lacking these,
              the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
              the storm
              takes the city siege,
                     sends drops down
in droves,
     driving citizens toward safety.
     
People rush awkwardly for cover;
            hurrying
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.

The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
clouds
constructing mood,
          though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.

Now the rain grows into rhythm,
                                               heckling
with her timing and her beat
                       all
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
and awnings.
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
         happening
between the cracks
      where the soil silkens.

The people
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
cyclical
                   systems.
The people with their gear, lamenting
frizzing hair
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
The writers
            isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
           stories,
adding for affect a necessary storm,
like their minds
are individual nations unsurpassed
and can only thrive at selective span
and far away from others.
The people feigning casualty
walking slow like they don't care.
The stuffy, puffy business folk
                  peeking out
                            bespattered
windowpanes,
huffing, checking watches,
                                  wondering
if they can still make lunches.
And just across the downtown street
                    of the high rise buildings
                                          sit the sleazy bars
where patrons come rain or shine.
Some weathering the deluge
just to get their whisky, rum, their gin.
The rain
       respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
                                    of hunger
and not a thing of pain.

The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
        and punctuates.

The Sunday Whirl

Carries On

By, Jove, quips God, What
                                   went wrong
here?
He
slogs through our muddy mess,
scratches His head.
Shrugs.
Wonders,
              Why did I promise not to
flood this place again? 
Makes
                                     mental note to be careful with those
                                                                  covenants.
Dust, he mutters, now shakes His head.  Snorts.
It would
be funny if it
wasn't so damn sad.  He kneels,
pounds His fist into the dirt,
and the
earth quakes.
Humans
hardly tremble.
Calming, He sifts
           through
           the
sand beneath Him, soiling His
fingers with our remains,
pondering
what might have
    happened had
    he
added
an eighth day, a
  ninth day, a
       tenth.
But He's always had a thing for
                                          sevens.
He calls down the
                                                                angels
to console Him.
They hover round with
                                             reassuring whisperings,
                                              reminders gently spoken
                                                                             of
the why.
They praise creation.  He smiles wistfully
                            as they list reasons of why,
still,
                                         it
                                         is
good.

God is swayed,
         stands invisible upon orbiting sphere, begins
          to move in rhythmic dance with heavenly host.
                                                                                   Slowly,
at first,
then
     faster,
       all ethereal bodies tapping
     feet and waving wings and
             arms.
The
                        trees catch on and join in,
limbs
leaping,
leaves swinging, and then
                             the waters too, rippling and
                                                             laughing in cascades and currents, dispelling
myth of disinterested deity
              distant
               in the sky.
We name the action, 'storm,'
                                   sleep even sounder with no inkling of the minds of mountains
                                                                                                 bending,
the
rocks reacting
                  in refrain.
We are a pragmatic people to our core,
                             ignorant of the vibes of glory just outside
                                           our door.
We,
                                                             who lag so far behind the simpler
                                                                                     beings,
the crux of all His hope,
and somehow blissfully
         unaware.
               When morning mist
                                     gently wakes, we deck ourselves in plumes
                                                                               of
practical endeavors,
busy ourselves with our own
importance.
Pass out blame, take all
credit,
employ herculean efforts to
                 run the show
 and live in secret desperation until our deaths.
And God
stands on the precipice of
 the impulse of
annihilation,
thinking,
Maybe this
               is mercy,
then catches sight
of just one ragamuffin mite,
watches
                                              with interest his silly antics .
        Somehow, this creature softens
                          the father's heart of
God,
and so He caves.
                    He gathers the angels for a huddle,
sighs,
and when He
                                                                             speaks,
the wind whirls, emitting secrets infinite and
                                                                                                the world carries on.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                           

               

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