Blind

Am I your latest captive,
waiting for you to love me,
waiting for you to care?

Do you laugh when I walk away?
Find joy in my sorrow,
when you look around
at all the whores in line?
Do you think of me then?

Toss me aside when you
no longer need me.
I am you old rag doll
used up and dirty
from things you never told me.

The truth of your confidence
lies in your conquests,
filth in the bottom of the sink.
You laugh it off.
Like angel dust,
it all just goes to your head.

Love

For every dream I've sent aloft
the moon waits brightly in the sky.
For every wish I've made
a falling star has learned to fly.

For every time I've held your hand
a part of me has become brave.
For each kiss you’ve given me-
a second’s connection that I crave.

For each moment we have laughed
my heart rests gently its place.
For butterflies that dance inside
a smile spreads across my face.

For every day you've spent with me
a tiny prayer is said at night,
for hope of a daydream realized
and one who’s finally worth the fight.

Gone

Wet, autumn air smells of you
for a moment
I forget.
The silence after your constant
chatter halts me,
I remember again
your absence.

You haunted me all day
to punish
or exonerate
Loss, like sadness,
but more penetrating,
reminiscent of past sadness.
Self induced confusion:
freedom from burden
often feels cumbersome
I assume at least at first.

It wasn't your fault
you were that way all along,
it was in the reaction that
sent you away
and you are gone now.
My tears replace your voice.

Meditation

Cross legged
I chant Om,
underneath the elephant’s foot,
silenced by the presence
of a revelation.
Summer drips all around me,
but this grey weight
shields me from the rain.
My heavy, ominous umbrella.

I contemplate to run-
to stand up, stretch, be free.
My elephant remains strong
anticipating movement
beneath his toes.
Weight looming
like an uneasy secret.

Here I must meditate,
here I seek the peace
of salvation.

The Exploration of a Familiar Sky

She maps the constellations
of his skin, discovering triangles,
one dipper against a tan sky.
An arm to any other
may not be this exquisite.

It is not the warmth of the arm
wrapped so tightly around
waist or ribs, nor the way
in which it cradles
her peacefully resting head,
not the strength
held within trained muscle.

Her eyelashes dance
along it’s curve, lips
follow, exploring inch by inch.
If only he could feel
the depth of love
her lips tenderly press
against his skin. Constellations
traced with half closed eyes.

The stars of this world
rival the darkest night’s
distant lights. Her fingers
find the smallest points,
graze each one, counting
how far they’ve come
to meet her here.

Making Peace With Screams

Stuffing myself
to quiet the screaming
I consume
a more painful noise,
knowing it will
momentarily ease
the ache in my ears,
I run to my release,
flushing it all
brings silence.

When everything becomes
a single yell that begs
to be let out, I realize
it is the silence that I seek
that will kill me.

My secret leaks
through the closed door
to the ears of disbelievers.
Though it is
an endless echo
in my head, I find
no one willing
to decipher its source.

Left alone
to dull the sounds,
the silence persistently calls
my name, I have to stop
my self destruction,
learn to live
in a world of screams.

A Daughter's Burden

I am
condemned
by the meaning that he gave
to my name.
Linking me forever to my father’s past,
my father’s actions,
opinions.
My nature is like any daughter’s,
Daddy’s Little Girl.
Yet he blames me for being the daughter
I have become.
I freed my father
from similar condemnation
but he is the one who gave me the key
to gates so grand.
What daughter wouldn’t
set her daddy free?

My name strikes fear
in new mother’s ears,
as they pray
for new life’s purity.
My name alone conjures
punishment, repentance,
hopes of forgiveness.
Daddy named me Sin
and all it meant to me was daughter.
My condemner made it famous.
Its meaning sits
so heavy on my shoulders.

Sonnet for an Unexpected Love

With you and you alone I am set free
If others feel the same I dare not ask
Another love I shall not plan to seek
The thought of losing you, a loathsome task
It is in your sole arms that I am home
How our paths never crossed, I only guess
Vulnerable: a side I’ve never shown
When in your open palm my heart I press

You hold me even when I am not near
I dance for you behind closed bedroom doors
In dreams your image is the one most clear
And I pray every night to see one more

It sounds cliché but you’re my wish come true
So I am hopelessly in love with you

Vision

I See

A Native American child with
braids swinging behind her back
like weaved river’s cold water running
walking empty handed, in a land
that is not her own.
A culture lost lives in the lowest place.
She begs for acknowledgement
like a dog under the table with no name.
Dark skin and open eyes:
the opposite of your own.

Lost Time

Obsolete cassette tape:
Dated 1986 in black marker.
Laughter recorded by mistake,
Thanksgiving dinner conversation.
Snapshot of a suburban,
American family
in sound form.

My parents were still married.
My grandparents were still alive.

The tape holds onto a past
that has long left my fingers.
Grandpa gone in ‘93.
Grandma: this past February.
Mom and Dad parted even before
the following year’s dinner.
A family scattered like bits of sound.

The contents of the tape remain,
buried in a box in a garage somewhere
but the life is lost with time.

Senseless

What a tragic revelation
to know of nothing
that can make you feel.
I'd rather, as I tend to do,
feel everything as individual
snowflakes on my shoulders
after hours in the sun:
precise, crisp. Sometimes
burning, sometimes soothing;
always felt.

The Sickness

You feed upon my curves-
your hands devouring them fluidly.
Last night’s chocolate lava cake
has nothing on me.
Yet still my eyes feast upon
her bones-the epitome
of my desire:
to have no curves at all.

I eat up leftovers.
She has nothing left over.
Her skin draws lines that mimic
the seams of skinny jeans.
Would I fulfill your hunger,
were I to fit those seams?
Or is my empty stomach
the opposite of your dessert?

Still Life

They gather around her like
ants on a dropped piece of sucker or
flies on hamburgers left on a picnic table.
Her eyes red and bloated,
from tears forcing their way out.
Tears that pushed like people in line for autographs.

She sucked in air in quick chunks,
careful to tilt her face just so
that snot didn’t hit her upper lip
and she looked up into their faces
and they frowned like they cared.

But really,
they just wanted
a story to tell later,
about a girl
sobbing into her magazine while
sitting in the park,
like a side show or zoo exhibit.

Time

Time passes so quickly like a night’s dreams
5 months go by
Days turn to nights turn to days again
And it’s gone
Memories are blurred and combined with
Memories of other days and
They’re gone sometimes
If they’re too hard on my heart to remember
Seems like yesterday that I was
Holding her frail, soft, weathered hands
Cutting away at her old woman nails
And brushing her teeth gently.
Seems like yesterday I was signing my name into the book
And walking down the hall
Hearing the wails and mumblings of the residents
In the rooms around her
Seems like time has flown by but sometimes
In the night
It seems like a snail moving across a crowded highway
And I wish for it to hurry up
I remember
Playing as a child on the floor
With crayons and dough and pie tins and paper
Eating dinner and watching The Golden Girls
Three’s Company
Then giving her a kiss on the cheek
At my wedding
Then handing her my new baby girl
Then moving her from home to home
And now she is gone
And I just write about her and remember
And dream and
Hope to see her again
And hold her warm, loving hands
Finger nails painted a sheer pink
And see her smiling, white teeth with rouged cheeks and clean glasses.

Lies

I know you’re watching through your telescopic lens
safely at a distance from the battle
that is raging inside of my mind.
I am desperately trying to gather the pieces of my heart,
a pile of shattered glass.
The castle made of cards we built
is now a mess upon my bedroom floor.
Who do you think you are to be so deceptive?
What once was a beautiful dance
twirling and choreographed inside of my stomach
is now a jar of dead butterflies
whose wings are turning to dust against each other.

You watch and cringe but reach out no hand
from your high up perch of paper and stone.
You’ve thrown down the tools that broke down
this palace that we built with dreams and cards
but these tools cannot rebuild my world.
No thank you for your lies
I do not accept them.
Your so called love has brought to me
all this pain, this shattered heart, this mess upon my floor
now bathed in tears and sweat and glass.

Wandering

I was looking for my muse
And I found it down the barrel of a 9mm pistol
And I found it whirling down the drain with the suds from my hand soap
And I found it whistling a tune while I did the dishes.
I was wishing for the words
And I found them in your eyes
And I found them in your strong, loving arms
And I found them dancing around with my memories
But I see the words in the sight of the 9mm
And I see them in the dirt that I am washing away
And in the pit of my stomach with my dinner and red wine.
And the words and my muse are sometimes one in the same
And they are angry and cold and tired and lying
Sometimes they are lonely and filled with sad memories and regrets
Sometimes they are filled with disgrace but sometimes
They are hopeful and happy and loving and excited
Dreamy, whimsical, and sometimes
They come at you like a bullet or a kiss.

Truth

My life is filled with reminders of you.
Your smile sits on the inside of my eyelids so
I see you every time I blink.
You are the dream I left behind in a fit of restlessness.
You gave me a reason to keep my heart open but I closed it long ago.
I walk to the sound of our hearts tangled rhythm,
Though yours has grown fainter over time.
I wonder if your heart meets mine in dreams.
I wonder if you think of me when time allows for a pause.
I wonder if yours eyes see my smile when closed in moments of peace.
Reminders of you come in scents and songs,
They flow like water over flower petals during the passing day.
I find you in my memories and wish silently on stars for more.
Do you wish for me too when no one is listening but the stars and moon?
Do your steps match mine when you dance to music in your head?
Do you wish for the past and the future mixed like fruit and cream?

The Beginning: Fiction Part 1

Jack
It is 7:00am, I hear the girls laughing as they ask Grace for breakfast. “Grapefruit, Grandma, with sugar sprinkled on top!” says Katie, and Jessie, “I want cinnamon rolls, Grandma!” They’re getting ready for school and having breakfast as I am getting dressed in our room. Steve has to drop them off so early to go to work, but I don’t mind. I’m Grandpa, the chauffeur extraordinaire. I walk out to the dining room to see two beautiful faces smiling as Grace pours them milk and orange juice. I sit down at the head of the table to a plate of buttered toast and a glass of grape fruit juice. But, it is only a dream, I lie awake in bed, eyes squeezing shut to try to get it back for just a minute. The girls are grown, old man, they’re in their twenties now with children of their own. Grace is gone. I roll to the edge of the bed, stand up, and get dressed: grey cotton slacks, soft and thin blue undershirt, suspenders, and my fedora. Looks good enough for me.
So this is what my life has come to, walking every morning to the diner with the Signal in hand. My one leg straining and aided by the old wooden cane whose worn handle knob is smooth and kind to my hand. At least it seems my breathing has gotten easier. Nothing new today; boys and girls meander to school hesitantly and I wish I could tell them to enjoy it while they’re young.
My tall glass of milk is perspiring and the paper underneath has a growing wet ring outlining the glass. The paper tells me of transgressions by my favorite sports heroes, has no one got a conscience anymore? “Would you like some more milk sir? Maybe a muffin, we have Bran, your favorite…” the waitress asks me as I peruse the paper’s dismal news. “Yes, that sounds nice, thank you,” I answer her. Bran muffins have always been my favorite, best when fresh out of the oven after Grace and the grand kids baked them. Oh, the grand kids, they’re so grown up now. They’ve made lives for themselves that are so rich and full, I wish Grace could see them as I do. They are so busy all of the time.
Two booths over a young man and his girl are playing hooky from school. Those days seem like just yesterday to me. Grace was still in high school when we met and fell in love, so beautiful and fresh faced. Summer went by so fast and we stole moments whenever we could, she surely missed a lot of morning class time then. She was so beautiful, brown thick hair, smooth skin, and oh how she could dance.
The boy has gotten up and moved to the side of the booth that the girl is on, bold move. They both face me and are laughing and talking. The boy squeezes his face against the girl’s neck and she glances up at me. My smile says, “Go on, enjoy it, I won’t look.” Back to my paper now, reminiscing can only take me so far.

Grace
“Jack, is that you? Are you there?” Just the day staff walking by the room’s door again, I guess. The home is bustling and workers are cleaning, old women wail and moan and snore all around me. I thought I saw Jack just now, but it was probably just my imagination. This bed is so uncomfortable, if only someone would put some more pillows beneath me. I wonder if Jack is watching me now, if he is trying to pull me to him. Pull me into his arms and dance like we used to, kiss my forehead and tell me how beautiful I am. He’s been out of my life for so long now, although I can still hear his voice and see his smiling face and whiskers.
Again, Jack’s face appears in the doorway as if beckoning me to join him on the other side of the threshold. He is asking for me to have breakfast with him, a game is on later, too. He wants to watch it with me. Football is just not the same now that he is gone, hasn’t been for years. We would watch it faithfully, sometimes with the kids, sometimes alone. Even the sounds of the games being on in the background were the best thing when I was working in the kitchen. It was so soothing, so familiar. It must be how heaven is; watching games, having endless breakfast and leisurely afternoons. Jack must be breathing well there; he must be enjoying the outdoors again. The sounds of the neighborhood probably pour through the house’s windows like a constant humming breeze.
I lie here, uncomfortable, intermittently hot and cold, while the woman next to me talks gibberish and the women down the hall is calling again for the “lady” to come give her a drink. How do they not answer her just to make her be quiet? Jack would handle this for me, if he were still here.

Jack
My milk is gone and my breakfast eaten, the paper is read save for my favorite part that only comes on Sundays. The Funnies, the laughter slipped into my morning and the link between my granddaughters and me. The girls lived down the street as children and always loved coming up to our house and reading the Funnies. Their smiles would brighten any room, I was so lucky to be such a part of their lives when they were of formidable age. Their children will find other things for amusement, with the Internet and so much television dominating their young lives. So many memories of the kids fill my mind, I wonder if they remember, too. Building sand castles, playing in the turtle pool on hot days, creating detailed cities in the grass with sticks off the tree; these play times flood back like yesterday happenings.
I decide to take a walk and give a quick nod to the couple. The girl smiles coyly and quickly turns her attention to her fawning beau. I catch my reflection in the window’s glass, boy, is that a scary sight! Time has not been kind to my skin; it droops like an old shirt here and there. Years in the sun as a lifeguard, soldier, and doting grandfather have left me tanned and wrinkled-but smiling nonetheless. I know the girls always loved to examine my rough hands, all the shades of skin on my arms, and my peppered beard and mustache. (They were also quite fond of my big Santa Claus belly.) Funny how after years of being fit it can all turn soft and go to the middle.
Any how, where shall I head today? Maybe I’ll head home and visit with the neighbors; they’re always out doing something or other in the yard. The house doesn’t call to me as it did when Grace was inside, so there is no need to rush home now. My pace is slow and steady and my eyes bounce from one side of the road to the other. A mother is pushing a baby carriage, pink. A few young boys carry gloves and bats and a ball. I see the mailman heading towards my neighborhood, on time as always. “Shouldn’t all the kids be in school by now?” I ask him as he pulls up next to me in his truck. “I guess some of the schools are off today…” he replies and nods as he drives on and heads to the next few houses.

Grace
I’m hungry. My hands shake so much I can barely get my food to my mouth. I’m so lucky to have my family around to help sometimes but when they are not here it’s hell to get it all in. They feed me and laugh when they get food on my chin. Who would have ever thought my grand kids would be feeding me? I sure as hell never did. I never knew I could be so helpless, just like an infant. I am trapped here in this bed, in this used up and tired body, in my mind some days. Jack pops in and out and reminds me that I lived such a full life. I have raised four children, watched them grow and was surrounded by their friends and then their children. I’ve been so lucky to watch my family grow and grow. I think John came to visit and brought a Christmas tree. The holidays have always been my favorite time of year. (Maybe it’s also because I get to celebrate my birthday, too.) The kids looked at me kind of funny when I say John was here, I wonder why that is. I saw him clearly; he was so much like Jack in his face and hands. Just like Steve, too. Those boys both look so much like their father; they even have his round tummy. When I hold Steve’s hand I see Jack’s and feel Jack’s hand if I close my eyes; the big strong fingers and rough palms with soft, thin skin on top.
The ladies who work here tell me how beautiful my grandchildren are. I agree, they’ve grown so much and my great grand kids are even cuter. I tell them that I’ve got grand kids and great grand kids all up the coast and across the US. They act impressed but maybe it is just because they miss their own children. Sometimes it seems like they never go home, there is always someone poking at me or asking me how I am doing. I use the down time to think about Jack and I back in Chicago and the start of our life together.
Summer days in Chicago were balmy and too hot to ever cool off completely. I spent my days at the lake with my girl friends; we would ride the train into the city and head to the water each morning. Our swimsuits covered much more skin then, you know, left more to the imagination. There were dances then, at least a few times a week. We could walk everywhere then and I would dance all evening and walk all the way home with no fear. Not like today, everyone is crazy nowadays. I met Jack at a dance, I was just fifteen. He took me to movies, just thirty five cents back then to go to the movies; can you believe it? Jack was a lifeguard and he was older than me. I’d watch him swim with broad, strong strokes when he would step down to cool off. He was so tan and so handsome. You know, no one falls in love so young anymore but we made it work, we did. He told me he knew I was the one; I was sixteen when he proposed. There was no question he was the one for me. We walked everywhere because neither of us had a car, but we didn’t care. As long as we were together we were happy.
Jessie is having a baby now. Three generations past our own! We’re finally going to have a boy in the family and in California, Jack would be so proud. I’m sure he sees her growing belly from up above but I wish he could be here to congratulate her. He’s missed the births of too many great grandchildren. She’s so close too, like Kate. So close, but he is so far away, at least to them. He’s here with me, a faint shimmer to his skin as if he flew through morning mist and appeared at my window.

Jack
Grace’s face appears and fades away with the afternoon sun’s rays on the carpet. I feel as if our worlds are mixed up like stirred coffee and cream. Sometimes I wonder if she sees me or hears me when I talk to her. It probably looks so funny when I am talking to no one but I want her to hear my voice if she can. I tell her I’ll see her soon and that I miss her so much. I tell her that I see her like she was as a young mother, vibrant and so full of life. She inherited her mother’s vivacious attitude and her father’s love of nature. She had such a green thumb and just loved being out in the yard, working on the bushes and flowers everyday.
It seems like these last few days she has been around more and more. I wonder if things are going to change for me. I wonder if I will be with her again soon. Is Heaven ready for me?

Grace
I’ve grown so tired these last few days. I feel like time is going by so slowly and I hear more and more of Jack’s voice. I hear his prayers now, even when I do not see his face as much. Sometimes I think I am always eluding him. I told Kate the other day that I thought he was around when she was here. I was surprised to hear her say that she was glad, that she hopes it is him. I told her that he was angry with me for always being a few steps ahead of him, out of his grasp. I sent him away with my words, told him to stop pestering me and let me sleep. I think she thinks I am pretty funny, but I know she understands why he would be here. I know it’s about my time to go.
My sister’s life went down this path; it looks familiar because I remember her walking it. She just stopped eating and started sleeping all the time. And now I am, too. And I know that I have to go soon. I think it’s time to tell Jack I am coming home to him. I’ve got to let go.
The nurses are bringing me food but I will not eat it anymore. I have been sleeping for almost forty-eight hours now. I hear a lot more voices around me than I am used to and I see the faces of my past. Jack’s voice dominates the rest but I recognize my father, my mother, and my daughter, Dianne. Dianne was gone too soon, stolen from me. No mother should lose a daughter. I close my eyes and see them all, they’re healthy and happy and all together somehow. Will the family here know that I have gone willingly if I go now?
My breath comes in short, gasps and I try to wait as long as possible between each one. For some reason, it is easier to be still than to breathe. Is this how it is for everyone at the end? These last few weeks, months even, have been so hard for me. My body has failed me time and again and my legs have all but given up. The physical therapist here is a strong, kind hearted African American man. He was so patient with me over the past few months, but he too has finally stopped coming to get me. I guess there comes a time when one has to give in to their body and be done with movement. I feel like I have slowly reverted back to the baby I came into this world as. The women around me have tormented me with their constant babble and inconsiderate loud voices. My children have visited but not enough to make the place I am staying bearable. I have asked so many times to go home with them but I know in my heart that they cannot take me. Sometimes I say it just to show them I want to. My thoughts have been so jumbled lately, as if I cannot decipher between dreams, reality, and the television’s stories I hear all around me. I’m letting go of it all, at last.
Sleep is my savior and yet, even now I can tell my dreams are slowing. They are moving towards a clean, soft light that’s pink and white like a fading sunset. Jack’s face has become clearer and clearer and he has not left me for hours now. I can almost feel his hands holding mine, lifting me from the bed to stand and walk with him.

Dragon II

My antagonistic enemy
ribbons pour forth from your lips
when you part them slowly to entice;
red, yellow, gold, and orange.
Flames of a kind but smooth and disguised.

My hedonistic dragon,
playfully batting winged hands in my direction.
Webs stretch out behind wrists
like tiny elephant ears that are needed in
directing the grand, powerful wings
hidden under your black t-shirt.
All invisible to naïve passers-by.

You know my every weakness
Even if you play that you are unaware
My sadistic punisher,
your harmful exterior only makes me want you more
and you torment me just so much.
A torture I have lust to endure.

Contemplating Distances

My love for you awakens words like those of ancient prose
Ageless and circular roused
From whence my heart it flows.
Imagine the fate of Montague and Capulet,
Or better yet
Compare our love to the two
Whose love faced deepest wrath and determined fall
Two bathed in sin but still
Like we, too, are God’s children. We
Of novel obstacles but all the like
In form and hearts grown warm.
Bent from bruising glances of lookers-on
And drunken dances with fumbling hands (so wrong.)
The other kind- with pointed incarnation
Forced a cavernous interruption
Eventually tearing us apart, though without our objection.

His affections came gilded with thin gold
Yet the surface sheen dispersed upon your fingers
When he turned cold
Like meteors that travel far and refuse to die
My affection transcends his and reaches you across the sky.
Since now you are so far, like banished thought
And I here in laborious depths of distraction
Seconds away from remembering and drowning in loneliness.

I remember you now as you were so often
Your body draped over my lap like the softest mantle
Your eyes piercing the barricades of my guarded heart and
Coaxing me to hold you with Herculean strength
Our laughter permeating the air like Night Jasmine bathed in dew.

Seven am came so quickly then
And we hid from the sun like owls
In respite from the hunt
Or Midnight Candy hiding its beauty from the day.
Our evening bound in shared adventure
And days spent together
Wrapped in slumber.
Yet even as we wince at the thoughts
Those times held precious for what we have fought
Deeper than friends call friendship so vainly
We share a lifetime of unexplainable connection.

With the Red Tail

I walk alone
Silence is in my head and in my ears
The sky is almost marine blue
With clouds hesitantly floating by
As if they do not want to disturb the day
A red tail hawk floats and twists and turns and dips
In the sky above me, circling nonchalantly, as if feigning disinterest
He soars on the faint breeze
Parts the air with his wing strokes intermittently
I walk and follow him
He is bringing me home I think
He is guiding me to the peace he finds at home
I follow him up the hill and towards my house
I follow his wings as if they were my breath
He brings me home and I feel at peace
I shed my skin like an adolescent snake
I spread my wings and turn my face to the clouds
I press off the ground with the balls of my feet
And I join my friend in the sky where he is waiting
And we soar and float on the breeze together.

Grandmother 2-4-10

Your laughter curled up toward the sky
Even the birds danced in its sound
Your eyes lit up with each breath laughter pushed out
I remember
When I was little, when I was peaceful
I lay my head in your lap
Warmth, cushion, legs two strong pillows
Like two bear paws cradling
Your fingers delicately traced lines
On my face, my forehead, my temples
Down my nose, around my lips.
These lines burrowed deep into my soul
Even the flowing rivers of my blood
Grew calm. My breath, too.
My eyes at rest behind the lids.
This memory I hold in my heart
My heart that has always beat with yours
My heart that you read through
My eyes. My voice, too.

The days we played and
Made dough or made pictures or made
Meals that I now make with love
I sat up- on the counter top
Miniature- legs crossed and eyes watching
Your hands
Stirred the milk and butter and you broke
Squares of cheese and dropped them in
Poured this over toasted bread.
Just one cherished day, cherished recipe
Simple, soft, warm, soothing
Like you. Like a memory. Just one.



(This poem was written exactly 12 hours before the passing of my grandmother. Today is her memorial. You will always be in my heart Grandma. I love you.)

Anniversary!

This month marks my one year anniversary blogging here at My Dreams Interrupted. It is surprising to think that I have been posting my thoughts through my poetry for that long. I can't wait to see how things change and how I can grow in this next year. I have gotten a running start on my journey towards my BA in Creative Writing, so I foresee myself only getting stronger and bolder in my writing. Cheers to one year!!

Snow

I wish for the silence of snow
I wish for the silence of a house asleep
I wish for the only sound to be
My grandfather clock’s tick-tock
When stars and the moon are brighter than daylight
When the sun peaks out from behind distant hills
There I will breathe in the silence around me
And listen for mother earth’s soothing refrain
The silence before the swish of a bird’s wings
I wish for the silence before the crash of a wave
I wish for the silence before a tear’s release
The silence under water in an empty pool with just me
There is the place I find my heartbeat
In that silence I hear God’s voice speak
In that silence I find words to write and
There I find my peace.

Philosopher 1-26-10

Early morning philosopher
Harvester of thoughts
That are at rest and waiting
In the drops of dew settled upon leaves and petals and grass
Your words pour out and move through me
Sending a soothing-or shocking-wave
Of wisdom
Poetic verse drifting into my begging ears
You’ve been blessed with a power
Solidifying dreams or vocalizing
Ungraspable ideas that often
Float up like feathers
On the breeze
Too light
To catch
In fumbling, reaching hands.

Starting Over

Every loss is a new beginning
Trying to find a space to truly fit in
Looking to place feet on stable ground
When something is lost that used to be found.

Missing the days of ease and peace
When everything I knew was within my reach
I have to learn how to make it alone
Because what is empty used to be called home.

Sifting through a life now tossed in shambles
My mind wanders and my words seem to ramble
Time to renew my broken spirit
Although some would say I really should fear it.

Stand amongst the shattered pieces
And shake out the silent tearful releases
Breathe in fresh, reviving air
Hold tight the hands of the ones who care.

Beginnings are not meant to be faced alone
Wounds will heal once they are shone
The light of smiling faces awaken
Strength to capture hope that was previously taken.

Chameleon

You may say
I am a chameleon
My clothes change and my
Make-up changes with my moods.
I make myself at home in
A bookstore, an art gallery, a classroom
A dance floor, a sports bar, an opera.
I can make you smile with my changing faces
I can make you cry with my changing words
My strength grows with my acquired knowledge
My heart grows with acknowledgement of blessings.
I can change and move about
Unnoticed. Or if I choose
I can stand out and shine
So I say- you may say
I am a chameleon.

10-12-09 What is Wrong With Today

I saw a blind man today

With his dog- walking slowly

I saw a girl today

Opening a door hastily

A library door

The blind man was going inside

He began to enter

And the girl let go

Of the door.

And the door

Hit the man and the dog.

Tiny Sleep

Tiny sleep
Split second dream
Pregnant woman floating
Clouds floating
Stars suspended with strings
Giant cardboard box
A diorama
Child’s homework
Awake
Bleary eyed
Stretch arms
Art History
Chapter 8.

The First Rain 10-13-09

The first rain has arrived
Trees stretch their branches and
Flowers their petals
Bathing in the cold crisp water
Puddles reflect the sun-shining like
Wiggling glass and rivers
Brighter than the muted sun
Shielded by fast moving clouds
Their shapes-peaks of freshly whipped cream
Windshield wipers dance like the outstretched arms
Of ballerinas moving gracefully, executing perfectly
The dance that accompanies
The symphony of Spartacus
That plays on my car stereo.