The Treasures of Her Day

The woman sits down in her chair at dusk
Having harvested the treasures of her day;
The paddle board and kayak stowed
Nothing remained but the words’ flow.

For many years, she wove a blanket
With certain colors and particular patterns
As seen in a book or demanded by masters. Yet,

The treasures of her day spoke different tones,
Exposed unique designs only she could see.
Time came, time went. Patience’s virtue
Slowly became the value she needed most.

The moon rose to offer its reflections.
At last, she had harvested the threads
With hues and their complements discovered

In the patterns of conversations, something
Undesigned at last but to be assembled
One stitch at at time. A life she could weave
Together with the moon’s reflection, the season

Inviting her inside out to dance: Stars,
As they point to a story yet to be told,
Ask the teller to weave for them her color.

This Cup

I offer this cup to you
refill it with the blood
of imagination and immortality
offered like a gift from the gods.

I let it slip from my fingers
into the desert of adulthood.

She offers this cup to me
filled with blood shed
to resurrect the gift of love
piercing the limits of imagination.

In her hands it throbs
with a longing for childhood.

We offer this cup
a dry vessel filled with blood
to rediscover life in red
more vivid than imagined.

In our arms lips shiver
and restores our innocence.

We fill this cup
with truths lost in the desert,
the blood of mortal life
and love immortal.

Your gentle hand
fills my cup.

Image: Breakfast Still Life with Chalice by Willem Claesz Heda 1634

Liquid Jade

The ocean runs like liquid jade
Poured between fingers, pure and clean
Empty like I wish to be long enough
To settle between ears that heard too much.

God poured his glass of water here
So that I could see the bottom
A reminder of spots that can be touched
But many more that remain to dive for.

Should I take a break from these poems –
Lyrics to songs I sing alone –
Try to dance to a song everyone knows?
Not to give the night to conformity

Just to break the darkness
With a light from wax,
Words melted with a flame,
A spark that smells familiar, if foul.

Did the child wonder,
That darkness would not scare him?
Did the chid wonder
What darkness would inspire?

Image: Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky
https://www.boredpanda.com/mesmerizing-translucent-waves-19th-century-painting-ivan-konstantinovich-aivazovsky/

Will You Speak to Me of Monsters?

“Here I am, now, Boy, here I am.
Will you tell me about the monsters?
Will you speak to me, at all?”

Boy turns his eyes up, blank from the long absence
He opens his mouth and looks for a word to begin.
A silence slips from his tongue that tells more
Than any mash up of words can. We stare until
Eyes, blackened and dry, beg for mercy
From the desperate plea for an understanding
We cannot afford, the cost of his words too high.
On my knees, not to beg, not to pray, nothing but

But…

His eyes follow my descent. Now something else slips
From his lips, more telling than the silence that collapsed
Me: “You. It was you.” My blackened eyes see the brown
In his. His hand reaches up and wipes sand from my cheeks.
His soft-skinned fingers bleed against the coarsest of skin.
Drops of his blood like necessary tears
To drain the black from my soul.

“What do I do now, Boy?”

“Speak to me of the monster…”

“I thought you would be safe here, so I left to defend us.”

“There was nothing to defend, without me inside you.”

“There was nothing to defend, without you inside me.
And so the monsters came, one by one, and for a time
I won, and chest decorated with medals, head praised,
Onward and deeper into the world, farther from you,
The monster who proved more intelligent than designed
Evolved to meet my defenses and slip inside them.

Once inside, it ate from the inside out until nothing
Remained of us but the poison half a man becomes
Without the boy he left behind who could steer him
Back into goodness like an anti-virus, like penicillin.
Until finally, it all collapsed, bones could bear the weight
No more, and the contorted flesh no longer fit the skin.
They all stared at me, a beast, a demon, a too human man
For the hero he pretended. There was nothing to defend.”

“Without me inside you.”

“Here I am now, boy, here I am
Will you speak to me of monsters?
Will you speak to me?”

“No.
I have no words, just my hand and weary legs.
Help me stand, help me walk, help me out of here.
Let me back inside,
I know the way to the stream
That trickled down the hill in the woods.
There we will drink clean water
To quench your thirst.”

He turns his eyes up at mine, our brown mirrors
Look inside one another and see
There was no monster.

There was no monster,
Just a child needing to know love
From the man who left to defend him
When there was nothing to defend,
Without him inside.

Image: The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli

By Night’s Dark Embrace

Night’s dark embrace of these candles of petition

Speaks to a soul on its knees in the moonlight. It
Hears a mere cricket in the chorale: “Rejoice!” across
This fallow field. The shadow casted seeking Love.

This journey took so long. Too long it seems.
The day sets its weight down upon shoulders
Digging a grave to bury the soul of Ophelia
A chant pleads: “She still Lives! She still Lives!”

A voice reaches the blackened heart to wash away
Impurities, “one more day, one more day, one more…”
Hear me, Moonlight, speak petition to the soul,
A candle that flickers by night’s dark embrace.

Out Ursula’s Bowsprit

I shimmied out Ursula’s bowsprit,
Until I reached the bitter end,
One rogue wave could topple me
Into depths I spent a lifetime
Sailing on, sailing from.

Holding a single wire,
Eyes closed,
With sea and wind,
I flowed.

Simple thoughts drifted: this must be done.
To not do, now, what must be done
Would be to accept death as an ember flies
Into the good night watching its last light
Unknown how bright it could have been.

I loosened my grip on the wire, ready to let
My body follow the Spirit into depths
Where luminescence awaits one last diver
Under the surface of that thing I protected:
Meaning, locked inside, ready to glow.

‘He introduced me to the Sun, forgetting we’d already met’

He introduced me to the Sun, forgetting we’d already met
Year ago when we’d lie together on the hill our front.
We’d dance in the rain, we’d grab hold of the rope swing
Toss ourselves into the river, tumbling down, laughing.

Now he acts like I haven’t been waiting in the back
Loosening my grip on him, raised on the promise he’d
Bring me back out into the light before I wasted away
Like an illusion, now I am under the pressure, cracking.

I wade into the water trying to baptize my new day
He said to me, “You were the only one. I was going to waste
Without you. If we do not runaway, straight into nothing,
Stand in the wake of our pain, it will all break down.”

With respect to The War on Drugs’ Under the Pressure written by Adam Granduciel

A Balloon Let Go

The balloon our sorrows filled
like helium floating upward
we held earthbound too long.
I looked at you and with eyes
swimming into one another’s
heart. The wordless answer
spoke by opening its hand
giving the sorrows flight
until they burst like the sun
rising on our horizon
whose orange melts
across the darkness
allowing the deep blue
meaningfulness of day
to arrive
to stick our hands into
to find the star
to light the remaining days
like an umbrella of softness,
under, we hold one other close
when the rain falls as
little drops of inspiration
drawing us closer and closer
until we melt into one
flash of lightning
at last, released.

Song of the Week: Bjork “Army of Me” and a response poem: “An Army of Me Met Met at the Door”

An Army of Me Met Met at the Door

An army of me met me at the door
and kicked me in the balls
so hard they rolled off my tongue
like ben wa and dropped
like a teenager’s waking up one morning
with a sticky surprise

An army of me met me at the door
and laughed in my face
until i had to laugh right along with me
ha ha ha, roll on the floor, jackass
and look at the teenager you became
30 years after it was hip

An army of me met me at the door
and came in for a scotch
he had it neat, i had it messy
with ice that melted
into a puddle deep enough
to go and drown a little sorrow

An army of me met me at the door
and we decided to hang out a bit
turns out he was good company
and so we decided to become one
and just get on with it:
the rescue squad was exhausted.

Continue reading

God Giggles

Finally,
They begin speaking the words they had been collecting from their stories.
Words that no longer have any real meaning, because,
Perfection cannot know everything.

I pause to ask God, “Choose one or the other:
Omniscience or Perfection.”

He says, “One or the other, Friend?
For you, I chose to be a man;
Though it was a woman you wanted, right?
So perfection seems to be too much,
But I do know what you really need.
This broken conversation that you knew would
Hurt…
Does.
Have it, though,
Like a debt that needs paying.
Someday you will know everything, too
And agree that nobody’s perfect.
Something so obvious,
Those who know nothing at all
Will chuckle.”

God giggles as he meanders away.
Then they continue the conversation
Looking for meaning in their story,
Finally.

Image: Saturday Evening Post
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2017/04/11/post-fiction/classic-fiction/faithful-lovers-margaret-drabble.html