Saturday, November 22, 2008

December Faded

A burnt out Christmas light hangs from its tree
Boxes of purchased affection sit quietly,
Tarnished and worn ornaments don the branches
And frames of lost Decembers decorate the mantles
Ironic photographs of brightly shining smiles
Display distant memories to clutter a thousand miles

A burnt out Christmas light hangs from its tree
While old tinsel clings to needles dejectedly
Reflecting the dim lights of holidays past
Inside a small girl’s eyes the shadows are cast

A burnt out Christmas light hangs from its tree
And clutches a string of beacons glowing wretchedly
A girl turned woman, with a tear in her throat
Swallows the memories of a soft winter coat.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Have I?

I’ve always thought that I had a way with words – written and spoken – but I’ve only recently realized that my words spoken out loud are vague and edited, cluttered with question marks. Like my voice is shut out, left out of knowing what is behind the walls that surround my true thoughts. There is something magic about the way a pen can so easily transfer my tears, my happiness, my fears and fuse them to a piece of paper. As I sit here, I wonder if I have ever truly communicated out loud an accurate version of what is in my head and my heart.

She Said Be

A mother told her small girl,
“Be anyone, go anywhere in the world”
And I know exaclty why she said it.
Because now I have a little pilot
Who imagines navigating the sky.
A seafaring captain with green eyes.

The mother said to her little one,
“Create or perform, as long as you laugh and love”
And I understand that now because,
I have a finger-painting Michelangelo
Who also puts on a wonderful singing show.

I remember my mom said to me one day,
“I love you. Please don’t go.”
Because yesterday I went out to play,
And today, I’m a mother standing alone
Raising a small dreamer unfurled,
Who can be anyone, anywhere in the world.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Poetry's Medium

Is poetry the mirror that forces me to stare into the eyes of my subconscious thoughts?

Or am I cursed with the chaotic emotion that poetry entails?
Do these pulls toward passion infect my arms because I am holding them open,
Or am I contaminated with the fervor that my imagination spells out?
Because I have allowed such a language to flow through my body,
Is this a meaningless craving that will soon pass?
Must I be a medium for passion to pump through -
Into my heart, consuming my soul -
And when it is done, once the poem is beautiful and complete -
The zeal that possessed me leaves. And there I am,
Surrounded by remnants of the passionate hurricane that tore through me
And exited from my hand.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Catching up (with some older poetry)

Rear View Mirror
I waved a "see you later" and drove away.

You stood in my rear view mirror
And waved the same to me.
Down your street I drove,
Your kiss on my lips, arms embracing my soul.
I began the road toward my home.
And through my green hazy eyes,
With an overwhelmed mind,
I still thought of the recent moments,
Vivid and real, with no sense of time.
You stole me from that night,
Made me whole, and made me feel,
And I left with the illusion the night would not disappear.
But as all moments do, it left me alone to sleep,
Into my past it settled for me to keep.
Now, as I move on into nights of now and to come
I sometimes look back into my mirror above,
To see you, alone outside, staring ahead
And I realize, my wave of "see you later"
Was good-bye instead.

Untitled Moment
Early morning, at a time with no name,

Before night can be called dawn
And the sun is a single glowing flame,
The world is the color of a dream.
In the moment morning grasps twilight,
The moon glows strangely in the sky,
And remembers the evening
Before daylight's blinding rays shine
As a distraction from the truth
Of what was last night.

You stand in the storm barely noticing its fury
And I spin in the hurricane I've created
A perfect mixture of hot and cold
At every turn I see your face, steady and patient
Watching my waves crash into the sand
And you are the grains turning in the water
Rolling with me out to sea as far as the tide allows
Only to fall back and lie where it's calm
Becoming again the awaiting shoreline
Held together until the cold wind blows
The dull stabbing of tossed seaglass is a token
Of the ocean's volatile turmoil, the daily good-bye
As the elements of our past infect the present
Keeping us eternally separate

The sun didn't rise when I woke today.
And as the snow decidedly sinks
Into the frigid abyss of gray
As I shiver beneath my heavy armor

I wonder if her body is keeping yours warm

A bitter cold has set in.
Each frozen drop crashes into my head

And the sound reverberates in my heart
I wonder if she's in your bed

Her head resting on the tear soaked pillow

Does she know those tears are mine?
I wonder is she lying there breathing softly
As she sleeps on your arm where my hair used to be
Is she tangled in the sheets I once found refuge between?
Does my memory linger there quietly?

The frigid air is hard to breathe

It hurts to move with this black ice below me
And I wonder if you can hear my wheels spinning

I wonder, when the sun re-emerges from this gloomy sky
If its warmth will find me hiding from its glaring eye.

The Photograph
Stole that moment and froze it in time
Captured the joy in each corner of our smiles,
Caught light that will never again glow in our eyes,
It held the arms that cradled our love, fragile and fine,
And embraced what was our world, lost in the tide.
The photograph, a precious memory now gone
Depicts our hopes and dreams as we struggle to move on.
This picture of the past, this image in a frame,
Is a beacon slowly dimming,
As the photo disappears in the flame.

The Falling of Illusions

The first cool breeze brushes my face
An alarming welcome back to the season
Back to Pussy Willows and Queen Anne's Lace
"Welcome home," lies the wind
To a home that exists in a girl long gone
A girl on the old wooden swing

The whispering liar plays with my hair
That once glided carelessly through the air
The crunching leaves snicker with bare feet
And surround my senses with laughter
With love, and warm apple crisp so sweet
Golden trees illuminate a visual memory
Of Mom, of the lake, of a lost family
And I can't help but linger in the illusions
Of a time made up of innocence and mystery.

Words About Words

Words spin from my hand
Like silk, a spider creating its web
The web it constructs becomes reality
Oblivious to all that is tangible
Letters pour onto pages
Without restraint, revealing all
Traveling in a universe of scribbled thoughts
Language flows from heart to pen
An unbridled stream of emotion
Turned to an ocean of unspoken idiom
When waves of expression crash onto my shore