Petals of these words Capture not your true essence, A perfume to me. The rarest flowers With their soft, fragrant petals Are waxen mimics Of You stretched, glowing sleep A contented, wonderous sight Perfect perfection.
Its flow
From the tip of my fountain pen—
Not smooth enough–
Fails capturing anything
Within this labyrinth of senses
Now alive
I had an argument with all my words today.
For they would not stay
in their delightfully organized spots.
Seems, if you will,
they wanted to jump around and play,
ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.
I must admit I lost my patience, yelling,
“We will never accomplish
anything useful if you play
In this most rambunctious way.”
To this, they in unison whined,
“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”
And to that, I could not provide argument.
Thus, we decided to play
And took a vacation today.
The words—
It is the always—the words—
I have always been
Searching the sidewalks, paths, trails, highways, the sky outside
For the words—
Combing gently through those I love
For the words—
Hunting the faces of strangers, my own face, my dogs, my friends
For the words—
Scouring the hearts, the souls of those I observe
For the words—
Ransacking restful, peace giving nature
For the words—
Scourging even, in the chase, my faith
For the words—
And they are never perfect.
https://onewomansquest.org/2020/05/18/vjs-weekly-challenge-96-circling/
Circle through the years of youth
Find the gems along the streams
Of your years, my love.
Collect them in a basket,
Keep them close.
When the time comes
Give each away to your
Young ones.
Make each a gift,
Tied with ribbons
Of what you dream
And all of your
Wishes
For them.
As I have given
All my words
As a gift
Tied with ribbons
Of my dream
Of love
And my wish
Of happiness
For you,
My love,
My gift,
My daughter.
I
Words scattered across the page.
Words littering the soul.
All these words
Piled upon the table,
A hoarder’s table of words.
Words left unsaid,
Unwritten,
A bouquet of words
Wilting in the heart and mind.
Words twisted in contortionist meaning
Of manipulations,
Weaponized for destruction,
Yet leaving victims living.
II
Words of things that can’t be said.
Words of things that should have been.
Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep.
Words of things we could not begin to understand
Of ourselves, of each other.
Words of things we wanted so to believe
Of others, of the world.
Words of hope
Of love
Of charity
Of peace.
Words of what we have lost.
Words of what we may never again find.
III
Words, words, words
Slipping through the fingers
Like water in a desert,
Dripping away, evaporating
Before they can be used.
Words, words, words
Twisting round the wrists,
Writhing up the arms,
Biting the face and neck,
Killing before they can be used.
Words, words, words
Left unread by faded ink,
Left unwritten by a tired mind,
Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.
Remember whispered intimations
In the time before sleep.
Having faced down the hours
Of another day of what must be done,
How long will it take before
Forgetfulness wipes the whispers away
Of well-intentioned comfort
Along with any memory
Of facades presented but to a few
Who knew the truth?
Until then, stumble onward
Facing the intimidation
Of a blank page,
Smash a soul against it.
Read the splatters left
And know time is the matter.
Time, neither too fast, nor too slow
Can it pass before realizing
Nothing really mattered,
But the kindness
In forgetfulness.
Tell me a truth of burning flames. Better yet, Chant me all the truth Of a holy rosary. Or would you whisper a truth Of a head on a silver platter. Perhaps, you’d like to Express the truth Of a dance through the city. Or act out the truth In the washing of your hands. Could you do all that, Plus destroy a temple or two, And it be the truth Of your heart? I know you say it would But no bushes burn, No seas part, No lepers heal, No dead rise When you know nothing Of your own heart and soul.
When I was three,
My mother taught me to read,
And words
Became playthings and playmates
As I sat in the back of the restaurant
Watching her work her dream to death.
Later, as I grew,
Family losses piled, heaped
Weighty upon the shoulders of a nine-year-old.
Words became
Escape, shelter, survival,
A path out of destruction.
And so, words stayed
For more years than I’d care to say.
But now here,
Waking mornings,
Hearing birdsong,
Or in early evening,
The warm sun blanketing
My skin as I fill the birdfeeders,
I hear words in the songs of birds.
Silly though it may seem,
The cardinals have much to say,
“It’s cheaper here. It’s cheaper here.”
To “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”
The mockingbirds chatter away
Announcements of “She’s here, she’s here, she’s here.”
And I’m not sure which bird continually asks,
“Wanna see, wanna see, wanna see a receipt?”
All the while, the Blue Jays squawk away,
Warning all the others,
“Stay away! Stay away!”
Then in the chittering of the squirrels,
I hear the demand,
“Where’s the food? Where’s the food?
You let the food run out! How dare you?”
As they scurry away,
Pretending, at least, to be afraid of me.
Among all the noise and chatter
All the words of birds and squirrels
One word, never felt before now,
I feel move within my chest,
Peace.
A screeching hawk climbs overhead,
Gliding, swooping in pursuit,
Her flight a perfect merger
Of beauty, purpose, and skill.
If only, if only
I could capture such a hawk
Train and bend
That beauty and skill
To do the bidding of my will.
Sent forth from my hand
In a powerful surge of wings,
Pummeling air,
Finding the perfect draught of air
To glide upon,
Turning, searching for prey,
Then sighting her trophy, her prize,
Sweeping down, a beat of wings,
A shift of body,
Talons extended,
What seems a pause,
A slowing,
Talons snatching,
Squeezing, sinking into a snake’s skin,
Wings beat, once, twice,
A cry as she lifts her body
And her limp prize,
Upon the air to glide,
Turning homeward,
The purity of her purpose,
A dance upon the air,
Done.
If only, if only
From my hand could fly
Such beautiful purity of purpose.
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