I drift Drift in purpose, direction, Resolve in question. Telling myself on repeat I’ve no need, no want Of soft skin against mine. To feel another’s heart beat Against my chest. Though I remember, Though I can still imagine, When I close my eyes What it is To close my hand round the soft hand of another, To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled, To wake and smell sleep warmed skin, To touch and take and give and kiss Before coffee should touch my lips. Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste, The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue. I am not young enough for a taste of what Should bring me to my knees— Of what I imagine That she’d taste like memory.
Sown together, A patchwork quilt, Torn and worn Through all the years.
Sew places torn. Patch places worn. Put away to be used again. Soft and broken in. But not much left To cushion or to warm Against the chill of autumn, The cold of winter, or the setting sun. Not much left to be any good at all.
You’d have to take it apart. Re-stitch, re-sew, replace the batting, Find new scrapes and cut to make the pieces fit. Wouldn’t it be better to start from scratch Than to try to re-make something so old, so worn, so weary? Wearied from the years of sheltering breaking hearts, Wearied from the years of taking tears, Wearied of being tossed to the floor When the needing time ended, Wearied of being the place Of softness For everyone else, But itself.
I know it is no big deal to many of you who use your real names on your blogs. But I have used two pen names since starting this blog shortly after the death of my wife. I was still teaching, and my daughter was still in high school. Although the LGBTQ community has made great strides in being accepted by society, there is still prejudice. Being in education, I still had to be careful. Additionally, much of my writing comes from my experiences. Hence, some of my work centers on my daughter. Therefore, I wanted to protect her privacy as well. However now that I am retired and after lengthy consideration, I have decided to dispense with the pen names I have been using. I changed the domain name a few months ago when the old domain encountered issues with being shared on Facebook. I never did figure that problem out but changing the domain which included my real surname fixed the problem. I believe it was the April Writing Prompt Challenge—I am more than Breath and Bone– from Christine Ray, Brave and Reckless.com, that provided the impetus which spurred me to use my real name. The poem that came out of responding to that prompt was a recognition of what my mother and foremothers have done for and given me. I have tried to raise my daughter to be proud of herself, her family, and her two moms. If I hide behind a pen name, am I teaching her pride? Am I doing what my mother and foremothers have done for me? If I hide behind a pen name, am I “holding up the mountains” for her as was done for me? But I needed it to be okay with her. So, I asked her how she felt about it. What if her friends stumble across some of my work? What if they saw something that was about her? She responded with complete honesty and clarity, “Well, Mom. It’s your writing. If they do, they do.” So, with that, my name is Annette Kalandros, and I will be using my real name from this point forward.
I have lived a nomad Inside my own life. I have wandered From old homes To new, attempting Always to find a fit, A place my tent could forever rest. A time or two, maybe three, I took rest in the heart of another, Feeling blessed for a time of such Delightful comfort, Yet I’ve never found a place to end my nomadic travels, A ceaseless, endless Restlessness.
Written as part of Sammiscribbles.wordpress.com writing prompt where one is given a word, in this case NOMAD, and must write a poem or short fiction piece in exactly 68 words.
I can hide in catacombs of colors and never look to the sky. My blood shed, bled out in tiny droplets of all the years of parting, dripping, draining in the darkness And carried away, scattered to the winds, Leavings upon the ground, seedless seeds, Sprouting up in colorless flowers of summer without colors, Without the dreams of sunlight on their faces, Without fragrance sweet, divinity in scents we can never forget lost. We learn to live with regrets taken, earned, packed away With the mortgage of things within our hearts, within our lifetimes of meaning, Within our trying just one more damn time, Drifting up in clouds of long-ago cigarette smoke. Crush this dried out husk of me, Scatter those particles of dust to the wind And see if colors sprout once that dust settles upon the ground, See if there’s meaning left within their regrets, See if there’s fragrance, some elegance of divinity within a scent To be remembered when there is nothing, Nothing left but this wisp of memory Within your breath. Let go my hand, love. Leave me wrapped in the shroud Of all my days and regrets shared along the way To here, this time of parting. Leave me to hide away In this catacomb of colors.
Wind and rain Of this horrid spring Whips us to perfection Of brokenness being Beaten souls That we are In this time of need And want of touch. Our loneness sheltered Bodies, our silence shattered souls, Contoured colors of minds Restrained our madness In this once upon a time. If only to wake in the warmth Of human skin upon skin Once again in some perfumed swirl Contained in believing a speck of faith Preserved as a fly in amber. That fly who found rest In warm liquid ooze But was never to escape. Yes, grateful to escape to This fitful rest though, yes, It is, indeed, blessed. My mind scatters, Struggles to find a train of thought To ride in peace from one station To the next, make a trip to the elegance Of a dining car, white glove service And all else– in contrast— To this vast emptiness— With which to wrestle like Jacob, But my soul has long been crippled. All the trains left the station, Ran circles around my heart, Chugging on into the tunnels To find there isn’t much In expectation on the other side Of those darkened tunnels. No light, no light, Just a cold grey Of a horrid spring.
I walk my dog by the children at play. I must stop to admire a small girl upon the swings, Kicking her feet straight out and leaning her body back, A challenge to the dimensions of air, A brave heart to dare push her feet against the height of the sky.
Yes, this girl, smiling in the joy of her challenge and dares, Will carry her brave heart into her youth, And, I hope for her, she will carry it to her grave, Dying with the bravest of hearts. Unlike me, who carries a heart tucked away Inside this lidded vase kept upon a shelf.
Turn toward the hours passed. Size them and arrange. Let soak in dyes of prism colors As the minutes pass away and then Lift them, dripping dye, To hang in the warming sun Over tight strung wire. Watch the colors drip, splashing on the floor. Wet splotches collecting in puddles Of liquid silk to be mopped away As the hours drip colored dye In the drying of time.
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