Is this what you, indeed, wish?
The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.
Who is to say
From where her power came?
Did it flow from her silken curls?
Or her painted red lips?
Her white skin that glows like the fullest of full moons on a cloudless night?
There’s no way to know
From where her power came
To break through stone.
I’d nail all the windows in that month shut.
Board the place completely up.
All closed and shuttered,
Leaving it to the dust and rot.
July—the only summer month
The month forced me to abandon you—
How is a starving child forced to leave
A mother who sold herself
So the child could eat?
Thus, I cared for you
Until I had to reach out and close your eyes—
Then I dreamed
I nailed the windows in every room shut
And I boarded up every room.
I took a hammer to that floor to ceiling avocado green tile
Of the kitchen tomb,
Shattering every single inch
Of mirror green shine.
I brought the garden hose in
And hosed down all our scars
Until yours and mine
Then I woke
And buried you
In hot, steamy July
Shuttering you away
Until I thought there’d
Be nothing left of you.
But you are always here.
I pick the good of you
From the rubble,
See little bits of you
In each of your grandchildren.
I see bits of you in my daughter,
And our legacy is not only
One of scars.
In the stillness of days between,
The willows long to reach across the stream,
Breaching distance impossible.
Without the breeze,
Their branches hang in solitude,
Their leaves nearly tears,
Longing drips with want heavy in the air
Lightning— A breeze teases,
Almost, nearly touching—
And then the wind begins,
Whipping one direction,
Then another, almost swirling,
Limbs, leaves touch
Across the stream
When colors bled into the world
Through the ice blue topaz of your eyes,
When we both dreamed dreams of kaleidoscope horizons
Blooming in colors too true to be real,
The universe grew beyond our measure
Where recall of dreams came so easily,
Happiness and joy found no reason to arm wrestle
With the stark reality of the world back then
In our younger times—
Before the world shrank
To this extra small size colored
In tones of X-ray grays
Now showing the long-healed breaks and cracks
Of ribs and jaw and clavicle
Yet in this time of a shrinking world and universe
Steeped in all hues of gray
With the amnesia of shrunken head dreams unbreakable,
The filter of your ice topaz eyes—
A small price to pay for wholeness
Of body, bone, and mind.
Give me a minute.
Let me have another cup of coffee,
Before I slosh on after,
Down the trail–
You say, a guard now stands there,
Of the newer variety,
Who advises of the locust thorns,
The kind that pierces the shoe
And can go straight into your foot?
Could have used that advice–
Once or twice
But now I’ve rubbed my thumbs
Over the sharp tipped thorns of regret
Until callouses formed.
Then I moved on to other
Fingertips until bloody, raw,
Proving to myself the sharpness of thorns.
So now, you say this stony guardian warns
Of all the thorns
Along the paths and trails?
Might this guardian advise of a thornless trail?
I really wouldn’t care, but the soles of my feet
Are without callous, and I’d like to keep them so.
Send me down a muddy, sloshy trail where
I might just fall and break my neck.
That would be simply fine,
If the soles of my feet
Remain as soft and unmarred
as a baby’s behind.
When you found the things you could,
A mist of breath showed in the rain,
Twin clouded rain shimmered colors
Of gray stone before you on a path you would go.
If only, if only, you should know the bones of us,
Move knotted stiff with the griefs you’ve piled upon your soul,
We’d glow of phosphorus and neon in velvet darkness.
Walking the dark, shadowed canyon of dreams
Wilted by disappointments and deflated sunshine
Waking to dimmest daylight at noon
Where you cannot bear to look
Upon your own reflection,
A sight of horror in your own eyes now
In that cracked crystal ball where you stand,
In your own self-consecrated field
Of plastic flowers bowing their majestic heads to you,
Your straw haired head is bowed,
Smiling at the ground.
I tossed them away
Some time ago–
Petals of the dead.
Some flowers taken
From above the six-foot holes
I have stood over,
Frozen in the emptiness
Of an empty hole
About to be filled.
Some flowers taken
From birthday and anniversary
Bouquets of celebration,
Marking years of bitter happiness.
Most flowers taken
From a wedding bouquet
Of vows taken, kept,
A reminder of vows abandoned.
Petals of the dead kept
Out of wretched sentimentalism
I burned upon the pyre
Then climbed a new self
Of burnished bronze
From the flames.
I started to write this one when I first saw this photo on Facebook. I did some research to find the true name of the mountain and then wrote down a few lines. Then I saw Eugenia’s weekly prompt was “fairy” and things took off from there.
UPDATE– However, the fact checkers did not have all the facts when I checked, and it seems I was duped. Fact checkers I used (and I used several) only had the name of the mountain as being incorrect, and they all agreed that this was a drone image. However, it seems they have been updated and the image is really the digital work of an artist named Jean-Michel Bihorel. Thank you to Susi Blocks who brought this to my attention. I may remove the post entirely but I will take a minute to think about that.
She rests now,
Some giant stone fairy of another land,
Another time, when fantastic creatures
Walked with us.
There is in me
Awe, admiration of her peace—
Thinking wistfully of what if’s—
Had I been born a giantess of stone
Or one with fairy blood of snow—
I could have loved her,
Curled behind her,
Spooned for centuries.
No one to care,
Disturb the peace
Till seen from above
By a modern drone—
Then perhaps humanity might again know
Fantastical creatures once roamed,
But I am no fantastic being.
Possessing no magic,
I am no match for a mythic wonder.
My blood, without a drop of the fairy kind,
Destine for warmer, ordinary climes.
Written as a response to the following prompt:
Harmony never made sense to me
And neither did melody.
Can’t tell the difference, you see.
No talent with any instrument.
A singing voice that’d send me
To some lower level of hell.
Well, I’d never play Orpheus,
That’s for sure.
And no matter what you may think,
You ain’t some worthy Eurydice.