Tag: poem

Like Old Photographs

Image courtesy of expertphotography.com
If only life could be lived 

in shades of black and white

like those in old photographs

where shades of sepia 

and the spectrum of white to black blur 

edges, cracks, crags,

definitions, delineations

to softened

airbrushed edits

of reality

leaving me able to fall

from the greatest of heights 

to land softly

upon a loosely inflated mattress

no bruising, no bone breaking, 

no soul shattering hard surface landings

in a life lived in shades of black and white

and sepia 

where the sharp edged colors of harness

wash away.

Seeking

image courtesy of WP library 
I fled from days

of standing under your patchwork roof

offering no protection from the rain,

least of all my own rain pouring out of me,

threatening always to drown in its leave taking.



So I learned to float, flowing along the curves

others presented in my efforts to find

time, love, home, 

the back roads where berry bushes 

grow in abundance.

Yet I never tasted,

never picked any berries,

fresh off the branches.

Instead, I always found

the snakes hidden, lying in wait

beneath the berry bushes,

for the seeking,

and I, always bitten,

never learned my lessons

of serpents who lay in wait,

or the lessons of Eve,

I still sought,

in spite of the venom,

in spite of the bites—



I found the rains pouring out of me

once again

to travel on 

seeking

Prism






Image is my own





washed clean





in orange sunsets





drenched by





lavender sunrises





so the dust





and the grime





can no longer





cling inside or out





of a me





freed, freed





of all of you





I am the prism





of beauty





I always was





yet never was





with you





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Small Jars of Jam
	


	

		

image courtesy of  https://anitalianinmykitchen.com/apricot-jam/





Your lies hang,

apricots swaying 

in the summer air

from the tree 

of your despair.

You pick the ripest apricots

to make jam

you ladle into small jars,

gifting them to friends 

who smile softly,

touched you think of them

by gifting your small jars of jam

made from the apricots 

you pick from the tree 

of all your despair 

denied.




	


	
	






	
	

		
Winter’s Will
	


	

		

image courtesy of ALEX VASILYEV on wired.com





There is no understanding





how winter comes





for it comes in too many ways





at too many times





often when it shouldn’t





starting at the edges





creeping to the core





snatching away all the covers





driving out the flames





or





slowly, softly





almost tenderly





like a gentle, timid lover





will winter drift into days





as autumn delicately falls





little dip by little dip into winter’s icy arms





then a frozen world is made.





At times winter rides





with sword drawn





into spring





after life has begun





to wreck havoc on all things





green and growing,





make still all hearts feeling the flow of life begin,





at those times, winter rides





until sweated out





in the course of time.





Yet winter may freeze us solid





in the midsts of summer’s heatwaves





as we stand over gaping mouths of graves.





While some breathing in the hope of spring





as others live in winter’s black ice





suffering the bite of hunger and need





winter’s winter grows larger still





beyond Arctic, beyond talk of tundra,





or talk of some kind of permafrost—





but something too many know.





we will not end in fire





nor will we end in ice





in the end,





it will be the lukewarm breeze





of indifference,





the one to do us in.





 





 





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Twilight Days
	


	

		

image is my own





days spinning faster 





now toward twilight it seems 





hours before dawn





 





years ago hours 





lived, died, born again screaming 





before twilight’s edge





 





watch the dawn hours 





spin, dizzy and drunk with years, 





into twilight’s grave





https://godoggocafe.com/2022/11/08/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-november-8-2022/

	


	
	






	
	

		
Orchid
	


	

		

Image courtesy of Orchidresourcecenter.com





My militant mind reels,





victorious over sleep,





now warring with the words—





I grapple, attempting to find





the right ones,





the ones I left behind in dreams





or at war with other chores,





so in these early hours,





during a brief cease fire,





I stop





watch the sky





begin to pink





in the east.





I do not want to wish





yet it is easy,





to think





to want





to believe





I have Samson’s strength





to break this encasement





of fear of longing,





this fear of loss.





Others say





nothing ventured





nothing gained —





I used to think that way





before the drought





came and withered





hope away before





any intercession





could be made





and that thing





inside became like





the stalks of an orchid





shedding the petals of spent,





exhausted blossoms,





thin and dry as parchment paper,





falling, drifiting to the floor,





leaving the stalk empty.





I may wish to reach my hand,





twitching with something





resembling longing,





to the eastern horizon,





where I imagine you





warm and dreaming still





but fear cements me still,





fear of longing





fear of loss





for that place inside





cradles no hope





for green stalks





holding buds





yielding blossoms.





 





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Plantings
	


	

		

Image courtesy of https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/Green-grapes-on-the-vine-with-morning-gl/0F474D245DD85FB8





I tire of seeing memes about having a positive attitude and choosing one’s feelings plastered
social media.  It is no surprise our young people are in the midst of a mental health crisis when constantly bombarded with messages telling them, in essence, “The only reason you are sad is because you are making the choice to be sad,” or, (one of my favorites for sabotaging anyone’s self esteem) “You have a choice to make your day wonderful or not.” While such simplistic messages are well meaning, I believe they are sometimes extremely toxic.  After all, what if your parent died on that day? Did you make the choice to have a horrible day?  What if you go home to a toxic abusive environment? How can you choose to make your day wonderful? So before reposting those wonderful positive messages on social media, let’s all take a step back and think about what we are really saying to someone who may be going through something or in an environment where there is no choice in the matter but to feel what he or she feels. Let’s send messages that say it’s okay to feel what you feel and acknowledge it and to take time to feel it all,so something can be gained from it—a lesson, a positive action taken, whatever it may be, so we know our suffering was not for naught. Hence, this piece.






I gathered my despair,





my tears, my losses, all my grief.





Sat with each,





held them close,





let them dry,





waiting for spring.





 





When the ground warms,





softening, ready for tilling,





I will plant my despair,





sow my tears,





plough rows for my losses,





dig a hole deep enough to hold all my grief.





 





In the turning of time,





from the shrubs of my despair,





I will snip flowers and herbs





for healing others.





From the vines of my tears,





I will pluck the fruits and vegetables





to pile upon the table for all who need.





From the fields of my losses,





I will reap the harvest grain





to store for when a time of need arrives.





Finally, from the tree of all I grieve.





I will pick the sweetest fruit





of memory.





 





 





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Tightrope
	


	

		

(Maria Spelterini crossing the Niagara gorge on a tightrope, 1876)
Image courtesy of 
i.imgur.com





 







Since I drove right by it 

on my GPS selected route

on my way to dinner 

with friends,

I had to stop:



Here now— pulled over, paying reverence,

to time, youth, innocence, tragedy

When we loved each other 

in this home we made together.

 

Here— this moment of reverence paid

unlocks the door of a room 

where you are kept 

preserved in perfection,

untainted by guilt

by tragedy 

by the judgement 

I rendered upon you 

in my innocent ignorant self-righteousness

and so unleashed our tragedy upon us.



Now— could I travel that twisted high wire of time

back through the forty years 

yet keep the wisdom of lessons

learned of forgiveness and judgment—

we would be young lovers

starting out again

and I would gift

you treasures of ancient gods and goddesses—

olive oil, an olive tree to plant,

casks of rose water, 

roughly hewn amber, the mythic tears,

in which we could be captured.



I raise my head, turn my eyes to the road ahead,

locking the door to that place 

where you are kept

preserved in perfection:

Sitting in the window seat,

your head tilted to the light,

sunlight glistening off your copper color hair,

smile wide as you lift your drawing pad 
and pencil,

and begin to sketch,

your thin lovely hand floating 
in movement above the page.

There,I leave you once again,

As I drive away.

















 





 





 





 





 





 

	


	
	






	
	

		
Hardened Earth
	


	

		

Photo by Jezael Melgoza on Unsplash





dry, drought ridden earth





riddled with cracks inches wide





forms chasms decades deep





 





layered in dry dust





rising as rain pelts away,





determined to flood





 





chasms, erasing all cracks





but this earth is too hardened





unyielding to any rain,





seeking to soften hard soil