when you sleep it is with your arms flung open wide as if you could hold the whole spinning world in your infant embrace and I stand on the edge my heart, so close, like honey from a rose wishing that the world was safe enough to give you to hold
I will write a grown up poem about the joys of adulthood of being happy because you have a new garbage can, all your own and can stop mooching off the people who lived next door and moved but left theirs.
A new garbage can will really make your day. So will things like curtains, and hanging pictures on the walls.
A poem about the tiny accomplishments of standing in line and government forms in phone calls and directories and feeling useful yet losing important things. kids aren't the only ones who lose things, you know I happen to be very good at it, myself.
Yes, you feel satisfied when you can cross things off your list like installing things and remembering to buy batteries and then cross when there are ants in the kitchen an insistent line that makes you cringe and feel itchy all over.
When the towels are folded and the dishes clean thank you notes penned and stamped and addressed there's no prizes or stickers or ice cream sundaes to reward you unless you give them to yourself.
slip from your bed
push the crumpled sheets aside
and look through the window adorn yourself with this turquoise sky one emerald treetop to give weight to your shaking hand like some betrothal ring from love at work in this world violets for your tiara and spiderwebs for a veil step outside of your everyday love affair for a waltz with the morning star for a tango with a wolf
(My reworked prose poetry piece for Poetry Thursday)
When I say it's over, I mean this: the dragon is now without power. The jewels she guarded, the rubies and emeralds and precious rocks with names older than we know, jewels from ancient seas now turned to desert and mountain, these jewels have lost their lustre. Worthless now, they have bled their color over the stones of her lair, they are like pieces of coal, black lumps of nothingness. Her scales, once her greenest glory, glimmers of gold and silver in the moonlight, these have turned into grey scabs, one by one by one. Her triumphant wings, like tongues of blue fire, are broken now. She can no longer fly across the star scattered sky, breathing destruction over sleeping villages. All the sulphorous fire and smoke in her lungs is snuffed out, leaving ashes on her tongue, mere fairytale puffs snake from her nose.
All danger is gone. It is over now. Go now, tell this story. Fear is no more.
the first of many dawns where loneliness propels me out the door seeking comfort in the roads waking to life the horizon faded from the remants of a long night cold steering wheel ice obscures my view left right the only choice is to go straight and pray coffee and muffin sought and bought the heat warming my feet and now dawn has upended her teacup spilling pale yellow dreams and pink tulips staining layers of clouds the light of the world has come more gentle that the most glorious sunset sliding a message beneath the door to my heart to fear not the light has come fear not
January comes with her long black hair her sliding violet eyes full of deceit charming us with warm winds and blooming camellias we didn't notice they were the color of spilled blood yes the year comes in hand in hand with death that terrible playmate leaving us with a basketful of questions and no hankerchief for our tears.
last night my sleep was rich delicious as dark chocolate stretched full on the couch to the drone of the local bumbling news some dogs who dragged human bones from the woods so tired even mystery, tragedy could not entice me I stumbled to my bed cradled in soft lamplight my sleep was as deep like some deep sea diver sliding along the dark shadows of the ocean swimming up, up to morning light being tenderly kissed awake like some precious child like this glorious woman
the condition of my heart is simply this: awashed in whatever deep seated emotion that we only can name as joy the parent of happiness, the godmother of mirth unabashed roar of wave followed by emerald wave colliding, the final spin crashing on the shore printed with the memory of your beloved feet the toes you wiggle as you are falling asleep as you dive into your draught of dreams or perhaps the deepest sigh as I enter the borders of bed, bedecked with fresh sheets and my hungry eyes awake in the golden light my laughter as near as John to Jesus as the whir of the Rhodes to the old time gospel singer tears dripping off her chin pleading to come on down and get your heart right with God before it's too late too late I know it's not too late to climb up Jacob's ladder, says the song and the darkness of second thoughts of hesitation in the face of the glory is sailing down the river of life, yes flowing through me.
The color has been stolen from the sky, gagged and tossed in the back of a black van.
In its absence we are suffering through the wet fog of lost memories. Leaf through the encyclopedia, there is no record found. The sky has never been any color other than white, thickly sitting on the earth.
In caves we are painting our dreams of skies full of crimson and violet of clouds as thin as the edge of an envelope.
And if we pray we don't ask for peace, as we see the horsemen coming. We only beg the gods for a little blue sky.
one deer blazing across the dark highway a branch falling from the sky, crackling down to stick in the earth near misses, almost calamity yet the safety of each other laughter woven into being afraid and lost in a strange town with cold spaces and stories pounded into the brick yellow spiders and strong coffee dusk in the graveyard holding your hand