Tag Archives: Poetry

A LITTLE EACH DAY

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AUTHOR’S NOTE-

IT TAKES A LITTLE NURTURING EACH DAY TO THRIVE.

IT TAKES A LITTLE TEARING DOWN EACH DAY TO DIE.

WITH A LITTLE EACH DAY-A GARDEN CAN GO EITHER WAY.

 

I STOOD IN THE GARDEN
MY FEET BARE WITHIN THE SOIL.
YOU TORE OFF EACH PETAL OF MY SOUL-
A CARETAKER OR A SCROYLE.
MY CRIES TO ST. DYMPHNA
SHE UNDERSTOOD MY PAIN.
A SPIRIT CANNOT THRIVE
WITH JUST THE SUN AND RAIN.
YOU CAN NURTURE.
YOU CAN FEED.
YOU MAKE THE GARDEN GROW.
YOU CAN DROWN THE ROOT-
YOU CAN HACK THE STEM.
NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.
THE WATER FELL. THE SKY WAS BRIGHT.
YOU RETURNED TO SEE YOUR WORK.
THERE I WAS-
LIFELESS-
STILL GROUNDED IN THE FERTILE EARTH.
CDS
FEBRUARY 2020

BUCKLES AND BOWS

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(I don’t write many poems that rhyme unless they are funny little ditties. However, this has been in my head for two days and would not go away.)
IT STARTED WITH BUCKLES.
IT STARTED WITH BOWS.
IT STARTED WITH WORDS BEGINNING TO SOUND LIKE PROSE.
IN A ROOM WITH A DRESSER, A MIRROR, AND A FOUR POSTER BED
I RECITED THE PHRASES GATHERING IN MY HEAD.
IMAGINATION, EXPRESSION, AN AUDIENCE OF ONE,
I WAS THE WRITER, THE CRITIC, THE HEROINE. 
I DANCED WITH THE RAIN.
I DANCED WITH THE SUN. 
HOLDING THE SCRIPT IN MY HANDS SO SMALL
SELF-POSSESSED. STANDING TALL. 
CONTENT IN MY SPACE
WHERE MY DREAMS WERE MADE.
WITHOUT CHAGRIN I SEE MY FACE. 
THE IMAGE BEFORE ME
MY REFLECTION IN THE GLASS. 
WOULD LIFE BE KIND TO ME?
WOULD THIS BE THE STORY OF MY PAST? 

CLEARLY YOU

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CLEARLY YOU
You have a front row seat.
To the madness.
You are a witness.
To the method.
You are not even aware.
The proscenium separates us.
You are always observing.
A critic of experiences.
Not even your own.
Life is our stage.
Tears, laughter, silence, audible rage.
The show is sold out.
We are still in this cage.

The Silence of My Thoughts

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I am sitting here in grief.

Grief that is not mine to possess.

I can touch the memory of laughing with my son last night.

Talking about his future.  Memories from the past.

Enjoying the moment between us two.

He sits with me now in the quiet as I write. 

He is working.  I can reach out.  He is there. Breathing.

I see life.  His life.

My heart is heavy for the mother. The father.  They belonged to him. 

He was theirs.  His heartbeat. 

Anguished.

All they have are the memories.  Palpable. Grief. Life. 

That space in between.  Disbelief.

Primal. I can feel them.  

I must hold my head.  I can hear their piercing screams.

It is my imagination. The cries.  They belong to me.

I reach out. I hear silence now.  I see life.  I see my son.