Within touch,
there's a space
between yes, and don't;
a pause,
and that holds for quite a while.
Her eyes seem deeper,
thoughts glance at her hand.
It seems smaller,
and sweeter,
and. . . like it needs held.
And he swallows hard,
the line is tripped
between,
they both know it
and know that it's
what they both think.
There a certain heart flutters
(its petals swirl
down,
down,
down, fragile; undone).
Her hair seems finer,
her laugh brightened some.
She knows that he sees.
He has a deep glance,
and nice eyes
that hold volumes
she'd like to read.
Within space,
there's a trembling
movement they've felt;
like threads in the breeze,
the silk in a web.
The silken fingers
link them with ease,
back and forth, back and forth,
as his thoughts
brush her cheek.
February 14, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Bloom.
Wouldn't you like to know;
I would like to,
like to know and let it stay.
I would be so fragile
and you would be so strong;
and then my arms would hold you
when you cannot last too long.
My tendrils wrapping 'round you,
I'll grow with you,
your stem about to break,
I'll bend
and wind up you until my weakness
is your strength.
(Please grow with me.)
February 13, 2009
I would like to,
like to know and let it stay.
I would be so fragile
and you would be so strong;
and then my arms would hold you
when you cannot last too long.
My tendrils wrapping 'round you,
I'll grow with you,
your stem about to break,
I'll bend
and wind up you until my weakness
is your strength.
(Please grow with me.)
February 13, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Did He?
Did he tell you of tonality
and tangled chords and cords
of strings and symphonies
he bore like these new songs
you try to keep from singing?
Did he?
Did he hold your hand and
let his small heart fast unwind
its boyish words and write
his love, like poetry, upon your own?
Did you see his grace and form,
his hands fine tools for finer crafts,
the lilt, his choices, delicate,
or did you fast and firm react?
Did you tailor him to fit, or
did he fit a tailor you can't
control; a million joys you
could have had, unsaid instead?
Did you?
Did you file each word
and tuck his letters in a pile,
a while spaced between your thoughts
and further conversation?
Did he spill his fears of faithless-
ness and fraught with questions asked,
or did you stake the doubts to death;
consoled, dissolved, and conquered it?
Did he turn a glance, an eye, and back,
and did you follow it; follow it back to his heart
that aches, or did you judge and lose it?
Did he? Did you?
Did he try to paint the walls
the colour of a beauty, marked
with life of art and feelings far
from what you like to cover?
Or did he get to settle in with
you, his twists and turns entwined,
and sign his name like yours, the same,
but with his own embellishment?
January 28, 2009
and tangled chords and cords
of strings and symphonies
he bore like these new songs
you try to keep from singing?
Did he?
Did he hold your hand and
let his small heart fast unwind
its boyish words and write
his love, like poetry, upon your own?
Did you see his grace and form,
his hands fine tools for finer crafts,
the lilt, his choices, delicate,
or did you fast and firm react?
Did you tailor him to fit, or
did he fit a tailor you can't
control; a million joys you
could have had, unsaid instead?
Did you?
Did you file each word
and tuck his letters in a pile,
a while spaced between your thoughts
and further conversation?
Did he spill his fears of faithless-
ness and fraught with questions asked,
or did you stake the doubts to death;
consoled, dissolved, and conquered it?
Did he turn a glance, an eye, and back,
and did you follow it; follow it back to his heart
that aches, or did you judge and lose it?
Did he? Did you?
Did he try to paint the walls
the colour of a beauty, marked
with life of art and feelings far
from what you like to cover?
Or did he get to settle in with
you, his twists and turns entwined,
and sign his name like yours, the same,
but with his own embellishment?
January 28, 2009
Sick in Bed, final draft
Comfortable,
in fluff and in pillows,
my comforter,
my Comforter,
and a blanket on my window.
Brown-tone light
lazes, hazelnut dreams,
thick cream blankets
make me sigh and I
sleep.
Waking and sleeping
go liquid, and mix,
downed in hot drink
like milk and cinnamon.
You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shy of infection,
your soft lips please,
with your cool cheek on mine,
a consistency.
Murmur of voices
pull me out of the dreamed,
push me back ‘til the edges
are crinkled and steamed
and I wake,
yet I sleep,
all sugar and spice;
my bed holds the flavour
of grave and of life,
and I wake to your fingers
lacing through mine:
I’m the chill in my bones;
you’re the warmth in the wine.
I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
it's all movement and sitting,
like old man and wife,
and I sleep as if nothing else
matters to me.
Sleepless, I'll sleep
in my half-wakened state
you’ll be there,
you’ll be there,
with a touch at my Wake.
And I’ll wake,
as the mourners pray;
dead never dreamed—
your tender hand holding
the healing I need.
Tucked under covers,
I taste of the Sweet:
A case of you, soothing
my waking and sleep.
January 27, 2009
in fluff and in pillows,
my comforter,
my Comforter,
and a blanket on my window.
Brown-tone light
lazes, hazelnut dreams,
thick cream blankets
make me sigh and I
sleep.
Waking and sleeping
go liquid, and mix,
downed in hot drink
like milk and cinnamon.
You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shy of infection,
your soft lips please,
with your cool cheek on mine,
a consistency.
Murmur of voices
pull me out of the dreamed,
push me back ‘til the edges
are crinkled and steamed
and I wake,
yet I sleep,
all sugar and spice;
my bed holds the flavour
of grave and of life,
and I wake to your fingers
lacing through mine:
I’m the chill in my bones;
you’re the warmth in the wine.
I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
it's all movement and sitting,
like old man and wife,
and I sleep as if nothing else
matters to me.
Sleepless, I'll sleep
in my half-wakened state
you’ll be there,
you’ll be there,
with a touch at my Wake.
And I’ll wake,
as the mourners pray;
dead never dreamed—
your tender hand holding
the healing I need.
Tucked under covers,
I taste of the Sweet:
A case of you, soothing
my waking and sleep.
January 27, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sick In Bed, draft 1
I'm quite comfortable,
with sleep and the feeling
of fluff and of pillows,
and the cool side of the sheets.
And I hang a blanket over
the window,
brown-toned light makes
me drift and sigh and. . .
illness makes dreams
and dreams reality
until waking and sleeping
are liquid and warming,
downed like a mixed drink
that swallows like warm milk
and cinnamon.
You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shying away
from infliction of infection,
with your cool cheek on mine
and your sweet consistency.
I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
it's all movement and sitting,
like an old man and wife,
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
and I sleep like there's nothing else
that matters to me.
I dream of walking down a road,
but never getting anywhere.
But the 'never anywhere' feels
like a comfort. And I dream
of you talking, and my home that
isn't my home, but the yellow walls
seem usual.
Taking my shoes off when I go outside
seems practical;
driving my car around the same bend
seven times seems
logical.
Repeating the same syllable over to
get it right feels rational.
Dreams are delusional.
So I dream.
And I've fallen in love with a blanket,
and it responds with tenderness,
wrapping my coldness in pelted, fuzzy
warm; like you stay in my arms
when I dream.
I get well to the murmur of voices,
and smiles I can't see,
and the one line of poetry tripping over,
and over,
"Because I could not stop for death--
he kindly stopped for me. . ."
I hear four notes played in succession,
on repeat with coda and then
I somehow mix the poem with the music
'til it wakes me, still driving me mad.
But I'll sing myself silly,
and sleepless, I'll sleep in my half-wakened state
and you'll be there,
like a hug or a touch at my Wake.
And I'll wake, like the mourners have prayed for,
as so many dead never have dreamed:
for my bed holds a sweet resurrection,
and your soft hand the healing I need.
with sleep and the feeling
of fluff and of pillows,
and the cool side of the sheets.
And I hang a blanket over
the window,
brown-toned light makes
me drift and sigh and. . .
illness makes dreams
and dreams reality
until waking and sleeping
are liquid and warming,
downed like a mixed drink
that swallows like warm milk
and cinnamon.
You're the blind on my window,
keeping inside in,
and you guard me with kisses
and cups of tea,
never shying away
from infliction of infection,
with your cool cheek on mine
and your sweet consistency.
I dream like I'm fading
and coming to life:
it's all movement and sitting,
like an old man and wife,
as my young body aches
like I'm aged, and I sleep,
and I sleep like there's nothing else
that matters to me.
I dream of walking down a road,
but never getting anywhere.
But the 'never anywhere' feels
like a comfort. And I dream
of you talking, and my home that
isn't my home, but the yellow walls
seem usual.
Taking my shoes off when I go outside
seems practical;
driving my car around the same bend
seven times seems
logical.
Repeating the same syllable over to
get it right feels rational.
Dreams are delusional.
So I dream.
And I've fallen in love with a blanket,
and it responds with tenderness,
wrapping my coldness in pelted, fuzzy
warm; like you stay in my arms
when I dream.
I get well to the murmur of voices,
and smiles I can't see,
and the one line of poetry tripping over,
and over,
"Because I could not stop for death--
he kindly stopped for me. . ."
I hear four notes played in succession,
on repeat with coda and then
I somehow mix the poem with the music
'til it wakes me, still driving me mad.
But I'll sing myself silly,
and sleepless, I'll sleep in my half-wakened state
and you'll be there,
like a hug or a touch at my Wake.
And I'll wake, like the mourners have prayed for,
as so many dead never have dreamed:
for my bed holds a sweet resurrection,
and your soft hand the healing I need.
Friday, January 23, 2009
"The Shadow Proves The Sunshine"
"Sometimes it takes a storm to really know the light:
the scent of rain, the weight of the clouds pulling down the sky.
Sometimes it takes a storm to know how you feel. . . .
. . .The way a cloud divides sometimes; the clearing and the blue.
I love you." -Fernando Ortega
***
"If only everything was black and white," we've heard it said.
And then the storm rolls in.
Dark. Sooty grey clouds, coating the inside of the sky and riddling the pavement with black spots. Rain-soaked and dismal, the view becomes rather grey.
Grey.
There is no colour so forlorn to me as grey. It drivels and complains and hangs its head; it snuffs out candles in smoldering plumes; it blankets colour leaving it lifeless and dull. I'd much rather darkness come and take me into Blackness completely.
And since Light is far gone and does not promise its return, we start asking for the Darkness-- better go all the way than stay in the middle. Let it thunder! Let it pour! Let it rattle my bones, and soak me through, and succumb to something of movement and invigorating power rather than something with no force, no vibration, no infusion of anything. And the storm comes.
Everything hovers. The air pulses; leaves quiver; every particle seems to tremble. It's awakening! It's enlivening! It's. . . over. And all that falls for days, and days, and days, and days is rain.
Black.
Night is black, and follows the evening storm. It's rumpled and wrinkled, drenched in water, shrivelled like a prune. It's old; it's new. It's clean and cold and. . . dark. And there it is. Black and rain and night; black and rain and night.
And it stays. It stays and waits, and when it sees us tire of day after day of windshield wipers, and wet shopping bags, and frizzy hair, and soggy shoes-- it stays. Dark and rain and night. Even in "day", it's dark and rain and night. No black, but dark.
And grey.
That grey.
That grey. . . turns an odd shade of gold. It hints. Remember light?
Day.
Mmm, day. Day, when we could see clouds as individual puffs, and frosty blue between them, so crisp it looked like it would snap! like a clean sheet hanging out on the line, drying in sunny warm air. Hot sunshine would heat our heads and make us yawn and smile and sleep in hammocks, or stretch out on the prickly grass, or lie down under the trees. Trees that didn't droop with water droplets and annoyingly drip & smudge our glasses, or crack and smash their branches into windows and parked cars. Trees that sway, with that amazingly musical rushing sound, like water in the distance-- but water that is too far away to bring the rain.
Indigo blue and golden sunsets that would blaze over wheat fields, and streams of sunlight that would glisten off the waters and the ice-encrusted trees: Light that pricked its stars in night skies and trickled through my hair like liquid gold when I napped under the open window. How easily we forget and take for granted. How simple and so sweet; so present it is. Light flashes with its own magnificence and yet, most often, sifts and drifts and stays, so understated.
Light.
It splits a cloud and suddenly, we feel like we've been given air. Dismal grey, coal black; every raincloud meets its doom in our minds as soon as one little ray breaks through. Shadows fell too long. Light came back.
I've missed you.
Hope sparks. We shake off the gloom, and tombs are seen as tombs. Life means something; darkness is exposed. What was taken for granted is reposed and returns unexpected. It is proved by the shadow, and shadows are proved by the light. One can finally see-- why didn't we see it before?
I love you.
That's what it was, but it was covered in grey. Light needs its shadows. Love needs its distance. Healing needs its pain.
Hello.
It's a brand new day.
L.E.
the scent of rain, the weight of the clouds pulling down the sky.
Sometimes it takes a storm to know how you feel. . . .
. . .The way a cloud divides sometimes; the clearing and the blue.
I love you." -Fernando Ortega
***
"If only everything was black and white," we've heard it said.
And then the storm rolls in.
Dark. Sooty grey clouds, coating the inside of the sky and riddling the pavement with black spots. Rain-soaked and dismal, the view becomes rather grey.
Grey.
There is no colour so forlorn to me as grey. It drivels and complains and hangs its head; it snuffs out candles in smoldering plumes; it blankets colour leaving it lifeless and dull. I'd much rather darkness come and take me into Blackness completely.
And since Light is far gone and does not promise its return, we start asking for the Darkness-- better go all the way than stay in the middle. Let it thunder! Let it pour! Let it rattle my bones, and soak me through, and succumb to something of movement and invigorating power rather than something with no force, no vibration, no infusion of anything. And the storm comes.
Everything hovers. The air pulses; leaves quiver; every particle seems to tremble. It's awakening! It's enlivening! It's. . . over. And all that falls for days, and days, and days, and days is rain.
Black.
Night is black, and follows the evening storm. It's rumpled and wrinkled, drenched in water, shrivelled like a prune. It's old; it's new. It's clean and cold and. . . dark. And there it is. Black and rain and night; black and rain and night.
And it stays. It stays and waits, and when it sees us tire of day after day of windshield wipers, and wet shopping bags, and frizzy hair, and soggy shoes-- it stays. Dark and rain and night. Even in "day", it's dark and rain and night. No black, but dark.
And grey.
That grey.
That grey. . . turns an odd shade of gold. It hints. Remember light?
Day.
Mmm, day. Day, when we could see clouds as individual puffs, and frosty blue between them, so crisp it looked like it would snap! like a clean sheet hanging out on the line, drying in sunny warm air. Hot sunshine would heat our heads and make us yawn and smile and sleep in hammocks, or stretch out on the prickly grass, or lie down under the trees. Trees that didn't droop with water droplets and annoyingly drip & smudge our glasses, or crack and smash their branches into windows and parked cars. Trees that sway, with that amazingly musical rushing sound, like water in the distance-- but water that is too far away to bring the rain.
Indigo blue and golden sunsets that would blaze over wheat fields, and streams of sunlight that would glisten off the waters and the ice-encrusted trees: Light that pricked its stars in night skies and trickled through my hair like liquid gold when I napped under the open window. How easily we forget and take for granted. How simple and so sweet; so present it is. Light flashes with its own magnificence and yet, most often, sifts and drifts and stays, so understated.
Light.
It splits a cloud and suddenly, we feel like we've been given air. Dismal grey, coal black; every raincloud meets its doom in our minds as soon as one little ray breaks through. Shadows fell too long. Light came back.
I've missed you.
Hope sparks. We shake off the gloom, and tombs are seen as tombs. Life means something; darkness is exposed. What was taken for granted is reposed and returns unexpected. It is proved by the shadow, and shadows are proved by the light. One can finally see-- why didn't we see it before?
I love you.
That's what it was, but it was covered in grey. Light needs its shadows. Love needs its distance. Healing needs its pain.
Hello.
It's a brand new day.
L.E.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Butterfly : A Song
I wrote this a year and a half ago, but it has been going through my head the last few weeks. Butterflies may seem a highly cliche metaphor, but I can't help relating to it nonetheless.
BUTTERFLY
you don’t know how
to let it go.
Butterfly, butterfly
butterfly, butterfly
You don’t remember
what it’s like:
the world outside,
the world outside.
It was such
a hard climb
you forgot
about the sky.
You did, didn’t you?
Butterfly, butterfly
better fly, butterfly
No more of the grass is greener.
Watch the sky, you will see her
flutter by,
butterfly
let her by: butterfly.
Never meant to be pinned.
More than a beauty,
wings were meant for this
Butterfly…
October 31, 2007
BUTTERFLY
The cocoon is
tightening now,
There’s no room
in it now.
you don’t know how
to let it go.
Butterfly, butterfly
butterfly, butterfly
You don’t remember
what it’s like:
the world outside,
the world outside.
It was such
a hard climb
you forgot
about the sky.
You did, didn’t you?
Butterfly, butterfly
better fly, butterfly
No more of the grass is greener.
Watch the sky, you will see her
flutter by,
butterfly
let her by: butterfly.
Never meant to be pinned.
More than a beauty,
wings were meant for this
Butterfly…
October 31, 2007
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