Thursday, June 26, 2008

Like a River

26 June 2008, 9:36 AM
Inspired by this post at Matsu's World and a gift I received a few weeks ago, and finally used today for the first time.

Incense rises
like a river. The surface never ceases
to move, to change, to evolve
from opaque to translucent
gray against black velvet.

Incense rises--
it's not a river. Parity disintegrates
at the surface. Smoke evaporates
with nothing below to take its place
but empty air, and the struggle remains
to make meaning where there is naught
but the smell of Cassia,
the knowledge of its origin.

The river rises,
threatens to bear me away in my grief
that a gift cannot be simply a gift,
but a reminder of what cannot be undone,
the slate-wiped-clean I can never attain,
the unanswered prayers I've never let pass
my lips, weary with the weight of regret.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Second Cup

24 June 2008, 8:04 AM

I pour your second cup of coffee,
feeling just a little back handed,
knowing you owe this courtesy,
at least in part, to the fact that
I'd rather you stayed a while longer
with me here at home, and I know
you're the same way. We know
you have to go to work, and I have
chosen to stay and raise the little ones,
avert chaos in our home so we
can sit together at day's end,
sip a beer, a cider, or a glass of tea
and enjoy Paradise for the few
hours of the day which are truly ours.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Coolest Thing I've Done in a While

I painted my Beloved's Jeep yesterday and today. There were a few times when I thought I was going to be in the doghouse- not because I did it without his knowledge or consent. He asked me to do it. But a Jeep Wrangler is an expensive canvas, and I've never painted on a slick surface with model paints. But it turned out FABULOUS (in my humble opinion).

Friday, June 13, 2008


13 June 2008, 6:49 PM

Paradise is so particularly
precarious- I hadn’t realized how
very capricious it could be.
I watch it crumble all around,
as ours remains as always it has been,
if always it has been. So very
little time has passed since first we found
this corner of Elysium. Can we own
such words as Always and Eternity?
Regardless, this Haven is
forever enough for you and me.
We will say never, will call it
always, and forsake it not.

Good Gifts

My husband bought me the BEST t-shirt EVAR. It's brown, and across the chest in yellow letters is written:

Hehehe. Hahaha. Hohoho. MMMMWAAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Included with the shirt was a packing list containing the following message:

"2 mai favrit pometrist. kluvubai."

If you've never heard of lolspeak, you really must google it.

The Door

13 June 2008, 3:55 PM

I’ve unlocked
a great many doors from the past
when need required such. yet now,
let’s leave this rusty lock alone,
let such things rest while rest can be had
and enjoy the footpath winding round
about sycamore groves and swaying
grasslands, through starry nights, under sun
burning in cerulean skies. The door
will still be standing if ever we return
to this shadow-darkened bend in the road.

Who’s to say we will?

If we don’t, that door can remain
locked and undisturbed until the very end,
and I can bury this key beneath the Waters
in the shifting bed of failing memories.

Inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

A Drop in My Memory

5 June 2008, 8:17 AM

He balanced the orange mug
in one hand, then the other, never spilling
a drop in my memory.
He must have been magic,
maneuvering wheel, manual gearshift
and coffee with only two hands-
my dad could manage such things,
make them look easy, though
I knew from the look in his eye
it must require concentration. I understood
the image of a dance, the one he always
used to try to help us grasp the concept
of putting in the clutch to shift; releasing
the pressure slowly. Rising
from my memory, I see him again, an image
of control- no- stability I haven’t glimpsed
in over a decade. I hadn’t realized
how difficult it must have been
keeping life and grief balanced, never spilling
a drop. In my memory,
there is room for mercy if he missed me
in his trance, saw only
the task before him, the little girl
in awe of such a very big,
such a very magical man.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Slighted Lover

3 June 2008, 8:13 AM

There she stands
in the doorway. Light spills
into my mind as I turn, take
a moment to embrace
the Words, rediscover me.

I sit and search, scrawl the words
like prayer proffered in the private
hours of the morning, quietly
in secret places of the heart,
leading the Faithful further up,
further in. She comes and I
do not turn away. I understand
we are one, the Slighted Lover;
the Poet and myself. I had forgotten.

Monday, June 02, 2008

The Words

It's been a while since I was deliberate about my writing. The first year I wrote, I wrote roughly 600 pages worth of poetry. I guess you could say I uncorked, in the words of Stephen King. In the 5 months of 2008, I've not written 100 pages. I suppose there's a time to write and a time to adjust to life changes, a time to learn to keep a house, whereas for the last 5 years I've had a really good excuse to live in a pigsty. Those changes carry a lot of unintended consquences, and while I don't think they're permanent- I'm still painting, I still write now and again, and one of these days I'm going to play my guitar again- it still smarts to see the blank canvases on the floor in the living room, and to open Pages and realize how many experiences this year have gone by without my having marked them in the way to which I am accustomed. For no reason but my own hang ups about no longer being a wage-earner, and what it means to be a contributor to a household when this is the case, creativity often gets pushed to the back-burner. I shall attempt to take my Beloved's attitude toward and valuation of such things- he has only ever been 100% supportive and encouraging re: my artistic bent- and be more deliberate about setting aside time each day to write and create.

The Words
2 June 2008, 10:29 AM

When I fail to write, the words
withdraw like a slighted lover
watching from the door, waiting for him
to turn and take her in his arms
for one last kiss, a moment stolen
from a day of relentless demands,
all of which threaten to steal away
the vigilance which never lets me forget
what is needful, what is not. Eventually,
I fear she’ll fail to wait, I’ll fail to see, she
will fail to watch from the door, and I
will fail to be a poet.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits