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echoes of Autumn…
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voices like leaves rustle and
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scatter to the wind,
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yet another poet’s pen
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has sadly been set aside.
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a wordless farewell…
like the brightest leaves they fall
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when their season calls.
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but just as the memories
of true love always lingers,
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creativity
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and their inspired poetry
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forever remain.
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dedicated to thesilentfingers, Tanumoy Biswas,
Memoirs of a Dragon, cubby and Tiffany Coffman. ty, all.
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let the world do as it will…
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what pale light lingers of endless Winter days
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fades from these eyes averted,
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far away from this reluctant silhouette’s
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anonymous imprints in greying sidewalk slush.
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let the world do what it has…
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i measure my walk lightly here in frugal steps
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and speak less amidst the throng,
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not belonging where i don’t an eager
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trade of so many years in such meager wisdom.
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so let the world do what it must…
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that our words and value lie less in volume
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than in selfless devotion’s daily intent.
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this grateful heart returns Home
warm with aromas of pine scented candles and
food so lovingly prepared,
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the eclectic comfort of all we’ve collected
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of familiar voices and heartbeats
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and know there is no world i need but ours.
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Friday Repost
for my new friends,
a little dig in the
archives for you.
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petals open slowly
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across undulating fields of truthful wheat
across the window walled skyscraper cities
across churning surf and miles of embattled shore
and a mother’s loving comfort hearing her baby’s cry
know your nourishing and loyal day will arrive
an infinite Sky in her kindness and healing grace
offering all its patient memory and forgiveness
and a wisdom knowing that all petals open slowly
and renewal and its reinvention begin the day
because a child’s heart is a truth we can’t deny
my dearest friend the sun is warming at your window
and our new world awaiting to hear your hopeful reply
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Who is of smiling face
Bestower of all fortunes
Whose hands are ready to
Rescue anyone from fear
It is the child in us
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my morning music and a beautiful video::::enjoy::::
dear friends,
this is a co write between teardrops of ink and myself. we began this poem over a month ago, born from tentative blog converstaions of two internet strangers. we hope you enjoy it, as much as we did writing it.
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dear readers and writers
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,
,
(The Writer)
Frail lives
penned into strong, black lines
on display, hidden
in plain sight for all to see
The moment of truth
Afraid to try, afraid to reach out:
yet more afraid not to.
(a reader)
and it’s these moments…
in reading the poetry of real people,
of eyes that we will never speak to, the miles
we will never bridge, the shoulder,
our reassuring hand will never reach…
it’s these moments when pain,
her vulnerability so courageously
etched across the screen, a pain that
resonates so deep into my own heart, that
i wonder… what…if….should, i risk
saying what i really want to say…
(The Writer)
Some days, I don’t feel real.
Nothing does.
Except for these thin webs
connecting space, this
frail air full
of unspoken words
and spoken ones.
I am burdened to give,
to share
everything,
to hold nothing back
All of my heart, bleeding out for you
All of you. Those who I will never know
or see or touch.
Yet you know more of me than
those who can see and touch
me.
(a reader)
she has revealed
so much of herself in such
naked honesty stripped of metaphors
could it…is it enough that
i suffer for us in
my silent solidarity,
click ‘like’ and move on?
i ache for us… both
that her words would ever need to be written
that my wound could still bleed as fresh
but..
we’ve talked before…
in that day’s long conversation…
in her beautiful poem To Taste the Autumn
at least a tenuous connection
exists between us now…
will she recall it
fondly as i do?
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or is it just
what i need
to feel?…
(The Writer)
Interpretation
can work both ways. He
could say one thing and I
read another, same words, different
thoughts born from them. Gently phrasing,
almost afraid to tread
too heavy inside
the dark recesses of others minds
lest I leave too much of a footprint.
Yet how will we know if we
are the same inside unless we break
open the shell a little
and look?
Absent touch
Handshakes reaching
through binary code
And the silence stops pressing in
quite so much.
(a reader)
the pain in her poetry
has scratched and scrawled into my heart,
taken root in decomposed memories
it resides there, in
wounds buried decades deep
below this sudden resurrection
but tears as wet
if there is more to grieve
then who better to empathize?
i’ll bare this truth
as she has,
expose my softest underbelly
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empathy shouldn’t
feel like such a risk,
but there is
no turning away now
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,
(the friend)
i am so profoundly happy for you!
ty so much for sharing that wonderful news!
i remember when Scout and i first realized we were in love…
nothing else existed….enjoy your time together.
and they say fairy tales
don’t come true….
hugs to you
my dear friend
(The Writer)
Pale and
warm
ethereal tendrils
snaking through the dark overheads
Soft as newborn stars
More tender than petals
The reassurance of a stranger’s words
reaching through the universe
to embrace a lonely soul
Enticing touch of a tentative friendship
born through blood
and fire
and words
pressed into my heart and
soothing
Shedding sweet tears
til no bitter remains..
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to read by
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these old shoes
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these old shoes of mine…
walked the twisting, painful path
that has marked this life.
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my innocence lost…
psyche and body so bruised,
i ran at fourteen.
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and these old shoes stood
steadfast and true…. with me in
my loneliest hours.
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i can’t let them die…
stitching them back together,
again… and… again.
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i don’t yearn for much…
these days….. my miracles are
the moments i’m in.
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my needs are simple,
f a m i l y…. is my fashion.
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‘shoes, just get me…..h o m e’
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for my sister Melanie,
ty for your courage.
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i
no
longer
yearn,
for the
next
big thing
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it’s
every
t i m e
we spend,
it’s
u s
here
n o w
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.
y o u
show me
l o v e,
deeper
than merely
skin on skin
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our
hearts
they beat
t o g e t h e r,
we bleed
as one
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your
eyes say
a l w a y s,
come
h o m e
to me
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.
your
lips mouth
w o r d s,
that
feed my
s o u l
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your
arms
they
hold me,
i know
i n f i n i t y
.
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it’s
your l o v e…
and it’s
a l l
i will
e v e r
need,
to
b e
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this poem was written to the tempo of this song.
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dear friends this is a writing departure
but i hope by the end you will understand
why it had to be written…ty.
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so what ever
happened to trust?
so what ever
happened to honesty?
so what ever
happened
to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else isn’t
really gonna’ fill that void?
darlin’
in these past ten years
just how many of your friends
have come to you crying?
yet another marriage up in flames
and now your bestie girlfriend Linda
and my own sympatico soul sister
her heart is now ripped inside out too
found he was cheating 4 of their 16 years
so what ever
happened to everlasting?
so what ever
happened to committment?
so what ever
happened
to caring at all that
a little skin on skin
with someone else just
causes such unbearable pain?
and we thought she was safe
their marriage passed the test of time
and we felt so shocked and helpless
you just listened…letting her cry and cry
and darlin’
you know i don’t get this mad very often
but this news just sucked out my breath
so i just had to put this upset somewhere
and writing poems…it’s how i show i care
look in her eyes
for you Linda
from me
from what souless depths does it begin
or can your smooth deceptions justify
breaking her, piece by piece?
and mouthing your nonchalant swift lies
as if her world was still everything she knew,
spinning on it’s easy axis.
did you really think a day would never come,
that day you could not look in her eyes
and tell her what you’ve done?
so yeah,
it was touch and go there for a while
with you coming home late after later nights
being that best friend forever that i know so well
and sometimes it just all works out the way it should
so darlin’,
our brave Linda she slowly found her footing
maybe even sooner than she believed she could
and nailing a framed copy of her poem to the wall
nonchalantly showing that now ex husband to the door
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both Linda and Scout, my partner are singers and this song
speaks about the power of music. if you feel like a second read,
please play the song and pick up the tempo the poem was written to.
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Mary you’re covered in roses
you’re covered in ruin
you’re covered in secrets
you’re covered in treetops
you’re covered in birds
who can sing a million songs
without any words.
‘Mary’, Patti Griffin
For as long as anyone could remember she was there every spring in the same spot, her own safe corner of the garden center answering questions about the roses she tended wearing her familiar garb a uniform, the well worn wide brimmed straw hat circled with a thin black silk ribbon, an oversized faded to almost white denim shirt sleeves twice rolled neatly, the tail of the billowing shirt reaching mid thigh her torso hidden, loose fitting, faded and frayed Levis folded to just above her ankles showing white cotton socks, black canvas Keds the white rubber banding forever soil stained. When she wasn’t wearing her trademark flower imprinted canvas gloves her right hand held a cigarette and it was only then you might notice her hand trembling slightly as she slowly brought it down to rest on her knee as she sat low on her small stool as the smoke slowly exhaled and curled up around her head.
From a distance her narrow face barely visible hidden behind the once flaming red loosely curled hair now muted with grey rested shoulder length, the wind occasionally blowing stray ringlets sideways across her dark perfectly round faux wood framed sunglasses never seemed a bother, never elicited a wipe away response as if it was all planned that way. She moved slowly as if scripted, gestures planned in advance leaving no room for error with her graceful posture she didn’t walk as much as she glided, a pale shadow sliding across the pavement and between crowded containers of the tender young rose plants she adored.
She was a carefully crafted enigma carving out a living doing what she loved, talking of roses to any who would listen even as she did her best to become invisible. No one knew where she lived or where she came from, a human without a history even to the many longtime employees she was simply known as The Rose Lady and that’s exactly how she wanted it be.
No one knew she wrote either but him, writing page after page of tightly composed hand penned black inked script, the penmanship so disciplined almost machine like and impossible to decipher except by her, exactly how she wanted it to be. Her stories each accompanied an intricate impossibly detailed companion pen and ink drawing, the technical skill beyond reproach.
They would meet once a week during that spring and early summer sitting on the roughed granite steps to her favorite place, her refuge, a tribute garden full of only roses perfectly designed in the classic formal English style she went there often to wipe away the world and disappear, become invisible again. This almost secret place was in plain view on a busy street but there were rarely any visitors except for the old man who tended the roses and meticulously manicured the gravel path before he left leaving it perfect placing every small grey rounded stone where it should be.
It was there amidst the safety of everything that was familiar, under the protective cloak of the expected and the perfect order that never disappointed that Mary took a chance and did the unexpected which for her was nothing less than a blindfold leap into the abyss. It was there, sitting side by side with her pages and drawings between them their eyes adjusting to the dimming light, that uncertain bright to near dark transition that Mary began revealing her story to him slowly, inaudible at first as he gently cradled the drawing she could barely hand him. Even as her voice slowly gathered it’s strength it was never more than a low single note monotone effortlessly reciting her stream of conciousness testimony as if rehearsed daily and committed to memory, the only punctuation her breathing, a brief pause as her narrow frame rose to meet the next paragraph.
Staring straight ahead sitting on the steps that late spring afternoon as the noise of the busy street behind them faded he heard nothing but the soft floating sound of her voice, like the smoke from the cigarette that she held in her unsteady hand it enveloped them both. It was only when he began focusing on the drawing, the twisted bodies and anguished expressions represented in painful detail did he emerge from his own trance and begin to hear her words.
Mary did her very best to disguise the pain and trauma contained in her passages, her controlled emotion a rage compressed, the matter of fact delivery another possible detour offered but nothing could hide the horrible truth when he finally listened through it all to hear her words, listened as she told story after heartbreaking story of the violence and torment she experienced first by her father and then an abusive husband, finally leaving him her destination a secret.
In awe of her courage, her truth rubbed raw his own childhood wounds never revealed, he felt helpless so close to her pain when he could never confront his own. Wanting to help in some small way reassure, struggling to find words he found none so he sat there on the steps beside her and simply listened thinking he had let her down, that he’d failed her somehow. He couldn’t know it then but there was nothing more healing for them both than his silence.
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one of her favorite songs…..
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written March 2012
who could know then 