Ice Floe

Shadow, the skeleton of a tree in winter spreads and stretches across a sun-filled plane

Or is that plain, exposed and revealed the thin branches and limbs of a naked Norwegian Maple

Mocked by the English Holly with it’s tiny barbs and rotund form sitting solid and stoic

Aged cheddar on a twice baked potato served with smoked salmon and asparagus drizzled with bechemel, serving for one

The sheets are fresh clean from the laundry smells faintly of lavender and vanilla two pillows for one head

Small bottles filled with the helpers of men in long white coats and stethoscopes sit like soldiers waiting on call to battle

A certain tightness and lack of mobility in an aging machine which cannot be oiled like a clock

Vision blurred by strain glaces at the familiar objects around the room weary and worn dull aching pain

reach for the bottles or reach for the glass, the water wins again but the soldiers stand ever ready with their lethal force a battle they will fight from within

Perhaps it is the subtle reminder of ice floating in my glass that the Inuit have a history which answers these unspoken pleas with numbing elegance.

With Rue My Heart is Laden

Aside from being a wonderful poem about the passage of time from the Victorian era, it is a feeling that envelops me now.  I am not depressed but there is this vast absence of passion for almost everything.  There are few people I speak with anymore and even fewer who break through the crumbling facade I strive vainly to maintain.  My fear is if it goes away that there really will be nothing left.

I think it is my heart.  My heart is in an emotional coma.  It beat too fast for one man and now there is little to sustain it.  It is not broken.  I cannot break.  I think it suffered from this serious beating and now it lays in meek repose wondering if it should fade and cease or take a rest between beatings.  Like a drum a heart is best when it is allowed to express it’s beat. 

I am where I am for a reason. I just need to figure out why.

Prayers

I pray for many things. I think most people do. I pray morning noon and night. It’s an automatic response to disquiet and an offering for those in need.

I pray for friends. I pray to the dead. I pray for things and ephemeral ideas.

Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

Rejection takes many forms.  Personal response to rejection another array.  Most days being told no or having something not go my way does not bother me in the least.  Today I experienced  the worst sort of rejection, that of a returned gift.  At first there was the happiness that something lost had been found, but with it came the realization that the time and trouble and effort and energy and love I put in to creating something special for someone meant less than shit to them. 

 

I am left to ponder all the nuances of a returned gift and why this person to whom the gift was sent rejected it.  I will not verbalize excuses for them.  I will not brush it off as if it means naught either.  I am not deeply hurt, at least I do not think I am.  I want an acknowledgement of what happened, but part of what stings is the knowledge that this person is aware of what transpired and has not a damn thing to say.  I am uncertain if this is callousness or cowardice. 

 

If you expect me to give then you had best be willing to receive.  This is the second time something of this sort has happened, and like American baseball I will give one more chance.  But honestly three strikes and you are out.  My kindness has it’s limits, my smile is not for those who abuse my good will.  Perhaps my good nature is seen as a weak and horrible thing to be tested and tried?  Is that a trial you want to seek?  To make down trodden that which scrapes to find joy where daily there is less and less?  The sun will shine where it is allowed.  And if it is continued to be made clear that it is not wanted then darkness and the nothing it implies is all there will be for you. 

Nostalgia

There are four rose pink petals in my pocket, they  belong to Zuzu

Cordial stains on napkins after lawn parties on Saturdays in summer

Fireflies hanging like fairy lights among the beech and sycamore trees flickering  and enchanting every eye that sees

Feet in third position, hand resting lightly on a careworn wooden rail as a line of girls in tullé move gracefully as a Degas painting

Radiance from the sun warming nut brown skin fall asleep and burn

Snippets of memories run tracks in my head like Whippets after hares

The cold smooth feel of metal band slipping on a finger a stone of sky blue

Cold chapped cheeks and balm soothed lips and frozen nose tip

Snow falling heavy and wet bending branches snapping limbs

Horse chestnuts fragrant and littering footpath make excellent balls

Midnight roadtrip through mountain battlefields wishing on shooting stars

Wheels rolling on tar patched roads past sweet Georgia pines

Clouds like cotton speed past coach windows on the road to Colonia as the driver sings softly in Spanish

Gray dark gray snow swirling the small black and white tele shows the horror of plane crash at the 14th Street bridge

Some days I cannot remember why I walk into a room with purpose but these thoughts are companions and quick to be drawn

On days when the gloam outweighs the fond and tears flood forth and crash upon my cheeks I reach for Zuzu’s petals

Blue

you made me smile with your casual tone and those lazy looks and for that I’d kiss you, but you are an ocean away tilting at windmills greater than ghosts in the machine of life

there is a sharp pinch in my bosom and the well of tears in my eyes so deep as to drown in losing my vision and my hearing to the din of pain wringing its sorrow from my heart as the hands of a washer woman wrings dirt from a work stained shirt

this ephemeral wondering of learning a lesson or living my karma spars in my head for hours on end and there is no comfort found in the roundhouse kick to the right temporal lobe

I swim in seas of dreams where blue light sparkles off the cavern walls of an aquatic secret garden where the hollow echo is an enchantment and losing is winning in a place where the world ceases to exist and doubts wash away in the magic of this mystical ocean womb

you cannot stay within a lullaby the world will force your mind awake and all your false comforts will be torn away leaving you naked and stumbling longing for the distant dream of soft arms pulling you close in to kiss those lips with the lazy smile