March Sunday

IMG_0411March Sunday

It’s still winter

nearing spring

buried under mounds of snow.

Not knowing what to do

we decide to have brunch

at an old New England tavern.

The drive there is long.

My husband’s soundtrack of Venditti,

Nada and Vasco playing

I feel a headache coming on.

Because the low winter sun reflects off the snow

and pierces my eyes

and my heart.

The drive is so very long and slow

reminding me of so many drives before

on Sundays in March

to visit old relatives

locked away in old New England institutions.

After brunch, I suggest that we visit

the charming bookstore down the street.

I hope we won’t run into her.

She lives in the same town.

What are the chances?

We go.

It is charming

until she walks in the door.

How is everything, she asks

Fine.  Everything is fine.

As fine as anything can be

On a Sunday in March.

Melt Away

Seasonal Ambivalence

Yesterday I missed you and mourned what I have lost.

Today I mourned for you and all that you have missed.

Somewhere along the journey through memory’s cloudy landscape

may we meet and discover that we mourn

because we miss each other.

Let not our memories be like snowflakes

that when they touch the not yet frozen ground

melt away.

May the snow swirl above

in an eternal dance

and the two of us embrace

and remember our best selves

together

and only what was good.

All the rest can fall to the ground

and melt away.

 

 

 

End of Seasons

photo.JPGSeasonsEnd

She asked so sweetly

if summer would come back.

And I thought of you.

About how you would soon pass

and not return for another season.

*

The finality of it

so profound.

You have almost fully departed

disappearing as you breathe.

*

As the crickets quietly sing

as the leaves turn

as the season changes

and they and you fall.

*

And as the past no longer exists

nor will you.

But in the present

you will always dwell in my heart.

And there I will carry the piece of you

that I knew

that was ours

through the seasons

until I too pass.

 

*This was originally posted on September 2, 2014.

The Warden’s House

 

AutumnDeath&Dreams

The hill

Four houses

Forest behind

Fields ahead

A dead end

The horizon

A prison

That place

Autumn

Dead leaves

Bare trees

My mother

Speaking in tongues

The flames of hell

The flame of the spirit

Secrets and stories

Legends of the dead

Bones in the woods

Sounds in the night

An insomniac child

Wide awake

Midnight rapping on the door

Something crashing to the floor

The dog atop the stairs

Snarling

The house next door

Looming

Once inside

A cavernous red room

A feeling of doom

Something wrong

Innocence knows

A dry fountain in back

Some toads

Chirping of crickets

Honking of geese

The noisy silence of death

The song to which demons dance

Peaking in windows

Smashing down gates

The song of that place

On the hill

Where the Warden’s house stood.

*

Just the other night

I visited that house

In my dream

The red room

The living room

The basement door

I saw it all

All that dwelled there then

All that dwells there now

In my dreams

Of that house

On that hill

In that place

Where dead leaves fall

in the eerie silence

of a haunted past

 

This poem was originally posted in October 2015 as “The Neighbor’s House.” 

Racing the Moon

Racing to catch the moon before the sun

rises and declares that now she has won.

Before she uncovers what the moon hides.

The reason for our early morning ride-

see moon’s sweet beauty before it’s undone.

*

With her blinding light, sun forgives no one-

not her friend, her lover or her own son.

She will not overlook the darker side

and races the moon

*

to catch and render guilty anyone

who does not abstain from passion and fun.

In the court of her justice she presides

and judges those pulled by moon’s sinful tide,

Since sun’s chastisement has not yet begun

we race to the moon.

 

 

 

 

An October Morning

img_3719-october-morning

Fear finds you at night.

It rushes under your skin

and makes its way towards your heart

where it constricts,

slowly strengthening its grip

like a thread tied around a finger-

pulling, making it ache

until the finger pulsates.

The tip, increasing in size,

turns purple.

So the heart

caught in fear

pounds upon the door of sleep

and awakens you, the dreamer

who, finding yourself cold and wet,

must now decide whether or not to rise.

You must decide

whether you should try to rest in a dream where fear waits outside the gates of sleep

or awake to a nightmare

or, perhaps, awake to life.

You get up-coffee, face, teeth, dress.

You walk outside into a gray October morning,

quiet-but for the crickets chirping, singing their desperate song,

hoping that if their voices continue so too will they

or, if the song is beautiful enough, at least the memory of them will remain.

You see that the trees are losing their leaves

and you catch sight of one golden maple leaf

floating to the ground,

the curtain closing upon its final act.

You listen and -in the silence of the early morning-

you hear it land.

You feel the closure

that comes from hearing a last breath,

that comes from bearing witness to one reach his final resting place.

And you feel strong.

You are alive.

Still alive.

 

 

 

 

 

Weeds

IMG_2368 Weeds 2

You were so beautiful once.

Both delicate and strong.

No storm

be it wind nor snow

could harm you.

No drought nor torrent

could quell your spirit.

Nothing could destroy you

until the weeds slowly encroached upon your ground

and invaded your place

your peace.

IMG_2374 Weeds 5

They sprouted up

taking root

upon your roots

IMG_2371 Weeds 3

and weaved themselves

around you

through you

above you

IMG_2376 Weeds 4

and strangled you

like thoughts

dark and fearful.

IMG_2373 Weeds Pic 7

Thoughts as real as weeds

strangling the rose bush.

 

 

 

 

Silver Buck Moon

I saw you , Buck Moon,

holding court with the stars.

You were dazzling-

a cold silver queen

on a July eve.

Seated at the gates of eternity,

your radiant beams

like arms outstretched

touched the ground beneath my feet,

and I wondered-

if I were to join you for but a moment

to let you carry me to your realm

where I could stand at the entrance of eternal night

and look down to where I had been

and see the world

as you see it,

what would I learn?

To see it all from afar

would understanding come

with the clarity of a bolt of light

cutting through the black night?

And when I returned to this place,

how would it all be different?

 

 

 

 

 

Black Water Moccasin

Skinny, black water moccasin,

I see you

gliding beneath the surface

of shallow waters.

Your back skims the top

then you weave yourself

deeper into the green-brown water.

You weave yourself around legs

of oblivious waders.

You weave yourself around my heart,

which is now both pink and black.

Sometimes you pop your head out of the water.

Sometimes you pop up in the conversations

I have with myself

in my head.

You are a snarky little thing.

And you are clever

and you are angry

for so, so many reasons-

that you are a snake

(as if you had a choice in the matter)

that they think you are ugly

that they think you are dangerous

and  scary and cunning

and gross.

But mostly, you are angry

because they are right.

It is all true.

It is all true

and untrue.

Regardless, you don’t like them anyway.

Fuck them

and their arrogance

and their luck

and their ridiculous preference for shallow water.

And you remind me

that I also don’t like them anyway.

Fuck them.

It is all true and untrue

and you are angry

and I am angry.

You because you are not so awful.

Me because they have no idea how awful I am.

I am angry because

I wish they knew.

I wish they knew that as I am laughing and smiling

and chatting with them,

I chat with you

and mock their stupidity-

those vapid, dull, pretty, perfect shits.

You and I are pretty too

(in our own unconventional sort of ways)

and smart and cunning.

So carry on my somewhat creepy friend.

Swim the shallow waters.

Brush against their ankles.

They have no idea how close they are to you.

How close you are to them.

And I will carry on too-

carry with me my pink and black heart,

a duplicitous thing

talking to them, laughing with you.

They are too cruel to ever understand us.

 

 

 

 

Mists

If memory be a ship at sea

and the sea fog, time eternal

then let us hope

after we become shrouded by her cloak

and have sailed within her embrace

that when her mists are parted

and the sun casts her golden rays

those upon the shore

can see we are still here

that we have not disappeared

like vapor

into the great light.