Shadows and Light

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Four years ago, I wrote this poem. Four years ago, I let go of the misguided belief that to write about painful family relationships is to be disloyal. Four years ago, I began the process of becoming an artist. Make no mistake-you cannot be an artist if you censor yourself; if you hid your past; if you sacrifice your truth to protect others.

Shadows & Light

Life with you was shadows and light.

On days when there was only light,

there was never only light.

A small step

in either direction

and you would cast your shadow.

Some days it would remain small

yet present.

It would lurk

and wait

and then grow.

It would grow

until it reigned over us.

And tears would rain

from eyes

that searched,

longing for light’s return.

If only it was always shadow,

the light would not be missed.

But such was not our fate.

.

Now that you are gone, it is only shadow-

that haunts my memories

that burdens my conscience

that chases the light.

Shadows

Light

You

I

Life

Death

An end

that never ends

Sway Me

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Congreve, Lucan, May.

All three knew

music

to soothe

and sway;

bend

and turn.

So sway me.

Bend me.

Turn me

to face you

and let’s see

if you can tame

that baser part of me.

And bend it to your will

And make it good

and quiet

and still.

Let’s see.

Come, sweet music.

Dance with me.

Dance Us Away, Love

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This was originally posted in January 2015.

Yes, yes.

That’s the song.

Fix me a drink, love,

and let’s dance

like we did

in the vecchia’s apartment

when it was all

Paolo Conte

and wonderful

and awful;

limes

and vodka;

when New York grew

too small

and the world

scary

and marvelous.

Come, love.

I can’t breathe.

Dance us away.

That’s it.

It’s wonderful.

Yes, yes, yes.

I still dream of you.

The Black Box

sky with stars illustration

There is a black box on my basement floor.

It is full of pretty things.

As a girl, I kept it in my room

atop my bureau

and filled it with all the lovely tokens I collected

from a lovely life.

*

As I grew older

the box grew too,

and I carried it with me from place to place,

and within it I placed

my heart,

and my love and my children

and all their lovely things

until it swelled.

*

One day, when I was no longer young

and no longer lovely,

I carried it into my basement

and placed it in a corner

on the floor.

And my black box sprouted roots,

cracking the foundation

and reaching down into the earth

and through the earth

to a black and bitter place.

*

When the flood waters came and destroyed all else,

my black box remained anchored.

And, now that the waters have receded, I see

that all but it have been swept away.

*

I regard my box in the corner,

but I shall not open it,

for within is a hole that reaches into an eternity of lovely things

that no longer are

and the torment of memories

of lovely places

that no longer exist.

 

Melancholy-Like An Old, Empty House

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So, this is what it feels like

          -melancholy.

Like an old, empty house

sitting atop a hill

on a hot summer day.

Inside, it is dead, silent, still.

Like a fever, the heat permeates the walls,

the film covered windows

the narrow stairwell-

meant for the unseen,

like sadness

hiding under smiles.

*

Melancholy, like an old, empty house

where the sun emanates a jaundiced glow

and the dust and ghosts

and memories

sit at the table awaiting tea

to be poured into cups

stained with past regrets.

*

But the time to drink is over

and the thirst that remains

is eternal.

 

Lake and Ocean

Morning

This lake, she is so pretty.

I paddle out to her center

and rest

knowing that she is deep,

born of the glaciers,

springing forth from a time when all was ice.

*

But, with this dear lake, there is nothing to fear.

The years have warmed her

and made her gentle,

yielding

small.

*

She is quite small, a fact I didn’t realize

until I found my way to her heart.

I look around and there is nowhere to go

(I thought there would be places to go

but no

not really).

*

I can paddle out straight in front of me

to the old amusement park.

Or I can veer left and visit Elsa

the charming elderly lady who lives in that cottage with her jaunty puppy.

Or I can head right

into the cove

which is lined with the homes of soft-bellied financial analysts

whose dreams reside in the past

when they were once stars

on athletic teams

from high schools

in towns

with lakes quite similar to this one.

*

Or I can dream of the ocean

whose waves rant and taunt and beckon

and where all I can see

is the horizon.