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.

Complacency

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It is impossible to be unhappy on this beautiful day.

The sky is clear and blue

only blue-the perfect compliment to the newly sprung leaves of verdant green

under whose canopy I sit and appreciate

the gentle breeze and glorious sun

whose rays sneak through this lush umbrella

to kiss my skin

-softly, gently.

*

It is impossible to be unhappy.

Is it not?

*

But the breeze-it lulls me to sleep

a dull dreamless sleep

which I do not wish to enter.

*

I long for a sharp and bitter wind

to jolt me awake.

*

My eyelids are heavy.

My limbs carry the invisible weight of complacency.

*

But it is just so pretty

and comfortable

sitting here.

Just sitting.

It is impossible to be unhappy.

 

Existence

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Like mist over a lake that lifts and dissipates

into the air, so I disappear.

Like spring snow that, once it has landed, melts

into the earth, so I disappear.

Mist, snow, myself- things that last for a moment and then are lost,

perhaps never having existed at all.

These things that skim the surface of this world and then fade into the dark and endless sea of nothingness

or eternity

require proof, a stake to claim that they were,

or that they are.

Sometimes a simple photograph suffices.

As for my shadow self, I need words,

words on a page to prove that I am here

somewhere in this vast place

over which I hover, longing for an anchor

to hold me steady.

 

Today

Today the light shone-the sun beaming through a clear, blue November sky.

As I walked I thought of Mary Oliver and her words:

Do you need a prod?

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?

Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,

and remind you of Keats,

so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,

he had a lifetime.

* From Oliver’s “The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac” which is published in her collection Blue Horses, The Penguin Press, New York, 2014

But today I don’t need the darkness.

It has done its job.

It has been my constant companion and I am grateful, for darkness has helped me to see this

this beautiful day.

And all I can think is,  “Live.

Live.

It is the only thing you haven’t done;

not really.

Perhaps you tried, but

only in the space of shadows.”

A lifetime should not be reduced to a blot on a page.

The story is elsewhere

on clean, white paper.

written in a pen that doesn’t bleed.

Sleepless

Awake

for no reason, and a thousand reasons.

Hours pass, dull and quiet

this endless night.

Turning inward

I seek an image to cling to

hoping that it will pull me downward into sleep.

There are many.

But there is one.

I set my eyes on it.

Feel where it is.

Where I am.

A warm place that I breathe in

as I sink into the sand

and gaze towards the glare of a yellow light

that obscures a picture

that disturbs

and comforts

and beckons.

Then the house creeks

and the image is gone.

And I lie there

sleepless.