%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
List of poems in chapbook |
|
Comfort Lessons Table of Contents Comfort lessons The space between the notes Waiting for the dawn I saw you in a dream I stand here holding In the quiet hours Candlelight mantra With softer eyes Hurling through life unmoved Steam The journey of the soul Pins and needles Little white lies Relief Second chances When I see your son, Pt. 1: Shadows lurking The fine art of surrender Nowhere When I see your son, Pt 2: A bashful geisha Chiseling teacups Resilient soul A poets prayer Metronome Oblivious Like water In search of the music When I seek Tributaries **************** I. Comfort Lessons Someday I would like to feel the space between the notes, the silence between the falling trees, comfortable with the breath between words. Someday, I would like you to know the peace between the nightmares, the freedom of time with no demands, the comfort of a life without fear. Maybe then you can show me the breath released when the hitting is over, the relief of sound to drown out the yells, that it’s okay to be uncomfortable with silence. And I can teach you to play music to the rhythm of your heartbeat, to see the beauty of a sky raining autumn leaves, that it’s okay to be uncomfortable with fear. ********************************* The space between the notes I remember the early days of you and me in the key of C, when the space between us, C to E, once felt like distance, the silence like emptiness, wondering what went wrong. In those days, we found that C and D in unison sounded a lot like chaos, disharmony; two notes without enough space to breathe. You and me in the key of C are finally learning to treasure the spaces where magic can grow and love can bloom undisturbed. We're learning to play C and E, at the same time and still leave room to play our whole notes, alone, in our own moments of solitude. May we remain confident in the love between us, the spaces, the silent D, the quiet distance, without worry or doubt that when we choose to re-unite, our notes will still resonate in harmony. For now I truly believe that fearing silence, the space between the notes, is like fearing love itself. ***************************************** Waiting for the Dawn It’s dark and you are sleeping, but I lie awake beside you and wonder what to make of all the dreams I had, those I left by the wayside not long after we were wed. Should I still be chasing them long past the time they were born, or are the new ones just as real, the ones that were born with our boys, the ones that came while loving you? I hold onto them like it’s me I fear losing. Every lost year, each missed opportunity like a leaf falling to the ground. I look outside my window, watching for the dawn to arrive, and standing there are two maple trees. Both are bare, yet still very much alive, holding up the birds until the seasons change knowing that once again, their arms will be full of new possibilities, new dreams, new life. And neither are shedding tears for the piles at their roots, the leaves discarded when the sun hides its face. They seem to know that tomorrow, life will return. I smiled as I watched you, your breathing no longer paced, no longer dreaming, postponing the morning hour, playing possum. You, waiting for the dawn, wondering what to make of all the dreams you had the ones you left by the wayside when we were wed. Look outside, I whispered just under my breath, let’s be like the trees with our arms outstretched, holding up our boys like the birds, until the leaves return. Then, maybe, we’ll no longer mourn what we never lost. ****************************************** I saw you in a dream I saw you in a dream with my great-grandmother in a room lit by the heavens standing in the doorway, holding hands. You were two or three. Your straight, dark hair touched your shoulders. Mammye looked like she did when I was just a kid. As you both walked toward me, I almost saw your face then the phone rang and I lost you. ************************************** I stand here holding I stand here holding you as if you were my own. Your hair like mine, is dark and shiny. No one needs to know how your tiny hands, your sweet smell, tug my heart and soul. I would take you home, you know, and love you with every beat of this heart that thumps, but gently, so as not to wake you. My breath goes out and in while yours goes in and out; our bodies in conversation. You cannot speak but I know you are wondering things I cannot answer. Where is she? Is she coming back? But its not for us to know, only know that I am here. And you are here, now, for me to hold. The two of us bound in a world of need You, for a mother. Me, for a child. And yet we have each other, for this stolen moment before you are taken to your new home and I return to mine, with empty arms. Hoping. But I cannot be saddened by the loss of what I never had and you, my child, cannot mourn what you never knew. Promise me, when you meet your new mother, let your heart beat with hers, breathing together in your private conversation and do not fret. She will love you as I have, and perhaps, you will be hers forever. ************************************************* In the quiet hours You, not flesh and bone, yet hungry as an orphan seeking love from strangers who smile. You, begging me to feed you words, only words, but your insistence keeps me up at night, like a child afraid of the dark only you are afraid of the silence, the still mind, a mother sidetracked by life, your brothers needing me. You, the child of my imagination, an amalgam of three miscarriages, my muse, you tug at me in the quiet hours, whispering, Write, mama, write. We have a story to tell, mama, come, sit by me. Pick up the pen, you know what you need to say, what they need to hear. You, my angel, my spirited little one, I write this for you, but now you must sleep. Rest assured my child, you will not go unnoticed. ************************************************************** ************************************************************** II. Four Poems of Introspection: An exercise in Chinese Poetry and human nature 1. Faults, like scarlet flags, are waved While they commune over regrets and mistakes In rehab, they gather at the exit door, smoking. Where do the rest of us go for redemption? 2. Ideas play ping pong between my deafened ears. Conversations are held without listening. It is silent and the trees are still just after a storm. If only the trees could teach my mind about stillness. 3. Papers, bosses, clients, and phones play tug of war with my attention. Today, I heard a toddler in a grocery store shout "No!" My heart was full of envy. 4. Dismissed by the cynics, still they dream. Restricted by the ignorant, still they learn. A yellow flower breaks through stone in a desert. Nothing on this earth can restrain those who are determined. ********************************************* Candlelight Mantra With tear-stained eyes, my mantra is a prayer, this night. "Don't let me be like those who, without sight, spread darkness 'cross my candlelight" But what a fight this is, I thought. My words, it seems, stew quietly beneath my breath. Then, moistened by my cheeks aflame, steam fogs my somber shades, like asphalt after summer rain. It's so hard for me to see that just below my fear and rage, surrender waits for my embrace. But finally, in these arms I lie, and hear the poet's soft reply in words transcending black and white. "You cannot be like those you see whose light has slipped beneath the leaves because, you see, you know of me. My arms are here for you to seek. So take a breath and let it out, make into words a silent shout. Then take your little lamp with you and share your light where others do. Feel their warmth until the time your flame provides the bread and wine to nourish the soul and calm the mind. And most of all, be fair and kind to yourself, my friend, be always kind." And so I seek, and then I write, a poet watching timid light dance upon the candlewick, with prayers of thanks upon my lips. ***************************************************** With Softer Eyes/ Is it the journey I fear or what awaits; the leaving I fear or what I must leave behind? Is it the changes to come or fear of nothing changing at all? Am I praying for peace, or just hoping the war will stop? These fears rest heavy like a stone, not far away from my beating heart. The echo, a cadence that guides my walk. Tears from my eyes yearn to join the pond before me, so I let them while I questioned my purpose here. What did I think I would achieve, coming here, to stare at trees, to empty my eyes of fear, when what I feared the most was waiting at the end of my path? Tired, I relaxed my eyes, let things blur a bit, and that is when I saw with softer eyes the green of the boughs, the wounds of the pine. Battle scarred and crying sap, the roots into the water tapped. Its branches held a wealth of life, its roots forever anchored tight. The green stretched upward to the sky and shielded the earth from the burning light. And I was awed at this new sight, my eyes, now cleansed from fear. I walked with courage up the path, looking back once more, and there I saw the stone I carried beside my heart, lying there beneath the tree, a place to sit for someone like me. But I have heard that echo sound, and once it was a fearful sound, but now it calls me home again, to challenges no so severe as lightning through the pine. But if I am to make it through, I must be sure to nourish roots, to be unafraid to weep sometimes, just like the old and fruitful pine. I must stretch out my branches ‘til they shield my children and other’s still. And when some lonely one comes near, I’ll not hide from my deepest fears, I’ll lay them bare beside the stone. It could be the one you’re sitting on. *********************************************************** Hurling Through Life Unmoved As we fly through the clouds, the speeding wind divides. We're moving faster than sound. And yet, we feel nothing, insulated in this steel enclosure amid countless souls we’ll never meet. We’ve never heard their stories, their desires. Our cares, our worries, never crossed their minds. We sit inches away. Skin meets skin. We move and say, "sorry" for the careless touch. But still, we yearn for a gentle caress, to feel the wind carry our souls, to drift upon water, to rise with the waves. And yet, we’re paralyzed by fears of falling, drowning, losing who we are, who we love. We peer through our little plastic windows, as we journey through the darkness with souls we’re afraid to meet. We imagine ourselves standing tall upon the wings, arms outstretched, the wind roaring in our ears. Deafened by the sound of impossible dreams, we close the shades, plug our ears, and insulate our minds from the sounds of human life. We’re caught between the speeding wind and loneliness, yearning for connections, too stubborn to commit. We believe we’re safely buried in the stagnate sands of denial, only to find we're lonely, calloused stones hurling through life unmoved. But, pilots and dreamers know the secret. We can't soar through the clouds if we’re afraid to lift off. We can't be grounded if we’re afraid to fall. If we stall mid-flight, we’ll die. And if we’re content to hurl through life unmoved, we might want to prepare for a rough landing. **************************************************** Steam From my cold toes, nearly submerged in a tub of hot water, tangles of steam arose and twisted like signals from a fire, like mutterings of apprehension, fear, even hope, a prayer offered up just in case someone was listening. My son ran to the tub in panic. "Mommy, your feet are on fire!" That night, I had a four year old afraid of taking a bath. Thought his toes might catch on fire. I never was that good at physics but I tried to explain. I told him it was like water hitting a hot skillet, or a light Southern rain on asphault after a boiling afternoon. My mother used to tell me, "Where there's smoke, there's fire." But steam, steam is like stepping cold into a crisis for which we have no solution. It may look like smoke from a distance but nothing is burning but fear. Perhaps, where there's steam, there's someone who jumped in despite the fear and their spirits are lighter for having risen to the challenge. ****************************************************** The Journey of the Soul The soul of a journey is the sweet anticipation of the open road, but only if there is freedom of passage and no boundaries to behold. But how often are we travelers alone on the journey with no one there to dictate, by control or passive sigh, when to eat, or where to rest the eye. But in the journey of the soul, we are completely in control, of who we let inside ourselves, and who we must keep out, and what we feel and think about. And what sweet pleasure to choose the lesser path, the different one to travel with, the forgotten jewel on the back shelf, the creator’s gift to present ourselves. What liberating tear will fall from choices made without much thought, for mistakes survived and overcome, for the realization from whence we’ve grown, a tear of our own making, a tear of joy. From ties that strangled, ties that bound, there’s something greater I have found, the courage to stretch, without the rage, the grace to surrender without heartbreak, and the acceptance of strings that ground. So now, in my growing years, I look no different to other’s stares, but my baggage and I are traveling far, beyond the ethereal world of fears. Perhaps, we’ll find each other there. ************************************************************* III. Pins and needles She made a monument of pain in her closet wall as a child with her mother’s straight pins. One for each angry word, one for the back of her mother’s hand on her cheek. Rows of pins lined up in the sheetrock like tiny bars in a prison. In her cell, the tails of hung clothing brush her curls, wiping the tears from her eyes as she stuck in the wall yet another pin. One more reminder of her mother’s disappointment. One more reminder that she shared her father’s eyes. Little metal sculptures, cages, little trophies, those pins so precisely placed were to remind her of every way she wasn’t good enough, and of every cut whittled from her soul. Now, I write her words, and I can see half a century later, that little girl crying in her closet, tears cooling her slapped cheeks, a single pin grasped tightly in her hand as she pokes it in the closet wall with indignant intent promising herself, when she has a child one day, she will not be that kind of mother. And she has kept her promise. She was raised on pins and needles but gave me words and colors to say what I felt, to see the beauty of my world without fear and uncertainty. I write these words to reach that little girl. I pray my words can wipe the tears from her soul, and soothe the wounds I can only imagine. I write to say thank you for being the mother she never had. *************************************************************** Little White Lies How easily I fool you. You, who think you know the truth and yet would never ask You, who believe your little white lies are polite necessities. I clothe my arms in the miserable heat but your good manners prevent prying. I fret about the time I must leave. You say, "surely he won't mind if you're a few minutes late, sweety." You see the marks but accept my excuses. My reasons are believable. I am that good. But do you really think I cannot walk without tripping over my shadow? You apologize with your knowing smile, polite but powerless, unwilling to interfere. And yet, if you asked, really cared, I would probably still tell you a little white lie. ****************************************************** Relief I drop a glass It breaks; I freeze No one comes No one yells My heart lifts I drop another and smile I am free ******************************************************* Second Chances She stares in the mirror Who is this person I see; addict, mother, woman, a survivor of the beast? Such a price she's had to pay For hitting the bottom of the well; a year of memories lost, but the end of a life of hell. She lies on her bed, eyes trained toward the daughter for whom she gave birth and lost, missing a year of her life, a lifetime to her. Sleeping soundly, her child is not aware of the battles fought by her mother Dreams of parenthood dashed, In her drive to choose another. The child knows only the care Of foster family, and mother Who have both loved and lost her And learned to trust each other. Mixed blessings by one mother Fearing failure; doubting success, Appreciation and resentment By the other, now put to rest. Light prevails over darkness As she promises for the day To choose survival and healing, And keep addiction at bay. Trusting eyes reappear as she scoops up her child, Impervious to judgmental glances, They waltz among strangers to the glorious sound Of recovery and second chances. ******************************************** When I See Your Son, Pt. 1: Shadows lurking When I see your son, I see a flicker of light in his eyes, but shadows lurk behind them, waiting to douse the flame. In your drunken stupor, you back him into corners. No place to go but trouble, no home to go but yours. Where can he go, your son? Without you, he’ll survive, but you’re always around, a drink in one hand, the other in a fist. When he sees you, he sees empty promises, broken commitments, the other shoe he knows will fall. He’s damned if he does, and if he doesn’t. And you stand there, a smug look on your face, calling the cops, thinking of how much he reminds you of his father, or could it be your father ashamed of you, what you’ve become; each drink, a jagged knife in his chest, twisting over and over. His respect and yours have long been absent. When I see you, I see a mere shadow lurking, waiting to extinguish his flame, and I know it’s been a long time since you’ve felt the warmth of your own fire. When I saw your son today, I saw a life yet unlived, potential yet unreached, but there was still that light, the flame still flickering, still yearning, for another chance at childhood. He's still eager to prove he's so much more than what stands before you when you see your son. ****************************************************** The fine art of surrender The boy cannot thrive with an empty belly or a slap across the face. He cowers deep inside himself, concealing his innocence, his dreams, his muse. He grows, in size and fear, He listens for the sounds of footsteps, heavy with malice. A sound. He freezes, sucks in his breath, as the crash from the icemaker leaves his heart pounding. Days like this, he’s left with nothing but luck and foolishness. and learns the muse cannot survive He learns he can shut down the flow of emotion like a valve, a faucet. Better cold than afraid. He shows no fear, but his soul dies a little. unless it has a place to hide. He wants to belong but sounds of footsteps choke off his hopeful song. In places dark and lonely, he mourns again, this abandonment. Even his inner fire threatens to grow dim. He questions and learns Finding absence in himself, he searches for his muse In the love and affection of a skittish woman. Each move he makes, she moves further away; an endless game of chase. He finds no other answer but to stop and wait. the fine art of surrender. Sitting still without a word, he is alone and losing hope this woman will reciprocate the love he needs to show. Just as his eyes grow heavy, he hears the cadence of feet on the hardwood floor. The wounded child within him weeps for the lost anticipation of a simple footstep, the giddy excitement of a parent, a visitor, a friend. He whispers to the one he cannot see, “I am only me. All I can offer you is this.” That is when she finds him. Just then, she wraps her arms around him in warm embrace, While upon his head she plants a gentle kiss. Sometimes, muses can be like this. *************************************************** Nowhere I’m not going anywhere. I will wait for you to learn not to flinch with my touch, not to see malice in my actions, or conspiracy in my words. I will wait past your fears. Love you through the moments when pushing me away is your mind’s way of saving you. I will wake up beside you even when you go to bed alone, in your heart, having built a wall even God will have trouble penetrating. My love, I am going nowhere. ******************************************** When I see your son, Pt. 2: The bashful geisha When I see your son, I see a man on eggshells. Emotions, a foreign land where secrets go unshared, still buried, and family codes remain unbroken. He’s always waiting for the other shoe to fall. When I’m with your son, there’s tension beneath the surface. To him, suggestions are complaints, questions are interrogations, favors are suspect. He wants to know what I want in return, what’s the catch. But above the surface, he's a good father and husband, astonished at the wonder of his sons, and baffled at how you could allow your own needs to bury the needs of your family. When he’s with his sons, and hears their infectious laughter, he can’t imagine how that beautiful sound could pale in comparison to the amber liquid that that fulfills you. When you see your son, does his face remind you of your own insecurity? He asked me once why you court your death like a bashful geisha, hiding your face behind a fan while you stand naked, daring to be used up, devoured; yet too afraid to watch. When I see your son, your grandsons, I pray they choose a different path. But know this. They are watching you. One day your fan will fall, and your actions will not go unnoticed. But that is an empty threat, isn’t it? Will you even be alive long enough to see the ripples your actions have put into motion with every sip from your liquid companion? *************************************************** Chiseling Teacups You hold the chisel, bracing it on the cracks of your porcelain veneer, widened by unforgotten slights, unforgiven wounds festering with time. My intentions, to you, hammers waiting to chisel at your teacup when all I ever wanted was to offer you a cube of sugar to sweeten my words. ***************************************** Resilient Soul You are made of all the days you’ve been knocked down and found your way. You reach the surface, take a breath, ride the waves, rest a while. You yearn for the day you'll finally break the mold from which you thought you were made. But you, dear friend, are so much more than flesh and bone, or loss and love. There is no form from which they made your mind and spirit, your resilient soul. What they see, they cannot hold, for you already broke the mold. Go forth young mother, writer, friend. Reach out for life; don’t hold it in. You're not the sum of your mistakes. They are but beacons to light the way as your world forms words you were born to create. ************************************************************* ************************************************************ IV. A poet's prayer I asked for forgiveness and I got a cold shoulder. I asked for stillness and my body shook with grief. Then I asked for peace and I found poetry. What more could I ask? ************************************************************ Metronome My heart, you are my metronome. You measure seconds, beats in the hours of my days like internal drums tapping away the time I have left in this world. But Metronomes don't measure moments with family, the sound of my sons giggling out loud, a wink at the dinner table over a funny joke, the love we have for each other. And Metronomes can't measure the impact of a difficult year of loss and gratitude, of dreams of parenthood, of learning how to march to the sound of our own beats together as one. My heart, my Metronome, through all your faults and limitations, without you, I could not dance to the tempo of tiny footsteps on the hardwood floors, hear the sweet sound of my children’s laughter, or share my love of life with the ones I love. So I pray to you, my metronome, for a hint before your job is done. I’ve much to treasure here on earth and I’m just not ready for the journey home. ********************************************************* Oblivious You, with your acne scarred face and spiky hair, a teen with childlike fantasies alight in your imagination, you talk of dinosaurs still roaming the Earth and mourn their deaths again and again. You're odd and unaccepted among peers, yet oblivious of their belief that you're insignificant. You sit in the backseat of my car, your new CD blaring a Christian song I’ve never heard and I ponder your God, my God. You, with so few gifts but that one, your voice, resonating with a song you’ve never heard. Arms raised up to the heavens, you declare your faith, “praise God” you proclaim. Without reservation, without a doubt, He is yours. And somehow, the weight of your liabilities, the burden of you is carried back home where you began, a twinkle in His eye. It's as if God says, “Let’s see if they can find the golden needle in the haystack, or will they merely see the impossibility of you and turn their backs in frustration.” God does have a sense of humor and I think you were in on the joke. On the way home from that hospital we put kids when they act strange or unwise, for just a moment between my embarrassment and empathy, I saw a golden glint in your eye. In the harmonious notes of your song, I heard the sound of that haystack shifting from the weight of our worries for you, our fears about you. And I pray we never lose sight of that needle, while we seek our own lost faith, shifting haystacks as we search. Maybe, if we found our own glimmer of hope, we could sing like you, with you, out loud, among people we scarcely know, oblivious to our fear of insignificance. ***************************************************************** Like Water To others, you are a calm surface, waves gently lap the sandy beach, unwilling to knock down a child’s castle, or allow your undertow to erode the earth. Your impressions upon the sand, visible but impermanent. To them, you hold up those around you like water under a raft, provide energy and motivation without need for thanks, and reflect the sun for a breathtaking portrait. But, my dear friend, I have watched you, listened to your soul. And I now believe you are the current that leads others to strive for a deeper understanding. You are the intricate tunnels among the reef and coral, allowing entry to some, holding others at bay, unwilling to endanger those you love. You are the ripples that transmit a positive attitude and loving spirit. Expecting the waves to cause others to make their own ripples, your reach becomes unlimited. You are the storm as well as the calm, so that others will appreciate the gift you provide when you choose to offer nourishment, to fill their glass half-full, knowing full well that sometimes, your glass is half-empty instead. Like the babble among rocks, you offer bubbling music to soothe others to sleep, but you also expect others to refill the brook, not to siphon. You are the ocean, the waves, the brook, the stream, the soothing, the current, the deluge, the drizzle, and for all who know you, my wish is that they learn to love you as water, with all its faults and gifts, and to remember that they get from you what they offer. As waves can carry or flood, tears can smile or weep, the love of a strong and quiet woman cannot be harnessed or misused, but must always be appreciated for gifts she chooses to offer and for the powerful spirit she holds below the calm waters. ************************************************************* In search of the music There was a space between us where the music once lived. I tried to listen for it, in the silence between your words, the cadence of your footsteps, the pause before your sigh. Just beyond the anticipation of your measured chord, I heard the merest hum of a deep and mournful song. But I was too busy searching for a lighter note to match the staccato rhythm of my tapping feet, a metronome on caffeine. But as we've grown together, a funny thing has happened. Your quiet and steady beat has trained my ears to really listen, not just hear, your subtle tones, and my voice has learned it can sing its own melody. ************************************************************ When I Seek When I seek your wisdom, your quiet strength, you listen without a word. The sight of you soothes my soul. When I seek an embrace from your crooked and tangled arms, you hug me. And although I cannot feel your touch upon my skin, I know your love. When I seek safety and solace, you hold me up in your net of branches and I rest there, without fear of falling, yet my feet remain firm upon this earth. It's midnight and I seek you once more. Your branches against the foggy midnight landscape once appeared frightening and foreboding. That was before you touched my soul. Now, I can no longer deny the spirit within you. ************************************************************* Tributaries Come, flow with me down tributaries unknown. Meander through lazy turns and streams. Work with me to wear down the rough edges of stones blocking our way. Prepare for waterfalls, rapids. Hold my hand, there lies danger. Grasp tightly as we strike with force the larger body of yang, the river of anger. Misguided souls, driving to succeed will leave the unfortunate ones dizzy from never-ending cycles in an eddy. Do not panic, she is among you and will teach you to embrace the gentle currents toward the Great Mississippi, to drift upon rafts down the wide expanse of waterway, flowing seaward with purpose, without malice. That is, unless she’s held back, re-formed to fit a mold the Creator did not intend. If her path be disturbed, make ready for the floods. But if she’s allowed to flow freely, you will find yourself where river meets ocean, where potential is eternal and yang is laid to rest, giving way to yin, to wisdom, to majesty. But beware, all you who join us there. This bountiful ocean is not one to be misjudged or mistreated. There is tremendous wisdom in her vastness and depth. So it is with the keeper of faith, the nurturer, the grail, your mother, sister, daughter, or grandmother, by blood or by choice. She is a force to behold, for she has traveled far, left stones transformed, been displaced by the whims of man, and the upheavals of Earth. Shed your misgivings, ambition, mistrust. Take her hand, she who has made it to the sea in peace, content in her choices, void of regret. Seek this woman of whom I speak, for not all have lived her trials. This woman, she’ll make herself known to you. Go to her, and she will unveil the mysteries of your life, for she has cut mountains, carved stones, parted for great men and still she has the grace to hold you in her arms. She has contained countless souls within her womb, allowed them to swim in her tranquil waters, protected from the pain of this world. Offer yourself to her, for through all your faults and insecurities, your name, like the signatures of tributaries, will remain forever etched upon her weathered face. |
| This book is currently empty. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
