Exhaustion
If you hear a distant boom,
it's my head exploding.
The crack like that of January ice
on a mountain lake
when the sun warms it,
that was my heart.
My eyes & temples throb
and this pen sputters and
fades like my words and thoughts,
sleep folding out
a new white napkin
on waiting knees.
Morning Air
Early morning air
bites apple crisp
in lungs still half-asleep.
Night's purple musings
linger in shadows
at the edge of the woods
and under my eyes.
Spirits rise -
thin white wisps from
dark unbroken water
a rapture of souls
ascending to heaven.
My thoughts follow
leaving my heavy body behind
to plod through the day.
Negative Space
The idea of negative space has intrigued me ever since I had an instructor talk about it in an art class. So much of art can be applied to life, don’t you think?
I think I’ll play around with light and dark font/background for this piece. It might add to the impact. And of course, the poem itself is rough, but I think there are some good seeds here….
You must add the darks,
my art teacher said
to balance the lights.
My darks creep in and
muddy my light
Negative space
my art teacher called it
The space that
surrounds an object
defines it boundaries
and finds its edges
Depression confines me,
cuts edges with razor blade steel
An object doesn't become real
my art teacher said
doesn't stand out
until you add shading.
What I am not
helps make what I am real
The mix of positive and negative space
my art teacher said
brings balance
to a composition.
Learning to think
in shades of gray
brings balance
to my life.
As I head to work in the morning, I drive over the bayou bridge where I can see the sun rising in the East, and the moon still showing in the West. This particular poem catches my oh-so-often feeling of being caught in the middle of things and not knowing which way to go.
Somewhere Between
Red sun on my left
full moon on the right
here i am again
stuck ‘tween day and night
Dare i move south
or should i go north
i tremble with fear
afraid to sail forth
Opportunities abound
in what lies ahead
so why does it seem
there’s nothing but dread?
Go forth take a risk
sail on take a chance
you might be surprised
to enjoy the dance
But still i wait here
locked in the middle
hoping the sun
might move just a little.
Crawling
I am feeling my way
blind in more than eyes
longing to soar
but afraid of falling
or maybe not getting off the ground at all
so I crawl, inching forward
eyes closed
and maybe my heart too.
When I quiet all the noise
I hear your voice
calling my name
and my heart remembers you
and leaps forward
to meet you again
still, my flesh holds me back
my mind pleads for caution
Help me Lord
cast aside my restraints
that I might fly
in Your awesome wonder.
Harvest
Devastated to hear about the shootings in New Zealand this morning. This poem was one I had written after the shootings in Las Vegas. I was playing with form because I wanted to paint a visual to go with it as well. Trees always remind me of life and connectedness. I pulled it out and played with it a bit here. Still haven’t gotten very far on the painting….
Did you
feel powerful
for those minutes,
framed in that window
far above the ground
—far below heaven?
Did the music sound distant,
the joy and excitement
way beneath you?
When you sowed your terror,
did you even look down
to see the crop you planted?
Chaos
Panic
Fear
Injury
Death
Scattered bullets, mistaken fireworks,
spurred a stampede in that country music crowd.
But everyday heroes rounded up the wounded, body-sheltered injured,
prayed over the dead, and carried the bleeding over fences,
across runways, behind cars, and under balconies.
First responders, nurses, doctors, friends, and strangers
jumped those gaps between life and death.
Did you see that, Terrorist?
Did you see the hope and help that flowered
despite the chaos you’d sown?
Or did you stare into that dark barrel
before reaping your own deathly harvest?
Do we see
that what we plant
we must prepare to harvest?
Cicada
Seventeen years buried
cicadas dream of flying
what a splendid year!
Do No Harm
In this poem I played with the idea of several different “voices” as well as what I hope people understand is irony.
Do No Harm
First do no harm.
Stomp down
those who disagree,
who disbelieve.
If they cannot see
your right from their wrong,
cast them out,
like chaff from
your pure wheat.
Their evil questions raise demons of doubt,
doubts and specters of fear.
What is behind the curtain?
Do onto others
what you'd have done
unto you.
Hold strong
to your god-given truth.
If you say it
loud enough,
if you close your eyes,
and recite your prayers
at a shout,
you’ll drown out their cries,
you won't see their wounds.
Truly I tell you,
whatever you did for
--or to--
one of the least of these
brothers and sisters of mine,
Could it be,
your secret fear,
a man pulling wires?
Or maybe no one at all,
a captainless ship,
a clock wound up and ticking?
you did for
--or to--
me.
Or is the real nightmare
coming face-to-face
with the wizard Himself,
the Great and Powerful,
the Mighty and Merciful?
And finding He is
so much more than you
can ever believe,
could ever conceive?
Then do no harm.
Winter Exorcism
Those early signs of Spring are so welcomed and cherished despite the crazy business of this time of year. Often I agonize over poems, but this one just slipped out. Gotta love it when that happens.
The owl out back is
asking questions again,
and I lie here hoping
to hear the answers
--or maybe just to
understand the questions.
Life goes by so fast
I’m moving clocks
forward, backward, and
forward again,
losing and gaining hours
I didn’t know I had
--or that I have already spent
ten times over,
like my Christmas money
or my summer vacation.
The rain brought the
mist rising off the snow
today like it was exorcising
the spirit of winter,
what with the crocuses
delicately craning
their necks above the soil
to watch while I cheer.
Spring is coming.
Brother in Arms
I sat down to write this In celebration of my brother’s birthday–but it didn’t go exactly where I expected it to go. Such is the way of writing….
Brother in arms he was
two years younger
but alike as two
blonde-haired, blue-eyed
peas in a pod.
Together we
terrorized the neighborhood with pea-shooters
and ding-dong-ditch-it,
wandered the woods
impersonating book characters
--Henry Ware and Silent Tom--
building forts during the summer
and burrowing through snowbanks
in the Michigan winters.
On other days we christened ourselves Scott and Greg,
smoked cigarette butts found on the street
(once was all it took to kill that habit),
ate snot berries plucked off yew bushes
(thankfully not the seed later found to be poisonous),
and attempted to create the world's largest ball of gum
--not all the additions chewed by us.
Brother in arms he was
but not me
"You're a girl"
a neighborhood kid pointed out
one hot shirtless summer day
when we were putting baby snapping turtles
through the races in the front yard.
Such a small change
--shirts and skins--
but then came middle school
with new friends, boyfriends and girlfriends
and though still blonde and blue-eyed,
we were no longer peas in a pod.
Brother in arms he was
but we fought different wars
in high school and college
dragons, secrets and skirmishes
closeness becoming competition
battles over the cat
ending at the point of a knitting needle
until time, distance
and busy schedules
saw the brotherhood disbanded
save for occasional reunions
where news of accomplishments
--battles fought and won--
bring respect and admiration
and a wistful longing
to go back to my childhood days
where I parted ways with
my brother in arms
and travel a different path
together.