a poem for no one

The moon shines brightly on my head tonight.
I look out from my balcony into a valley I do not hold dear,
Because that notch I love is far and away.
Where there are waters and sands and hills.
The stars are the same, even if they illuminate less.

The stars are the is because they were, are, and continue to be and
Still were placed and named by the
Eternal Is, Was, Will Be who knows the secrets of the skies
We've only begun to know.

I've only begun to know
My heart and yours'.
There are years ahead of this precious Life gift.
The Gifts that throttle you back and forth
Are the Gifts worth getting.
Apparently.

What is this ever-present waiting sensation?
Where all [pronoun] do is say "Let's go"
But stay rooted to the shoes and the almost dead tree.
If I were stronger then I would let you go.
But I haven't found anyone that surpasses
the laughter and the philosophical escapades.

I remember Orion's journey across the sky.
From nine to one it tickled my insides.
On cold nights he wakes and every sighting
Searches what is left of this heart of mine.
We are so fragile.
Maybe one day, I'll let You in.

"Nightclub" by Billy Collins

You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don't hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.

For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else's can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.

Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

experiences that shape us

running
kicking and screaming
heart, broken
please don't stop the music
divorcing
selling
taking
loving
attending
dancing
singing
loving
vowing
promises promises
sunsets
toes in the sand
rain in your eyes
tumble tumble
flames
peet
persuasion
journaling
blogging
loving
poeticizing
fighting
listening
praying
staying up late
going to bed early
breaking
snacking
concert going
laying in the shade
reading
loving

Life is here. Life is now. Live. Let go. Love.

these brief hours and weeks

vagabond
105 sweat
giving up
broken shells
what are you made of?
PAJAMAS
baabaablacksheep
wired
wine
lemon
proper kiss
restless
youtube me
so many houses

i don't care, just pick one

Young woman

Subtle curves and soft skin. The image of a goddess.
Is this it?

Or is it Imago Dei? BUT!
what is Imago Dei when Dei is
a Father,
a Son,
a Man...?

Which she is She?
Does she whisper from inside a box?
Or yell atop a soaped up one?
Or is she silent gaping back at birds atop her billboard?
Is she destined to the kitchen of Pygmalion and Paphos?

The box screams and tugs.
Does she stay strong?
Still heavenward we gaze.

The She of Me between the Thees is
not silent
nor still
nor subtle.

The only She of Me is mine.

----------------
I've been thinking about poetry a lot lately, especially since I've recently been exchanging some bits of verse with a friend. This bit is a reworking of a previous entry here. Everchanging and everflowing as gender naturally is, it will probably change again.

I'm getting out of here

I'm getting jittery. My plane's tomorrow evening. There's so much to do. I must pack.

I may or may not post on this blog for the next couple of months. Check my Corrymeela blog (or better yet, be a follower!) to read/see what I'm up to. And, yes! there will be pictures.


----------------
all that I am
all that I remember
resides there and in you
(pl. pronoun)

and ghostly whispers
rush through "remember me" whence
returned from the Emerald Isle

alas, poor ghost


----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - Death Of An Interior Decorator
via FoxyTunes
(this song reminds me of the glorious fun of Anon(ymous) rehearsals. Oh, Westmont, I miss you)

déesse f. noun

Thoughts, be careful.
Words, tread softly.

I know what's true yet fear creeps near
I question my culture
I question myself
I question my God

Silence
lingers

Is this what it means to be a woman? Soft skin, subtle curves, in the image of a goddess?
No, no, imago Dei.

What does femininity mean if it is simply a construct of society? What does it mean to be a woman? What kind of female identity finds rest or peace when made imago Dei and Dei is a Father, a Son, a Man?

Which she is She?
Does she whisper from inside a box?
Or yell atop a soaped up one?
Or is she silent gaping back at birds atop her billboard?

The She of Me between the Thees is
not silent
nor still
nor subtle.

The only She of Me is mine.

Gerard Manley Hopkins -- The Candle Indoors

SOME candle clear burns somewhere I come by.
I muse at how its being puts blissful back
With yellowy moisture mild night’s blear-all black,
Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye.
By that window what task what fingers ply,
I plod wondering, a-wanting, just for lack
Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack
There God to aggrándise, God to glorify.—
Come you indoors, come home; your fading fire
Mend first and vital candle in close heart’s vault:
You there are master, do your own desire;
What hinders? Are you beam-blind, yet to a fault
In a neighbour deft-handed? Are you that liar
And, cast by conscience out, spendsavour salt?

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Trees by their yield
Are known; but I --
My sap is sealed,
My root is dry.
If life within
I none can shew
(Except for sin),
Nor fruit above, --
It must be so --
I do not love.

Will no one show
I argued ill?
Because, although
Self-sentenced, still
I keep my trust.
If He would prove
And search me through
Would He not find and
(What yet there must
Be hid behind

dearest freshness

Wood, dark scent and sweet. Cardinal carpets
explored by tiny hands and feet.
It's here, it's clear.
The sheets, the stairs, the bleats, the chairs.
that night
that year
of now done darkness

Did you find yourself?
Kind of self in those walls and halls? or where
green meets blue meets white meets bright?
I remember.
Will you remember me?

What did you expect, a peaceful ride?

Love is like the ocean.

You take long walks on the beach. The sand snuggling in between your toes. The waves slink up on the shore, gentling kissing your feet. And if you listen carefully you might hear the voices of angels or a soft whisper of "I love you" float up from the waves.

And then there's the time when ignore the red flag or the yellow one with a big black dot in the middle and you go swimming anyway. The pull of the water is strong and you often feel like you'll fall on your ass. You're in there for so long that you start to feel a little confident. Everything seems fine until the next wave comes. And then another wave joins it. Enough power and force to sweep you off your feet. Or rather, sweep your own feet out from under you. Your body swirls under the surface encountering more power in one surge of water than you've ever known before. You close your eyes to the chaos and blow air out your nose as hard as you can. Despite the water's efforts, you stand. Despite your own efforts, the water still went up your nose, stinging nasal passages you didn't know existed.

Guess the ocean's just paying you back for all the times you peed in the water.

And yet.
And yet. You go back soon after. Touch toes to foam and make peace with that reckoning force.

not [naught] could be had and gone

the heart, the head, the heart. Which is it?
Those words that could be said or said not, thought.
Many times over thought. Overthought.
That second of breath before the plunge.
Souls mingle, skin tingles, clinically
insane.
inside. keep you
love me. do you love me?
do You love me?
do you Love me?
I know. hair never feels the same
On any one head. Or face. wish I could. With red.
Touch, what is farther from my grasp, those
souls mingled and skin tingled or to watch that soul mingle
in someone else's skin?