Thursday, January 27, 2011
Today is also my husband's and my wedding anniversary. This is my love letter to him.
Fires don't always die; sometimes, they smolder.
Embers glow beneath a cloak of ash.
Sometimes they blaze to red-robed conflagration,
immolate, incinerate -- then sear us to the bone.
Our love, this long-lived flame, is like that.
We have smoldered, we have smoked,
have sparked --and we have burned.
We have carried the red heart of fire in our cupped hands
and fanned the coals to heat the endless night.
We surprise ourselves by burning still,
a steady glow -- eternal flame of testament to love.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Sorry to miss the Poetry Bus this week, but I'm fresh out of inspiration.
Those words slipped from your lips
like a serpent.
They curled themselves around me
in sinuous caress.
Like a serpent,
they rubbed against me
in sinuous caress.
I am the rough tree bark
they rubbed. Against me,
you shed the truth like skin.
I am the rough tree bark;
you are the fall from grace.
You shed the truth like skin
that holds no living.
You are the fall from grace,
and I never saw it coming.
Like skin that holds no living,
only cold and empty promise,
and I never saw it coming
though the night was ripe with apples.
Only cold and empty promise,
they curled themselves around me.
While the night was ripe with apples,
those words slipped from your lips.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
When I started thinking about the TFE's Poetry Bus challenge this week, to be still and feel what is inside us, I could only think of one line: I have loved and been loved. Have I had hardships? Yes. Loss? Absolutely, heartbreakingly. But through it all, I am blessed to be able to say that I have faith and I have loved and been loved.
For the full Poetry Bus challenge and to read the other (probably non-rhyming, maybe not-so-happy) Poetry Bus riders, go here. It's a talented crew and a rollicking ride!
a warm wind formed in rain skirts below the windowpane
stirs the curtains skips along the wall
travels gently down the hall skids across the cold stone floor blows in
through an open door to the heart-room of the home
where the woman sits alone works the pen that tells her art
thinks about the singing sound made by choirs of angels' wings
as they gather as they swing through the ether and of weaving at a loom
where the art reflects the heart of the weaver then a thought comes
fully formed from the wind where it was borne: "Contentment deep within,"
in the poem that she forms in the music that she hears in the blessings
of the years in the people she has known in the love
she has been shown contentment on the wind skirts the curtains
rushes in mixes with her softest sigh weaves itself
into the dye of the fabric of her very happy life
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Gravity pulls me
I'm holding fast to the line.
My head is spinning
I'm losing track of time.
The jester holds his mask
I'm looking like the fool.
My heart goes tumbling fast
the lord of this misrule.