Dear Soul Beings,
Forgive me my hiatus. My writing has been lying dormant during this winter of discontent, this time of sadness and oppression. I have sought refuge in creativity, as that is free and the only way to nurture my soul. Painting keeps the summer in my soul as does a writing group I recently joined, where the voice of poetry begs answers of many questions. What can grant me a sense of freedom in the face of so much oppression and suffering? What can mitigate the fear? What can salvage the mystery? How do I know what is right? How do I find peace? In the enveloping darkness, what matters? What can I give back?
Beauty. Love. Art. Poetry. These things keep the flow.
Here is a piece I am working on: Looking Back to Move Forward
A poem emerged called: The Invisible Self
A constable of ravens silently shift their gaze.
Past the bare branches, whistling into emptiness.
The crunch of gravel, chomps beneath my hollow step.
Dusty fragments on slender stems, a memory of seasons passed.
Buds beneath the snow
I wring my hands in the sunlight.
The terra cotta wall crumbles with the grit of shadow.
Shadow of a past eclipse.
The sun has brought the birds.
Beyond a circle of dead wood, a child’s plastic picnic table
And split piñon, an old cottonwood, arms akimbo,
Lay scattered cones and cacti with brown needled teeth.
In front of me a column of stump and rock, atop of which
Sits a plump black-headed grosbeak.
Duck and tumble under barbed wire, where you once leapt
Into my heart.
I cup my cheek and trace the
Lingering line around my mouth.
I could paint her lips red.
No, I’ll paint her lips white and enter
Your casein ghost.
Through the white wall of silence.
Spring and silence.
I throw my hands to the sun and spin.
Can you tell I have drunk from the gourd of
Pomegranate and persimmon?
Blood of my hips and tongue
A river giving birth.
In the casein shadow
I’m a ghost of mutant memory.
The next poem to emerge came out of an exercise on Windows and framing things.
It is called: Looking Through
Sunlight on the window sill
And a sliver of winter’s mouth agape.
She’s wrapped in gauze and tulle
Fairies in her eyes, her face
Her fingers like the neck of a swan.
My heart is lured to her light being
A violin cadenza, a run and her
Fierce light forever strung across my heart
As I watch the dance from afar.
Now a ripening
Ophelia’s sharp discord
Above the cello’s richly strung base.
I hold her hand,
Just the tip of her swan neck fingers.
She spins away.
Wild colt spinning
The edge of terror in her eyes
Choose the ground I say.
Make good choices.
Now her gaze wanders
Occasional half-lidded eyes
Muttering beneath the mask.
I lean in.
The twist in her neck.
The clutch of her long fingers.
Through the window she taps her leg,
Her shoulders slumped.
In the morning
A column of moving light
Makes a half moon on her cheek
While the cat snores.
I make a frame with my
Thumb and forefinger.
There’s a swan in my throat.
Thank you dear souls. How are you surviving these days?