Friday, December 28, 2007

Grow a Stone

Those of you who judge
You know nothing of these soles
What kind of love are you dishing out?
Is love and trust given through a glide of hand?
Doesn't this take years?
Years it took to build, days it falls, am I to grow a stone?
I am vulnerable,
Is everyone that numb?


Underneath the Maple Tree

I've tried painting you into all light and the absence of it too
My fingers are stained, my nails edges uneven and fed
The last splinter was tweezed minutes earlier and I realize my teeth's job is done
Those carved and beveled pieces of wood have better future uses
Reddish-pink convex shapes surround me; indeed I am still loved,
And this is all I need, all I ever wanted—my own family
Like the reflection of jagged mounds that linger in the drafty double-pane

Reminding me that I once had a seed, shaped like two ovals merging with a single point
As a child, I planted it next to a sprouting twig spiraling from the dirt
I expected him to grow,
Like the beautiful maple tree I adored,
In which I watched as its leaves turned from green to yellow
Every fall, through that sliding glass door
By the envious house plant I watered off and on
Waiting for our day to dance underneath those bright leaves
I looked at that twig, still but a speck above the soil
Peace lily drooping at its side
I had too much expectation for a mere fig
Realizing I am no longer framed by ringlets
Digging out that awkward oval was my responsibility if it were to be saved

I'm dancing now, through September
And in June, oh sunny June, I rest my head on a pillow of bark
Beneath its shade, we all watch what I salvaged mend its branches to the wind
Inviting those half moons under as they touch my skin with warmth
I am never alone; they ensure my purpose and support
In my home, fertilized with content, I write…that is, on recycled paper

Dream's Harvest

I am the queen of instantaneous breath holding
Waving my flag through a river of dirt
Unwilling to accept,
That what I want, I will never have
As if by forcing it,
I could unlock some magical door yet discovered
But, the new world has already been found
And the finding is not within you
That is my burden to bear,
My truth of terms, coming and going
There was never any slick armor or pony making miles of imprints,
Just my lonely feet, stubborn, pale, and remaining rooted
Eye stretched across the pasture
Still, I sigh with frustration,
After 27 years, I still have expectation
A grand ideal, to one day harvest mere words,
From dry soil and brown vines
Clung to a memory the earth was never designed to support
I admit, I accept, pick up that white material, my life crumbles, I pick up my feet—
And then it happened, the first smile I meant


Blessing the Soul with Helium

I twist my ankle in, toes rubbing side to side
Hands in my pockets, confused and sometimes angry

I suppose memories will always be there,
Like the clutter you save for some special use
Never thrown away, but always in the way

Yeah, memories, no matter where their stuffed
Seem to make their presence known on cold winter days like this
The crunchy brown leaves scraping the pavement as the wind shoves them about
Yet, unlike boxes stored away with tinge of papers, jars, and junk covered in dust
The remembering comes in drifts—
Stored in colored patches, they have cycles of rebirth
Catching one unprepared for its visitation and their offerings
No matter how much one convinces themselves, they carry a weight called "feel"
As if ordered or directed, moving you along in phases

Forgiveness though, an expensive grace when my blood is not yet clean
My nerves are still in knots! And the untangling is a distant being
Perhaps finding a reason to buy it is not hinged on your worthiness to have it

It will never be for you, can never be—as emeralds and rubies aren't instantaneous
You were always off scrambling for coal and a coat of soot as if it were a spontaneous treasure
Never knowing what you have, eyes always on the sparkling rock you could own
Blind to the mine you're caved in and the dirty lungs you speak with

Memories are a dealing, an offering of growth if one so chooses
I have felt dieing, I can appreciate life
Even the memories inviting themselves to thought, sometimes I smile
I can't help but wonder, is this the process of preparing
to give what my consciousness resists: a blessing of letting go and filling my soul with helium?
Maybe, I think so, I believe, I know


Soft Discovery

Soft glimpses, those moments in which life's reason exists
When questions cease and time wavers somewhere below
To feel, to understand, flesh can burn and you'll remain
I can hear the white keys plucking the iron strings, velvet hum and mood
Like the grain of a pear with its bumpy smooth fiber melting on your tongue
Living streams of pleasure saturating your buds, and the growth of a woman
The clock has lied and truth never hissed nor ticked but sung
These are the sacrificed stings of trying to conform and the lilac smells of being free
Who can not thank their troubles when one loves to laugh?
The time of awe doesn't package gifts of pure joy but treasures conquering, earned and understood
Bless those who force lessons, humbling those who run
Smooth feeling, mellow, innocent with dirt under the nail beds
How do you describe discovery or light?

Eyes Upon Opening

Dark, slanky waves
Floating on the walls, almost resembling me
It moves when I do, reminding me of a whole
Accepting her means knowing myself too
And so it is said, light does not exist without its night
I can never understand until I know my shadow, or so I translate
That dancing silhouette, all along never mocking but inviting me home
The aching of unchaining, what I wanted to believe verses the truth
History has a way of altering when one can not trust themselves
And still, it is my midnight I am running into searching for that wick
For a flame, steady and flickering to keep me safe for the moment I open my eyes

Withholding Equal Morals

Those hands playing with the numbers
Round in circles and the black and white lines
Dreams stand, steal memories and yet they are only shades and tints
The fingers point forward but I know my innocence isn't pure
As if denial could muffle the screams, perhaps the treble sends its intentions anyway
Like trying to catch your breath as if the boogie man is just your imagination
Pretending the covers over your head keeps you hidden, acting like you had control
What illusion is this, "the human conundrum?" Things just are the way they are? I don't think so.
Stop trying to strip the responsibility out of your hands

Let's call it what it is--It is a withholding of truth, as if its omission kept you moral
No, it is a struggle to stuff it in a "box" hoping that its waters never surface
This is what you call honesty? Being chained to a door, demanding that its departure never unseals from its molding
Smile, so you can keep the fa├žade "and the truth shall set you free"