Yes it’s late again
and my muse is paying me
a visit. She snickers
as she follows me
in from a long drive. Whispers
in my ear softly,
but not with words. The
thoughts that trickle down to my
hand are written with
a favorite pen,
black ink that leaves no room for
blank space. Her name is
Wake. She blinds me with
her light and cools me with her
waves of what seems like
never-ending thoughts. As
tired as I may be, my hand
cannot stop and continues
to fight the writing.
Rivers of words flow gently
but leave loud questions
behind. Will I be
heard? With one more stroke they cry
black tears that worry
one more question in
sight; will I be understood?
Wake tires me with her
whispers and calls me
to ponder on many things.
For instance, life is
the gates of happiness and
seemed, for a while, to
even more slowly
close the gates of sorrow. A
sorrow left behind.
There is someone who
warms my cold wounds and heals them
with his beautiful touch. He
is the catalyst
to my healing. He has been
closing that gate of
sorrow. I have found
love and so my joyful time
is upon me. As
my words come to a
stop my pen comes to a pause.
Blink and suddenly
can’t escape the night.
Tired I am and sleeping
I must be. Off my
room will disappear
into the darkness and my
dreams will lead me through
the journey that is
ahead till a place called morning.
Time is healing, as
is Wake’s whispers that
are like a close friend’s warm touch.
I am healed stronger.
The sky is dark again.
Time to embark then
on another quest to find some peace in my mind
and some sleep on a short wind.
Up the eyelids stay
until my muscles decide
it’s time to pay the price of admission to dreamland,
leaving my lids with nothing to hold them open, they
fall and crash as my concentration begins to find some meaning
in another day.
Folkways and mores left behind—
people standing backwards in elevators—
making me question, reality?
My thoughts slow down
only to find unicorns eating popcorn;
green monsters lacking jealousy—
a spiral staircase to a
door with a sign saying here,
and another with a sign saying there.
Mind neither here nor there but caught at a “Y” in the road.
I fight back and forth with myself
until I slip into here.
No porch yet;
just green grass hills for miles,
glass skies filled to the brim
with clouds .
No time to the day on this weekend;
Long dirt roads smell of tobacco,
old barns perfect for hide and seek,
hours outside lost and found
on our two acre piece of inheritance
No porch yet
crying for us to keep inside
and grow up;
taking away my youth.
Woods with thick clay dirt
hit my face— “on accident Mom…”
I can breathe in my youth again
before the trees that shelter me now
are replaced by shingles and wood.
That dirty fun of my youth
cleansed my pores
in big murky ponds
my youthful spirit may very soon be pushed away,
by a porch, built for parties.
Until that time
it was the sunsets that pushed me inside
to the smell of dad’s spaghetti;
variations of the same basic recipe.
I saw smiles and laughter
Dishes cleaned as we were bathed.
Bathtub bubbles rained puddles on the floor.
Wet and naked laps around the house
“ANDREA LEAH! Get your naked butt back here
and get your jammies on!”
Never had time to dry off completely
just wanted to dance around.
Damp bodies eventually squeezed into
barbie doll underwear and pink frilly nightgowns.
A rock in the big comfy recliner-
the day is going to end
before the stars shine bright
against the green grass and black night sky.
Luckily, there is no porch yet.
The book isn’t quiet at night.
My mind tosses to turn the pages quicker,
so I might fall asleep faster.
The book doesn’t quiet.
The pages turning sound—
the slow waves of an ocean,
causing the hermit crabto long for the sea.
Ticking against the plastic hermit crab aquarium,
hermits make up their own laws of time. Longing
just to reach the sliced trees that lay as the floor beneath me.
Knots come out on the floor under my bed
begging to tell the stories of their wood rings.
Hundreds of years of uncut life—until suddenly,
streaming out on branches from every tree—is compacted
into the paper on this page
and into the hardwood underneath
that begins shifting slowly to driftwood.
Standing still with the grains of time resting at my feet.
Hearing the sea crying out too for some sleep,
the sea crying out to be a pond,always resting.
With every turned page,
the sand brushes, wanting the hermit crabs to come back
from their hand painted, tattooed shells.
To dance once more on the sand beneath the sea foam,
under delicately night speckled atmosphere
beneath a far off silent observer
we humans call the man in the moon.
Turning pages are slowly closed,
placed aside once more,
left alone to stare at hermit crabs.
Hiding in their hermit crab aquariums, they
await the 6am alarm clock’s tick.
They were only whispers to you, ‘cause you were deaf to me.
Leave me with no choice but
to listen and wish
for your car's broken exhaust
to rattle at the stop sign
at the corner of my street.
You always arrive when least expected.
Life to pass by in
perfection and bliss has no worth
or satisfaction. Pain needs to be felt
and tears need to bathe the insecurities
that pump beneath my skin. The cold skin
contains the warm blood
that boils and scolds beneath, harboring every
feeling known and unknown.
The goal is to feel them all.
Feel them all and know each one.
Appreciation that we can feel,
is something to be alive for!
It's eerie when the quiet is so loud
you can't hear yourself think.
Silence creeps into your mind and
holds it hostage
as it beats through your veins. “Can we talk about it later?”
he says sternly. I try to speak my view again
but he cuts me off, “Can we talk about it later?”
At this point his tone suggests that it is more of a request
than a question. Not an order, but a stern and gentle request.
I crawl inside myself and quiet the turmoil within.
We're both stubborn.
In all honesty that is our relationship's only flaw.
He'll end up winning this one and I'll fall asleep suffering,
wanting to have him to myself
a little longer than I know I'll have him tomorrow.
It's eerie the way the quiet sweeps in.
You would never think quiet could be such a hostile tone.