beth-ivy
American
i experience life, express emotion and record history in writing. i am not consistent. i go in fits and starts, forsaking it in a perfectionist fit for months, diving headlong into it at other times. in most of my writing i work out personal struggle, process conflict, and form observations. / i'm a youth minister and i'm married to an incredible man who is rarely the subject of my writing. i have a hard time writing poetry about things that bring me joy. i'm working on that.
radiant sun gleams
through buttery golden leaves
bitter wind bites bones
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh
can’t you feel that?
you are a wind that rails against the moon:
thousands of miles away
she cannot hear and cannot feel you
she can see but never touch
*how do i feel after so much disaster?
what world could we have?
what could we be?*
old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache
*bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark*
tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity
or else entomb me in the stone
of my own making.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
I came to You carrying a bowl:
white clay set with tourmaline
and green beryl like the sea
precious
simple
sacred.
A silvery glaze you poured
over cracks in the clay--
mistakes I have made
perfecting
illuminating
scars.
Swirling in this vessel,
as I stumble toward your hall,
is a liquid dark, seething:
fire and ink
filth and steaming sludge
and something
slithers
just below the surface
living pollution eking out its existence in a putrid potion.
I can hardly lift it anymore.
with weakening arms I collapse,
but strive to hold the basin yet
my hands crushed beneath its weight.
With a shattered voice I call to You
You
who crafted the bowl:
Mercy! mercy...
Desperate for rescue
before the evil lurking within
drags itself out to consume.
*What You made
I poisoned,
And what in life You gave
I filled with death.
Empty the vessel
and unmake the beast.
Renew and restore,
Maker of All.*
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Oak Tree, she loves Thunderstorm:
His booming voice ignites desire-
When he lightens the sky and pours down drink
This ancient mother dances like fire
Her bows she waves in gladness,
Her core shivers at his touch,
His winds and torrents she counts caresses
While flowers tremble: his love too much.
Moon winks through the tempest's mantle,
Spying curious revels in the wood,
She tucks herself back behind his shroud
Leaving the dancers to their own good.
*But carousing be it raucous raging as the sea,
Or gentle as the morning bells' lilting chimes
All must eventually cease to be*
Proud Sun calls out at dawn
To the wood on the edge of the glade.
At his voice Thunderstorm recoils
Sun's rays pierce with blazing blade.
Sun holds no reveler's understanding.
Perceiving Storm the usurper here,
He shines with mightiest will to drive
Away the love of sweet Oak Tree.
Sun turns back to comfort her, gleaming
But her arms show their age in his beams
while flowers rejoice at the dawning
Of him, the object of their dreams.
Now a sweet wind comes blowing
rustling the hair of Oak Tree's leaves,
sends tears showering: dew of last night's dance.
Oh to be a rainstorm! Oak Tree breathes.
The Sun is dazzled by the drops
Who never stood before his face.
Amidst her tears, the Oak Tree laughs
At this morning's strangest grace.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
75. 85. 90.
windows down.
open road.
scene
stark night, moonlight contrast.
stars: the watchers: no passing cars to block
the path to oblivion.
/fly/
arms spread wide, wind whipping
ripsrustlesslipsslidesslices
unfurled fingers cutting
ribbons in the fabric of the atmosphere.
acrid scents of city pollution fuse
with mown grass and night dew and waking trees:
a cocktail served through the nose over the breeze--
fresh air in a dead man's lungs.
here is life lived on high
giddy wheeling 85 and 90
not a soul in sight
enveloped in the music
dazzled by the starlight
drunk on speed
delighted
dizzy to
die.
this is release
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
turning leaves inspire
renewal: the beautiful
hope of a good death.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.
your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.
there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.
but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.
yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.
and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.
it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
and i cannot get you out.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
sickly yellow bursts
through a lively greening bud,
painting life with death.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
bless me feather for i have sinned;
i have forsaken the quill again.
it has been five months since my last confession.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
if i promise not to hurt me
will you promise not to hurt you?
can't love you as i love myself...
that would be terrible for you.
screaming prayers into pillows
begging help in late night phone calls:
"do you think we'll get out alive?"
anxious, dizzy, pacing the halls.
if you tell me all your secrets
i'll tell you every one of mine.
maybe if we hold hands real tight
tomorrow we will wake up fine.
you're not alone but it's so hard--
sometimes you simply don't believe
the things you know to be the truth.
the monsters never want to leave.
but i promise not to hurt me
just please promise not to hurt you
i don't know how to love myself
but if you love me i'll love you.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC