elizabeth-reeves - Hello Poetry

This September katydid has found home on shelves in our dining room. His roommates are books, a rock stolen from the drystone walls of Yorkshire fossil fish, and whatever the trilobites left when their passing seemed almost as negligible as their presence. Someone should tell him, as he chirps his nights away calling, begging, wanting. Love can’t be found among heady books and artifacts hard and enveloped Stonily paralyzed by time Wings may strike against eachother, legs rub till they’re raw with heat And that’s not what we call for either It’s always the afterward All of our singing in the night is for naught When we are inevitably left Alone and transformed into some relic of the past, or some words someone may have spoken then thought memorable enough to pen A memory of melody As a turning bird song travelling on air spring to summer to fall Even the birds stop their call only the cricket is left All of us lying down singing until our hearts are no longer our hearts. The song changes The desire always remains the same.

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Sep 9, 2017

Sep 9, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC

Cricket

This September katydid has found home on shelves in our dining room. His roommates are books, a rock stolen from the drystone walls of Yorkshire fossil fish, and whatever the trilobites left when their passing seemed almost as negligible as their presence. Someone should tell him, as he chirps his nights away calling, begging, wanting. Love can’t be found among heady books and artifacts hard and enveloped Stonily paralyzed by time Wings may strike against eachother, legs rub till they’re raw with heat And that’s not what we call for either It’s always the afterward All of our singing in the night is for naught When we are inevitably left Alone and transformed into some relic of the past, or some words someone may have spoken then thought memorable enough to pen A memory of melody As a turning bird song travelling on air spring to summer to fall Even the birds stop their call only the cricket is left All of us lying down singing until our hearts are no longer our hearts. The song changes The desire always remains the same.

32

Take me dancing Door to door in the cold Our footprints nothing more than Temporary impressions in the snow Melting with the morning light- Take me dancing Dancing Door to door in the cold Until my heart goes stone from old And I have finally given up all that I know.

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Dec 30, 2016

Dec 30, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC

Waltz

Take me dancing Door to door in the cold Our footprints nothing more than Temporary impressions in the snow Melting with the morning light- Take me dancing Dancing Door to door in the cold Until my heart goes stone from old And I have finally given up all that I know.

11

She hung like a jewel on so slender a thread Off of the long, white neck of the moon She swooned, such predictability- yet ever out of reach Tonight she remembered days All that near brushing of such an illumination Each complementing the other A dance of days and time Round and full Lean and dark On and on and on.

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Dec 5, 2016

Dec 5, 2016 at 5:34 PM UTC

The Moon and Venus

She hung like a jewel on so slender a thread Off of the long, white neck of the moon She swooned, such predictability- yet ever out of reach Tonight she remembered days All that near brushing of such an illumination Each complementing the other A dance of days and time Round and full Lean and dark On and on and on.

11

He picked and hammered deep in my heart While he pecked and ripped away the bark and then his song so fickle and fair Punctuating the moonlight and thick stagnant air Relentlessly piercing the dark Rubbing the sticky mistletoe deep in the once strong tree repeating each melody again and again one, two, three Banishing sleep from my eyes The peace from my chest And for now as long as I live, live live I fear that I will never know That child sweet slumber of summer nights, seeming to me so gentle hearted pure and sweet such long long lost and easy rest.

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Oct 11, 2016

Oct 11, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC

Mockingbird.

He picked and hammered deep in my heart While he pecked and ripped away the bark and then his song so fickle and fair Punctuating the moonlight and thick stagnant air Relentlessly piercing the dark Rubbing the sticky mistletoe deep in the once strong tree repeating each melody again and again one, two, three Banishing sleep from my eyes The peace from my chest And for now as long as I live, live live I fear that I will never know That child sweet slumber of summer nights, seeming to me so gentle hearted pure and sweet such long long lost and easy rest.

25

He would file the edges of glasses down Whenever one would chip And I would find them, Rough rimmed Ragged edges ground And always where my lips would rest. I don’t know why it annoyed me so. Perhaps because I hated the imperfection so badly But the dishes too, he began to glue those When broken and that was too much. Cup handles superglued and breaking just As I lifted the hot liquid for a sip Lead crystal port decanters with the Elegant stoppers mended And sitting cockeyed on top Daring me to lift it and then Only to break over and over And him, trying to fix it again and again and again. I found myself deliberately smashing things Down when chipped, or flawed Throwing them on anything hard. The backyard patio became my favorite Breaking point. I couldn’t stop. although I cut my feet and knees While creeping through the yard barefoot Weeping. I hid the adhesive. Just so he couldn’t try to mend things one More time. I severed the cord on the grinding wheel And found myself examining anything fragile with a keen eye= Sometimes a magnifying glass. Searching for any imperfection that might prove A flaw capable of breaking. And in the end it seemed to me That nothing, nothing could leave this house Until finally, eternally, unfix ably broken or crushed into pieces.

0

Oct 11, 2016

Oct 11, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC

The Last Straw.

He would file the edges of glasses down Whenever one would chip And I would find them, Rough rimmed Ragged edges ground And always where my lips would rest. I don’t know why it annoyed me so. Perhaps because I hated the imperfection so badly But the dishes too, he began to glue those When broken and that was too much. Cup handles superglued and breaking just As I lifted the hot liquid for a sip Lead crystal port decanters with the Elegant stoppers mended And sitting cockeyed on top Daring me to lift it and then Only to break over and over And him, trying to fix it again and again and again. I found myself deliberately smashing things Down when chipped, or flawed Throwing them on anything hard. The backyard patio became my favorite Breaking point. I couldn’t stop. although I cut my feet and knees While creeping through the yard barefoot Weeping. I hid the adhesive. Just so he couldn’t try to mend things one More time. I severed the cord on the grinding wheel And found myself examining anything fragile with a keen eye= Sometimes a magnifying glass. Searching for any imperfection that might prove A flaw capable of breaking. And in the end it seemed to me That nothing, nothing could leave this house Until finally, eternally, unfix ably broken or crushed into pieces.

48

This evening I thought the woods were on fire. It seemed a visitation of sorts. I believed it to be angels burning incense- Saints kissing the leaves- Fairies and sprites celebrating the summer passing and for one moment the sun peaked into the dark undergrowth- laying a swath of burning red. Gifting us with a piece of itself. This sun that ancients worshipped- Generations sacrificed and feared- chanted, praised, loved and bowed down deep in reverence now lay across a blaze of color on the bush underneath the trees. And for a moment I could not breathe overtaken by the thought of only this sun merely the sun leaning in- loving the earth.

0

Oct 5, 2016

Oct 5, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC

Reverie

This evening I thought the woods were on fire. It seemed a visitation of sorts. I believed it to be angels burning incense- Saints kissing the leaves- Fairies and sprites celebrating the summer passing and for one moment the sun peaked into the dark undergrowth- laying a swath of burning red. Gifting us with a piece of itself. This sun that ancients worshipped- Generations sacrificed and feared- chanted, praised, loved and bowed down deep in reverence now lay across a blaze of color on the bush underneath the trees. And for a moment I could not breathe overtaken by the thought of only this sun merely the sun leaning in- loving the earth.

19

She yowls again from a distant room. Her cry taking on different sounds Depending the time of day Sometime scolding then mournful She is at once incessantly loud Then alarmingly quiet in her own way It used to annoy me This constant complaint aging cat angst and regret Who for years was seductive and sleek Now stubbornly hangs and howls all day Crouched on basement stairs protesting the bleak prospect of advanced being just a pain in the *** pet.

0

Oct 4, 2016

Oct 4, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC

The Cat

She yowls again from a distant room. Her cry taking on different sounds Depending the time of day Sometime scolding then mournful She is at once incessantly loud Then alarmingly quiet in her own way It used to annoy me This constant complaint aging cat angst and regret Who for years was seductive and sleek Now stubbornly hangs and howls all day Crouched on basement stairs protesting the bleak prospect of advanced being just a pain in the *** pet.

14

He taps the insides of the cup As he stirs his coffee with a cheap spoon - Sugar, sugar- Then throws it down with a clank On the metal table. I am afraid that he will tell me this despair is because Our world has ended suns are exploding and the moon has abandoned the earth leaving us all wandering in eternal darkness. Tears slide down the well worn deep creases that began to define his features when he was only three. There is a path of least resistance somewhere that we’ve never known. He shakes his head in disgust. Clicks his tongue over and over. Our silence is binding- Absolute. Because what can one say about all those years No good fortune, no talisman Only sorrow and bad bad luck. I won’t disturb this sad silence. Everything I’ve ever wanted to know is there In that occasional shake of the head, That involuntary click of the tongue That echoes with the insistence of memory. I tap the insides of my cup with my spoon And fling it on the table. He covers his face with his hands. And as I watch the sun falls – the moon weeps- His face enters my dreams and I am told, I click my tongue in my sleep.

0

Oct 3, 2016

Oct 3, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC

Channeling my father

He taps the insides of the cup As he stirs his coffee with a cheap spoon - Sugar, sugar- Then throws it down with a clank On the metal table. I am afraid that he will tell me this despair is because Our world has ended suns are exploding and the moon has abandoned the earth leaving us all wandering in eternal darkness. Tears slide down the well worn deep creases that began to define his features when he was only three. There is a path of least resistance somewhere that we’ve never known. He shakes his head in disgust. Clicks his tongue over and over. Our silence is binding- Absolute. Because what can one say about all those years No good fortune, no talisman Only sorrow and bad bad luck. I won’t disturb this sad silence. Everything I’ve ever wanted to know is there In that occasional shake of the head, That involuntary click of the tongue That echoes with the insistence of memory. I tap the insides of my cup with my spoon And fling it on the table. He covers his face with his hands. And as I watch the sun falls – the moon weeps- His face enters my dreams and I am told, I click my tongue in my sleep.

36

The persimmons hung gorgeously orange And red off bare limbs Nature’s ornaments in December- They dropped, divine and ripe Juicy one by one On to the soft leaf litter Out of loving arms and all naked grey skies. This was my daily treat Landscapes of color and That tree at the creek corner road Stunning in fog As I obeyed the stop sign at least once Or twice every day In the darkest time-brightest joy Illuminating the fumy and spirituous, wet northern California days.. If I might bite that luscious fruit Stolen from someones tree Rest in the cool bay rain Slumber me Rock me In that sweet, Fresh petricor that bewitches Your mind before it washes your ripe skin. I was the wild mustard then. Everywhere at once in winter Corrupting ****** soaking earth Thunderous yellow Rising for an all too brief season Mistaking you for the sun

0

Oct 3, 2016

Oct 3, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC

Winter solstice 1969

The persimmons hung gorgeously orange And red off bare limbs Nature’s ornaments in December- They dropped, divine and ripe Juicy one by one On to the soft leaf litter Out of loving arms and all naked grey skies. This was my daily treat Landscapes of color and That tree at the creek corner road Stunning in fog As I obeyed the stop sign at least once Or twice every day In the darkest time-brightest joy Illuminating the fumy and spirituous, wet northern California days.. If I might bite that luscious fruit Stolen from someones tree Rest in the cool bay rain Slumber me Rock me In that sweet, Fresh petricor that bewitches Your mind before it washes your ripe skin. I was the wild mustard then. Everywhere at once in winter Corrupting ****** soaking earth Thunderous yellow Rising for an all too brief season Mistaking you for the sun

31