For she had not accepted defeat,
nor surrendered to the wanderlust of it all,
trapped in the thick fog of her fear—
a labyrinth of shadows where her voice
dissolved into silence.

Metamorphosing, she carved a hollow,
a space to call home.
Fueled by chemicals measured in increments,
their sterile precision slicing through
the feral ache of her longing.
A hiding place she had conjured
as a child, weaving it from ashes and remorse,
where moths flitted to their amber deaths,
the bulb’s hiss a quiet menace,
its danger humming through the stillness.

Courage tasted metallic, sharp
on her tongue, mingling with the salt
of blood smeared on her fingertips.
Another night sprawled open—
her hair tumbling like restless waves,
her thoughts clutching at themselves,
an ouroboros of lamentation.

Sorrow, a seed lodged deep in her womb,
sprouted thorns that pierced her silence.
Shadows stretched their forgotten forms,
etched in the plot of her life—
a scratch, a swirl, a jagged dance
splattered across canvas,
each brushstroke a hymn to her unraveling.

The ghosts pressed in,
whispering their fractured violence.
No one listened. No one heard.
She knelt, crushed petals
beneath the weight of the world.
“Put the broken pieces back,”
she begged,
“reshape the sharp edges
of my disappointments.”

At the brink of dawn,
the angels sang to her—
their voices a river of grief and duende,
swelling, sweeping,
washing her raw and clean.

He was her anam cara,
the raindrops kissed on her raven's beak,
moonstones refracting fractured light.
He was the breath
that held time still,
slipping into her chest,
her heart a wistful drumbeat.

Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

J'ai presque peur, en vérité,
Tant je sens ma vie enlacée
À la radieuse pensée
Qui m'a pris l'âme l'autre été,

Tant votre image, à jamais chère,
Habite en ce coeur tout à vous,
Mon cœur uniquement jaloux
De vous aimer et de vous plaire ;

Et je tremble, pardonnez-moi
D'aussi franchement vous le dire,
À penser qu'un mot, un sourire
De vous est désormais ma loi,

Et qu'il vous suffirait d'un geste.
D'une parole ou d'un clin d'oeil,
Pour mettre tout mon être en deuil
De son illusion céleste.

Mais plutôt je ne veux vous voir,
L'avenir dût-il m'être sombre
Et fécond en peines sans nombre,
Qu'à travers un immense espoir,

Plongé dans ce bonheur suprême
De me dire encore et toujours,
En dépit des mornes retours,
Que je vous aime, que je t'aime !

Fable VI, Livre II.


Le crocodile en pleurs, aux animaux surpris,
De la pitié vantait les charmes :
« Craignez ceux qui jamais ne se sont attendris ;
Fiez-vous à quiconque a répandu des larmes :
Frères, l'homme est croyable, et l'homme pense ainsi. »
« - Je le sais, dit le bœuf ; et même il pleure aussi. »

I'm kind of glad
that the world is dying today.
I've longed to beseech the ruins lost,
under the abyss ink of my gentle fingerprints, as I
dance among the sage green moss
and meadows shine, the dew drops glint.
I am of doom, I am of loss.
I'd love to see the world forsaken.
Only now, only today has the universe marked me as its prey
and I bent towards the ending day.

© fey (12/11/24)

She slipped away with no goodbye
No parting gasp or widened eye
One heartbeat she was here, then she was gone.

I didn’t know it was the day
When she would gently drift away-
The nurses said that time was down the road.

For many hours I’d held her  hand
And when I could no longer stand
I sat nearby to read a magazine.

I cannot say with certainty
The moment that her soul leapt free
I feel ashamed and live with secret guilt.

I never should have touched that book
It robbed me of a final look
That might have told me she was on her way.

I had to wait til Laura came
And here her call my Mother’s name
And cry out, O my God - I think she’s gone.

I tell myself it was Mom’s will
To slip away when all was still
But yet I should have stood there at her side.

I might have sensed her spirit’s flight
Or seen some otherworldly light
Instead I idly looked at wedding gowns,

I feel I didn’t make the grade
And ever since that time I’ve prayed
That she’ll forgive the lapse and love me still.

Wherever she is dancing now
I hope she realizes how
My love is wrapped around her like a crown.

And as she starts eternity
With body new and spirit free
I hope she knows her heart lives on in me.

I think about her all the while
Sometimes with tear-sometimes with smile
But she walks closer by me than before.
  
The wisdom that she shared with me-
The training in the way to be
Are part and parcel of my very soul.

I’ll always be a part of her
Through any change that may occur
My love and fond remembrance will not fade.

So though she left without goodbye
To claim her mansion in the sky
I know she’ll save a corner there for me.

And come that future afternoon
Maybe distant, maybe soon,
I’ll hold her hand in greeting, not farewell.

And she will say she overlooked
My sitting down with bridal book
And that she knows I did the best I could.

She knew the measure of my love
And as she joined the realms above
Considered me to be her good girl still.

Then all the pain I’ve hid inside
Will disappear and I can glide
Into my own eternity at peace.          
                ljm