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Oct 2015 · 399
november haiku
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
radiant sun gleams
through buttery golden leaves
bitter wind bites bones
found this from last november, digging through my journal to see what's worth keeping.
Oct 2015 · 451
can't you feel that?
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
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.
i love most of the words in this. whether or not i like their order or the sum of their parts is another thing entirely.
Oct 2015 · 386
Make and Unmake
Beth Ivy Oct 2015
I came to You carrying a bowl:
white clay set with tourmaline
and green beryl like the sea

A silvery glaze you poured
over cracks in the clay--
mistakes I have made
                ­                             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
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.
Sep 2015 · 688
Quercus and Cumulonimbus
Beth Ivy Sep 2015
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.
watched the oak in my yard the morning after an excellent thunderstorm. a more traditional style and structure. not my usual, but a fun experiment nonetheless.
Sep 2015 · 2.0k
Beth Ivy Sep 2015

windows down.
open road.

stark night, moonlight contrast.
stars: the watchers: no passing cars to block
the path to oblivion.
                                                       ­                             /fly/

arms spread wide, wind whipping
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
dizzy to

*this is release
Sep 2015 · 2.2k
leaves haiku
Beth Ivy Sep 2015
turning leaves inspire
renewal: the beautiful
hope of a good death.
it's finally september.
Mar 2015 · 656
crumbling castle
Beth Ivy Mar 2015
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.
for my father
Mar 2015 · 459
haiku 3.22.15
Beth Ivy Mar 2015
sickly yellow bursts
through a lively greening bud,
                                       painting life with death.
Mar 2015 · 312
a writer's confession
Beth Ivy Mar 2015
bless me feather for i have sinned;
i have forsaken the quill again.
it has been five months since my last confession.
written with respect to our catholic friends, and the rite of confession, which is one of my personal favorites.
i drew the parallel as i've been avoiding writing, which from my perspective is squandering gifts. it may not require confession, but in the writing discipline it calls for a turn around not unlike confession.

better to write garbage and learn from it than write nothing at all and stay exactly as you are.
Sep 2014 · 316
i promise
Beth Ivy Sep 2014
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.
last week i got a reminder of some people, of some places i have been that came out of the voice of the person i was at 17. so i wrote this in her style, to commemorate that stage of life, the struggles & friends, and the times even now where we all need each other.
Sep 2014 · 7.1k
The Dire Carnival
Beth Ivy Sep 2014
Dancing at my windowsill she calls,
black bottomless eyes and a jagged smile
tug me from sleep with a broken-glass laugh.
Beckoning, this pixie traces softly across my jaw--
fingertips so slightly ***** the skin.
Wordless but for laughter she pulls at me until
charmed I rise to follow where she leads.

Open evening air greets my night-dressed body
with cool wakening breezes and wild sounds.
Stumbling through rocks and over roots
I chase through the wood behind my manic guide.
Toes grip at undergrowth, slip, falling to arrive
on my knees
scraped and panting slightly
in a clearing otherworldly,
aglow with fey light.

A curious night-shine looms--yet Luna's face is hidden.
All attentions focus now on this central luminescence.
From its core jangles sweet, unearthly music
twisting its way into my heart
teasing at the edges of my fragile mind.
Compelled forward I follow sound--
my waker cannot outstrip me as we hurtle on.
Before our eyes the glow casts shadows
forming structure in this mystifying vision
eyes drink in your very first glimpse:
The Carnival.

Light and shadow compose sweeping tents
striped ebony and ivory, seeming strong as each
element yet smooth, sculpted by a master's hands.
Leaping black flames skip along their summits,
performing their nocturnal dance,
illuminating darkness, engulfing light.

Revelers' song soars and forms carouse,
                                                  lively­--but shadows only--to the eyes outside.

The air bears heady perfumes, enticing scents:            
rich, melting creams and toasting sugar
enveloping baked warmth and intoxicating spice.
Last, encircling all this wonder,
cries of mirth and sights to amaze:
an unadorned, unflinching iron fence.

Drunk with sound and smell and scene
wildly spinning through the breeze,
my rousing sprite whirls ahead
bound as if in a trance
her body flinging against
the forbidding blackened gates--
                                        her laughter only extinguished
                                                         as her delicate form dissolves into smoke
                                         holding momentarily the blue of night
                                                         her wasted shape, lost to the barrier.

But Curiosity will blind
eyes far more chaste than mine,
and Allure sings only such songs
that no heart suffers long.

Heedless mortal as I am, I grasp the solid frame
decay crumbles rough against my palms.
Bodies of other spirits caked by time
or the innocent work of oxidation
I do not pause to wonder,
merely vault myself over the fence
and brush from my hands
the black dust of portentous iron.

Inside the gate, vibrant figures flood my vision
ornately costumed in gowns of orange, violet, green
arrayed in shirts and trousers dazzling in spectrum.
These gorgeous apparitions loop around me
peddling beauty, selling fame.
They mesmerize  the eye with stunning wares:
an emerald beast to carry your heavy burdens
sapphire wine to cool your burning tongue
the music of a thousand crystal seas
kept in a bottle to drown your babbling mind.

                "What do they cost?"
                            "Not a dime, not a dime!
                              Just your Now, just a Moment,
                                                         ­                  only Passing Time."

Wandering deeper into the mysteries of night
a band of revelers swing beside and catch me
laughing, bear my bewildered form in arms
and deposit me into a large tent, wherein I find
a man at a canvas the size of a wall
before which are seven stone bowls.
He dashes his brush before the amazed,
and the canvas remains blank
until my companions urge me closer.
Couching myself upon a cushion shapes appear:
Here is a man who will paint your heart's desires
so vivid you can lose all you have
so intimate you fear to move,
lest any see the embers of your fire.

Spin and turn, the Revelers never stay long,
nor draw too near to any one spectacle,
but only joy for new tents, new delights.
No passion was left to grow cold,
no enchantment to lose its power.

See the girl of flawless grace,
her body painted like the stars--
                                                  the stars the carnival hid
painted like the stars and lithe as the air
ethereal in her arts,
ascending the pole, traversing the rope!
See her twine around stakes and over fire,
dive through hoops and drop
through that needle-loop in your eye.

Step up to the tent of glistening blue
the fountain that gushes without source.
Marvel at its lucent clarity, it's chilling foam!
Fill your goblet to the brim and drink!
Drink deep, imbibe sweet forgetfulness.
Long for nothing, cleanse your heart.

Take the carousel with its living beasts to ride.
Make merry with all on board and erase
any care your heart can hold.
Let the furious pace speed on from you
all that would trouble for a thought.

A honeyed apple pressed against your tongue.
                                         Just a taste! Just a bite!
See the glistening on the skin
made from the dreams of the greatest hearts
unrestrained and unrequited.
Fresh Desire--they're all the more enticing.

The apple glitters golden, its red flesh shines beneath.
Something familiar, a darker red, flecked across the finish.
I bite down and reel--
Something wondrous, but something queer.

Faithful attendants grab me quickly, dance me
into the mouth of a dark velvet tent.
It swallows me as I fall, waiting for the teeth---

        White mist surrounds with a shimmer
         and I have found the ground.
A Voice, deep as the sea enfolds me
gentle, heavy as with sleep--yet all aware.
It invites me closer, sit nearer
rest from the night's fantasies.
Lulled, I make for the figure hooded in brilliant gold.
He leads me to his table.

Heavy, strangely empty I seek sanctuary.
He offers instead a great promise--
power over my weariness, my desires met.
He offers joy unending,
pleasure without regret, without shame.
A haven promised here, mine alone, if only--
--if only I will stay.

But something tastes metallic in those words
promises that cannot be kept.
No tent could hold so much.
This voice, so warm and pleasing,
cannot mask well a lie,
and the gentle hand holds equally a threat.
                                                         ­                                                             run­
                Awake once more I fly from the shroud
bursting blind into the alley.

But back in the tent, left a piece of my heart
and my eye rolls away into a peddler's cup
blistered bits of my soul flake off, scorched
by fire-eaters food. What's left? Who am I?

                             What did it cost?
                               Not a dime, not a dime!
                                          Just a piece of your heart,
                                                                ­  just a piece of your mind.

Retching, the last of my still beating heart
squelches into my waiting hands.
I gag and sob out the gore, disbelieving
this small bit of flesh is all that is left
of all that I have been.

The blood draws the eyes of comrades
now changing from lovely to grotesque.
Ravenous, their teeth elongate
Eyes darken and colors fade
What was vibrant now decayed.
Sweet cream curdles in my mouth.
Rich meats, choice fruits turn sour--
the apple rots.

A hoard unrecognizable
of starved beasts and hideous beings
bears down for my final offering.

But I must know who I am
and what there was beyond this place!

Sprinting barefoot from the mob
clutching the vital treasure to my chest--
though to there it may not return--
I look now for mercy from the black gate.

Elegant porcelain fingers produce monstrous claws.
What once caressed my wondering skin
now sinks in for blood with crushing force.
A hopeless last attempt, a dead man's prayer:
I fling my body on the gate---

                                                       ­                                I am over. I am free--

Iron that once kept me out, now holds them fast within.

Bedclothes torn, all my purchased raiment turned to ash,
I limp, clutching a fragment heart.
Staggering from the Carnival's screams,
its dissonant music now all trick and terror.
Putrid garbage wafts from its walls.
Press onward, never looking back, through the wood.

So long ago--how long?--a little one led me here.
Her death was her own, but could have been
my salvation, a warning dearly paid.
Cheaply received.

My mind swims.
A body with its heart outside cannot last.
There are many things not of the Carnival
that would have my final scrap.

Faltering feet stumble and tripping find
a mere clear and still: a mirror for the moon.
And Luna's face does shine down
all her attendants watching on
as my naked form collapses beside its calm.
I cannot deserve this resting place,
could not discern a trap if one here lay.
All I can and have and am I offer up to Mercy,
and dip what's left of my broken life
into the cleansing pool.
first legitimate narrative piece.
a proof that no one can have an original idea. listening to showbread's 2004 album, *no sir nihilism is not practical.* definitely some inspiration from erin morgenstern's *night circus*, although her book is quite a different and lovelier thing. recently reading *undine* by friedrich de la motte fouqué (translated. i'm not that classy). recently struggling with those things that most often try to ensare a heart.

this is undoubtedly going to be one of those pieces i am never happy with.
Jun 2014 · 600
letters from the editor
Beth Ivy Jun 2014
a light burns hot--the spark of inspiration.
your questions asked are fearful answers spurned.
to soar on ink-drawn wings of another's pen
dares more boldly desire to soar again.

                                                         ­          yet desire wings of one's own
                                                             ­                                 might spell trouble

Truth mined in the caverns of harsh experience
refined by trying, failing and daily dying--
Life and art are earned only by such actions.
Hard-won is your credit, blood-purchased your praise.

what light does a fresh candle bring to a roaring fire?
scribbles in margins make meager explanation of
stumbling hesitation to be ignited by raw, reckless stanzas...

so forgive the trifling of my unpracticed pen,
and accept what you can of this gratitude
for a spark passed from pen to pen.
if silence resurfaces understand--
                                                           your word simply struck too deep.
to an excellent critic, collaborator and friend.

written for Riq Schwartz (who you should definitely be reading over here: upon the publishing of his book. that book is the entire reason i started writing again after a three year dry spell. today being his birthday, i figured it as good a time as any to post this.
Jun 2014 · 343
Beth Ivy Jun 2014
how beautiful
that crippled feet
should give way to
popped into my head while in the shower.  practice apparently includes writing down everything.
Jun 2014 · 342
Fight or Flight
Beth Ivy Jun 2014
jam broken fingers into unforgiving rock
stab stones beneath fingernails
cut the quick and pack with dirt.
pry and force then heave the body up.


thin air cannot fill to capacity
lungs which crave more oxygen
than their shape can stand to keep.
another foot, another five.

The whipping Wind and Its gentle Breezes call
                                 whispering of wings, aeries and westerlies.

scorn the Voice and clamber on, this vertical my only chance
to gain ground, gain purchase, gain peace.
devoted to this ritual of pull and ******, panic and strive
a wreckage of creature-form smeared across the escarpment.
grapple for territory but don't look down--
below is the Dark
i thought i left so far below.
it haunts my shadow, dogs my ragged breaths
it's gaping maw hangs open, ready
to swallow me whole.

The Wind beckons:
                         Let go.
                           The dark follows all who try to scale the face.
                                                           ­                   Let go and I will catch you.

I've come so far.
I've earned too much."
broken knuckles and gashed shins scream
at the injustice of this siren call
to fail, to quit, to concede my only way to the summit
and now it is nearer than ever---
though to my eyes it remains the nightmare
it has always seemed.

Rest and breathe.
         Feel you form and know yourself.
                        You were not built to climb and crawl;
                        You are no worm nor serpent.
What have you done to your skin that it does not feel?
What have you done to your eyes that they cannot see?

that melodic muttering rustles within
stirring something deep below my wind beaten flesh--
Cram shut ears and struggle on, and do not hear Wind's whisper.
Ascend though arms seem insufficient to the task.
raking desperately with bloodied fingers against the wall
a sudden answering rip sears across the back.
white hot pain etches its sign into weathered skin
and is then soothed by a flowing trickle of warmth.
scarlet drips onto my legs, my heels
staining, painting treacherous footholds
as marrow pulls against my spine
in shapes heavy and cramped
in their first taste of life.

swoon, overtaken by the struggle so long nursed against the rock
and the war of transformation waged against shoulder blades--
vision blurs then swirls
hands grip then slip
seek then lose
frantic, thrashing about for a hold:
                                                           ­  no promise given by the stone.

Let go, arms outstretched.
                         This action, flight's only catch.

the Wind's plea scarcely able to be disobeyed
let go or fall, i am lost to the cliff all the same.
soaring downward masses at my back
snap and crunch taking shape
though dripping still from their curious birth
                                                                ­            hopeless now but to trust
                                                           ­      to try in ways so unlike striving

*and let the Wind take me.
on faith and trust. certainly one of my longest poems.
this is a third draft that may need some further work.
Jun 2014 · 847
Monster in the Mirror
Beth Ivy Jun 2014
Monster, Monster in the Mirror,
How did you get your hooked claws?
Can broken nails and rosy lips
make both those and your crooked jaws?
How did your jagged fangs achieve
their sneering, snarling, biting gnash--
And your eyes, once wide and fearful,
turn cold and hungry for the catch?

Monster, Monster in the Mirror,
your forked tongue is barb'd and quick,
full of death and lurid poison;
does your poison yet make you sick?
Why do you hunt the ones you love?
How, dear brute, did you get so tall?
Years spent cowering in corners
ought to have rather made you small.

Monster, Monster in the Mirror,
Pity forsook your childlike face.
Did frightened gasping rob your lungs
of each and every breath of Grace?
Through lines of tears and mirror cracks
a soft, gentle figure appears,
--for a moment, as by lightning--
will you consume it with your fears?

Monster, will you at last become
all that you swore you would not be--
and if you do what happens then
to all there is or was of me?
i've written this poem many times in one way or another.
Mar 2014 · 572
the drive
Beth Ivy Mar 2014
flung forward over slick asphalt
six cylinders speeding towards eternity.
your legs, our arms, tossed out the windows
grasping    breezes     raindrops     freedom.

scents of summer storms fill our lungs
drenching us, cleansing us from the pollution of
cluttered basements, chemically-treated arguments
the stale musk of lonesome and striving.

trespassed swingsets launch us into skies, hazy city lights
love born of fading stars and whispered stories
breathless utterances of shared sorrows, griefs-
                                                   Grace­ uncovered in nods and glances
                                                        ­        -clasped hands when words fell short.

barefoot toes urge a hesitating pedal
throwing us faster into our borrowed Kingdom
as fanfare trumpeted from skipping tracks
announced our four-wheeled ballroom blitz.

this automotive palace became our confessional,
our summertime, our refuge, a long-sought embrace.
we were vagabonds, saints, sinners, artists.
                                                        ­                               we were heroes.

washed in waves of sound, our fellowship burgeoned--
souls knit together in a tribal affection
ensconced in a fortress of rubber, glass and steel
steeped in diner coffee, wrapped in warm fragrant incense:
                                                        ­                              *we sampled salvation.
about people, places, and a 1995 Bonneville.
Mar 2014 · 715
a cafe au lait in march
Beth Ivy Mar 2014
a jade rimmed cup and painted saucer
cradle warmth laced with gentle sweetness
subduing roasted strength into peaceable stability.

whites and creams and chestnut browns
froth and dissolve into a delicate caramel shade
as minutes are sipped away in uncommon quietness.

yours is always the shy whisper--
                                                       ­ *i love you.
she married a barista.
Mar 2014 · 349
true Home
Beth Ivy Mar 2014
climbing this path, i am still.
pausing to seek breathing slows,
wings unfurl as burdens drop
and here is Truth calling my name.

pulled into the arms of the Lover of my soul
the fear and fighting begin to ebb.
whisper to me the who of my being;
remove from my side the thorn of when.

open my eyes to the quiet retreat of darkness,
my heart and my hands to a new embrace:
family begotten of trials, tears and wounds
bound up by outstretched arms and words of grace.

though the moment be fleeting soft and bright
or longstanding steadfast with a quiet glow,
i know as i trip barefoot down
this is true Home where i shall return.
an exercise in writing about things that i find healing. i'm often able to write extensively about the brokenness. i'd love to be as able to express other sides.
Mar 2014 · 367
A Violent Dance
Beth Ivy Mar 2014
The battle begins in the dark.
With a stabbing inhale you rip me open.
Tear me from sleep--heart pounding,
     we wrestle in a distant corner of the bed.
             Wake no one,
                                say nothing;
                                              it's not his problem.

I know every trick in your book:
the immobilizing grip, poisoned gut wrenching fear,
the way you force my eyes open, pushing back fitful dreams.
                      ­            Yes, I know your tricks, but knowing hasn't helped me yet.

I can drown you with a bottle in the night,
               but your back before the dawn, gnawing my insides.
Should I starve you of sleep,
               your joint locks force and turn the choice against me.

After so long the war has become intimate--familiar and rhythmic--
                                                      ­                            our private, frenzied dance
                             ragged breath and fevered steps memorized
                             culminate in a flawless performance.

In this state I begin to imagine that I wanted it this way.
What would my life be without so practiced, so relentless a partner?
"Won't it be dull when we rid ourselves of all these demons haunting us to keep us company." -"War on Drugs" Barenaked Ladies, Steven Page, Ed Robertson
Feb 2014 · 303
Beth Ivy Feb 2014
it's in bottles of bleach
piles of books to read
the twisting of desperate fingers.

it whispers in endless lists
screams through fitful pacing
scrapes its nails against stolen dreams.

begging for a crowd
to surround and drown
its hungry grabbing voice.
what would i do
to be rid of you?

                                                           ­                               apparently very little.

the alone sounds of
pen on paper
a turning page
wandering restless feet
speak to me of all that's
      ­                                                                 ­ incomplete,

when does it stop?
how does it end?
silence the wrong kind of loud.

"Get a Grip"
"It's Alright"
"You're Overreacting"
                               mantras i cannot avoid.

breath quickens
as nothing happens in an empty room
that spins for no one to see

no one that is except
for me
who cannot be left alone.

they said i'd grow out of it.
Jan 2014 · 515
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
Let me be
asleep and free,
borne up in the arms
of the Willow Tree,

floating on
in ship or drawn
by boughs over stream
without eyes for dawn.

Light my way
where playful fey
disguised as fireflies
spring onto the bay.

Here no wraith
in nightmare waits;
no starved tormenter
may claw past the Gate.

Castle looms
seaside, with rooms
of silver stars and
night skies caught in blooms.

Pools too clear
to rob, my dear,
mystical creatures
of their mirth or cheer

find inside
solace to hide,
their well-kept secrets
not stolen nor spied.

Sleep that can
bear mortal man
to reams of Faerie,
can you waking ban?
In homage to George MacDonald, particularly his novel Phantastes, most specifically chapter XI. If you haven't had the good fortune to read any of his work, do. It will change how you see death permanently.
Jan 2014 · 403
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
there are moments when
curled in my bed
book dangling from my hand
the scent of sleep drifts
from pillow to spirit
and i am truly happy

i think.
Jan 2014 · 299
winter poem
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
i always forget that winter


         does not wait for you.

seeking out the right a

the Sun has gone and winter lights are lost by then.
primarily writing exercise, composed on a day where i was so intent on seeing the snow & setting the scene before writing that opportunity took off without me. it produced a very different poem  than i first meant to write.
Jan 2014 · 628
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
You're the bitterness in my vanilla,
the wisdom in which a black garden grows.
You hide in my cupboards, jars of flour, sugar and salt.
Your face shines up from books I'm scared to read.
Yours is the voice i can't hear on the phone
answering the questions I no longer ask.
You haunt me with stories that I can't stop telling.
Every rock, leaf, birdsong and star
a word you never finished saying.

Flitter and horsefeathers when I stub my toe
silence momentary pain,
as a deeper one grows.
So many things go on growing
As if none of them realized
without you it's high time they stop.

Frying breakfast and pipe tobacco,
signatures on my heart.
Creaky screen doors, I expect you
covered in clay, sawdust and weeds.

On and on, the common and mundane
compose a hymn I can't stop hearing.
You were supposed to be the grass that withers,
the flower that falls.
                                   How very like you to question, and appear as neither at all.
revision of a piece i wrote in 2010.
Jan 2014 · 918
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
caustic cleansers eating away at
caked on ash and peeling dead skin.
silent snowfall smothering wholly
dried up earth, a new, unmarked grave.

dribbling paint slathered thickly onto
walls erasing nicotine stains.
smooth-as-silk milk blotting out brightly
the emptiness of a clear glass.

merciful fluid starkly removes
sins of a pen lost from its thought.
What comes to blank out, smother, dissolve
the murky shadows in my head?
Jan 2014 · 451
untitled 1
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
Flesh to heal my flesh
sweet Blood slakes thirst for darkness.
here i stand: Reborn.
Jan 2014 · 647
Dear Atticus,
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
I wonder if you would like another child,
even one who is a problem to teach.
It's just that your manner is rather mild,
and patiently forgiving when you preach.
Would you show me the courage in losing,
valor without violence? I wonder
can I love with more than selfish choosing?
Can you help me silence hateful thunder?
I would trade anger for a head that's clear.
Teach with fire, curse words, flowers if you can.
Remind me there are enough sunbeams here,
that you don't mind me much the way I am.
Could you teach me how to live with myself
so that I can live with anyone else?
A letter to Atticus Finch. It has been years since I have tried to write a sonnet. I will likely revisit and rework this.
Dec 2013 · 986
Anxiety walks.
Beth Ivy Dec 2013
slogging through squelching mud or
trudging over frozen, terse, tundra or
wandering aimless featureless freeway
where are you now, what do you see?

how's the view?
                                 how should i know? how could i know?
                                                should i know?  why don't i know? what am i doing here?

is it beautiful, this sky, or strikingly malevolent?
do these colors mean roiling heavens
brimming with destruction
                                            or is that just the sunset?

do you tread lightly and enjoy the stroll,
sprintunstoppabledown the ravine
grapple with impossible terrain?
do i climb at all, move at all, progress at all?
                                                                                No. Too Lazy.
                                                                                           Too Weary.
                                                                                                  am i not? what if i'm not? what if i'm just
                                                                                                                  s    t    a    g    n    a    n    t
         Dead Weight. am i dead weight?
                 am i dead?


The Trees were once beautiful here-
until I feared                                          fungus
rotting on the inside
eating out the inside
retching from the inside
                                         The Trees were once beautiful here.

"Am I at a Crossroads?" how could i know?
                                       i follow where my fear will let me go
                                                                my fear will let me know
                                                                if it's safe to go

                                                                                                                            only safe to stay, don't go.
Fears, Worries trip down the path,
                        strip away the path
                                           heigh-**, heigh-**, it's off to work we go

was the way always so barren?
what happened to my shoes?
what happened to my walking stick?
what else have i to lose?

Though mountain I would climb
glorious stream I would hear
see swooning vine clutch lover tree;

though valiant travels I would make
                                                  --crossing marsh, scaling peak, battling desert, traversing valley,
                                                     fording river, drinking lake--

bind my eyes, blind my eyes
no pathway i may take.

the way is broken when Fear and Apprehension rule the road.
Dec 2013 · 1.1k
teacup haiku
Beth Ivy Dec 2013
winter-weary throat,
    sweet vanilla *** red tea
                                                                                                                                                    my cup is drained.
i wrote this with a head cold in late december as an exercise in simply writing something other than a journal entry.

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