A piece of furniture–
wooden-framed or not
with a mattress
or mat long enough for a human of any size
with cloth coverings and a pillow.
Small or big, puffed or flat.
Quiet, empty, unmade, made
Yet this is where we are born,
where we pray,  
where we lie,  
where we love,
and where we die.
Where we begin our day and end it.
We may spend a third of our life here
or more
in sleep, in tears, in joy.
Like with a lover, we hesitate to leave--
or like with a mother that promises cover from the world,
we cling to her skirts and breathe in linen
while she pads our ***** heads.
But like children, hesitant and weak we go
stumbling over our foal feet
and blink at the newborn light through the blinds.
Day is dawning.
The world continues to spin, and with it
day grows longer.
Spring promises to knock on my window
and wash me clean in the first rain.
Winter is gone and took her shadows.
The world alive outside calls me
But still I come running back,
to the feeling of softness, closeness, my mother’s hand
on my shoulder as she tucks me in
or you beside me, your arm around my waist
and voice in my ear.
So tell me, what is it
that brings us back
to here,
you to me,
me to home
to this piece of furniture?
To this bed.

I crossed the bridge
of my rebellion
only to find the truth
implanted firmly
on the other side
The stars laugh
at my audacity
"We've seen your kind before .
Their bones lie in the holes
of forsaken eternity"

I cry out to proclaim
"Even the stars
will have a judgement day .
You burn brightly now but
In the end you will have to pay ."

Nothing lasts forever
Not the stars nor
even this universe
Even the blackness
of outer space
has it's time marked down
as to a final resting place

So as for me I crossed my bridge
I have nothing more to say
I stand here and I'm trembling
Frightened and excited
of what the will
will be

i dream of the sea,
whispering like a wild cloud,
stretching the blue air.

What's behind the Bright Red Door, is it all my dreams come true
Is this where Time and Circumstances has secretly hidden you
Did Circumstances steal you away before the light of day
Keeping you confined, for reasons Time won't say

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Maybe it's my lost childhood, that behind it is imprisoned
Books read at bedtime, awake before the sun has risen
Mud pies are made, fire flies chased and all my mistakes forgiven
Before the division, when Happily Ever After was still envisioned

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Wonder if it's my future there, right beyond that door
I know my past, I know my present, both have left me floored
Would it finally all work out, or the universe's fatal blow
I'm still holding tightly on to hope, so do I really want to know

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

Standing in front of it, mindlessly wringing my hands
Heart beats, that of a humming bird that never lands
Skin on fire, as it turns white with the fear
Hand shaking, turning cold as the **** comes near

Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door

If old dreams lie behind it, can't I simply dream anew
If it's a lost childhood imprisoned, it's ok, with the years I grew
If the future, shouldn't it remain unseen, leaving hope to grow
For as mere humans we're ment to look forward, only to tomorrow

I turn away from that Bright Red Door, temptation firmly resisted
What does lie beyond, I'm sure is severely twisted

©Pauline Russell

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

When you woke up today,

did you take your mask off?

Did you inhale the oxygen

of uncrowded air

and drink water for a free mouth?

Did you eat and taste foods

that you haven’t tasted properly in a long time?

Did you mark the blue veins in your wrist

and remember you are alive?

Did you breathe out the monsters

that stirred your dreams?

After all, they were the reason

why you wore the mask.

Maybe you can’t help

but put it on again,

Or maybe take it off just a second,

and remember who

you are

without it.

i've got a hummingbird heart
that flutters back and forth
whenever it's startled by
loves slightest noise

fancy's itself
as being free
but is always drawn back
to it's basic needs

this hummingbird heart
flutters back and forth
always in search of
what it does not know

if it does not know
what it does not have
then how long can this
hummingbird heart last

i've got a hummingbird heart
that fly's on the wind
most times settles on nothing
then fly's off again

this hummingbird heart
all it want's is to feed
from one point to another
and all points in between

taking for granted
the sweetness it craves
this hummingbird heart
gives so much away

Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn

I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute

In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight

Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last

Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light

She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving

The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly

The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream

The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving

In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day