Renewal

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
Harkened to the song of Neptune;
the wail of the sirens.
She was called to beauty.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning,
but she did not walk out.
Embraced by the precious,
the irreplaceable, the untouched
she is surrounded now in a balance of beauty.

She travelled long and far
leaving land behind
as a lost memory
a forgotten effort

Relieved forever of the weight
of the fight, of the blight
She has left us to our own devices.
I cannot even cry, "Why?"
For I am aware.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
She moved past vast deserts in the Oceans,
fled beyond sea lanes and gulf streams
shedding tears to match the salt of the sea
she cried for the lost coral reefs

She cried for the loss of life
She cried until there were no more tears
...and still she swam to where now she rests.
There is no more she will do.
There is no more she can fix.

She floats past green fronds,
free floating in the brine
feels the mermaids purses hiding there
so few, and less will survive.

Along the way, through dead seas
she sees the remains
of man's most vile waste
drums upon drums, rusted through
once filled with half-life,
spent fission elements
left to decay, left to destroy
left to be forgotten
but Mother, cannot forgive
the damage is done.

She lingers in a place of beauty
beyond words, no language can portray
as she hides among the coral, watches
the colorful fish, tropical life
and cries once more for the death
the destruction, mankind's blight
wreaked upon these special places...

Her heart is breaking
for if the Seas die
the Earth dies.
Better to let the Blight of Man
be left to destroy himself.

She shall gather the gifts of the Earth
Secret them far away from harm
to become the seeds of a new beginning.

It has happened before
Millions of years ago
But an instant to Mother
And after, the Earth came back
full in its beauty
perfect in its balance

Let her sister, Nature, take Her toll upon
the blight of man,
the pestilence of saturation.
There are too many, much too many
for Mother to support.  

She must rest now.  Save what little can be saved.
For the time when she must rise again.
A time when the wind will carry her breath
to  breathe life into what remains.
And she shall rise again.

Renewal.  Mother will rise once more.
And for a while, there will be no callousness
no blight of forgotten crimes
against the lifeblood that sustains her;
Mother Earth.  Only she shall remember
that once, there was greatness in Mankind...

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
Harkened to the song of Neptune;
the wail of the sirens.
She was called to beauty.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning,
but she did not walk out.

Lin Cava
20-June-2013

As of June 19, 2013 the world's human population is estimated to be 7.093 billion by the United States Census Bureau, and over 7 billion by the United Nations.  Most contemporary estimates for the carrying capacity of the Earth under existing conditions (which is the ability of earth to sustain the population of man) are between 4 billion and 16 billion. World Population Organization has stated that the growth of human populations now exceeds the ability of the earth to sustain them.

*****************­*
Depending on which estimate is used, human overpopulation may or may not have already occurred.  Nevertheless, the rapid recent increase in human population is causing some concern. The population is expected to reach between 8 and 10.5 billion between the year 2040 and 2050. In May 2011, the United Nations increased the medium variant projections to 9.3 billion for 2050 and 10.1 billion for 2100.

Something has to give.  There will be disease, and increased loss of life by natural occurrences because of sheer volume of population alone.  There will be genocide, and hidden agenda's carried out by the powerful and wealthy which will remain secret.  We are so capable of saving many, but just as capable of biological destruction.  Culling of the herds.  It will not be fiction, just as "1984" is no longer fiction...

The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.

Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.

Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.

Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.

The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.

“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.

A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.

I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.

Lin Cava ©

Autumn’s snap is in the air
Like the crisp crunch of a ripe apple.
I want to gather them up from
The trees, take them home in bushels
Make apple compote,
Apple strudel,
Apple pie!

I want to stuff them into roast duck
With black walnuts and chestnuts.
I want to poach them with some pears
And sour cherries.
I want to make apple tarts with cranberries.

And feed them all to you.

Flour dust still in my hair,
Powdered sugar on my face
To make love to your appetite
With bits of apple goodies
In the crisp Autumn air - somewhere
On beds of leaves bursting bright
All in the colors of Autumn.

You’ll never think of apples
(or tarts) the same way again.
And Autumn, a little more exotic
A little bit ******, something
To look forward to
When Autumn’s snap is in the air!

© Lin Cava

Quiet night, the darkness illuminated by a silver moon
Punctuates my solitude, exposing thoughts restrained by day.
Tip a toast to all I have loved and lost, much too soon
Closing in upon the time, I too, will slip away.

Silver moon, carry me on a winsome dream,
That a night zephyr might take my heart
take this love I hold inside, delivered as a moonbeam
through distances beyond the plotted chart.

Bring my Love safe passage, held within your song
that he may feel my presence, hearken to my call -
an embrace to touch him, hold him fast and long –
to have his heart think of me, in all he can recall.

Silver moon, these gifts must travel true
they must bear up to last throughout the years
to fulfill a need and share as time comes due
memories to comfort a once lost love’s soft tears.

© Lin Cava

Dewdrops on silk web
Shiny black spider spinning
A blackbird watches.

Lin Cava

The Kestrel and the Dove

Friday night
Saturday afternoon
Sunday in the morning
you are quiet
a ghostly wisp;
a gossamer veil:
a scent on the breeze

I recall the doves
cuddled together in their tree
coo-cooing gentle love songs
even as they sleep
and I wonder
Are you coo-cooing once more?
…and is she of the same feather?
…does she sing to you a different song
in the same coo-cooing voice she crooned
before
in your not so long ago past?

Your need is strong
to be turtle-doving,
softly loving
and though your tune
is soft and haunting
in those refrains from long ago
you are different,
forever changed.

You are a kestrel,
set free, at last.

The Kestrel and the Dove
though together for this brief hour
can never again
be bound by love.

Lin Cava
31-August-2013

[Fairchild Republic, Long Island NY]

A multiplex movie theater sits there now.
Behind that a row of common eateries;
an Italian place, a mattress store, a stationery.
On the corner sits a Chinese buffet,
always busy.

Around the bend, a computer chain-store,
one of those trendy places that serve
fast food and ‘sports’ under the same roof,
overpriced spirits with kitschy, sticky bar offerings
whose names lean heavily upon original drinks
that they are not.

Across the lot,
the newest outlet of a chain liquor store;
a shoe store; cell phones and ‘stuff’...
some empty stores remain.

The last leg comes around,
the home of a national office supply store,
its sign stark red on white,
and a big box hardware store,
clashing its orange in reply.

A faux aviation tower tops the corner roof
of a well known sporting goods store -  
the builder’s hat tipped to this place
as once it was.

Beyond the façade a small airport still operates,
its real tower the same as years before
its runways dotted with lights, surrounded by roads.

Cemeteries always do well by airports.
Silent neighbors don’t complain about the noise.
Grandma is buried there.  Every person I know
who has history here, has someone buried there.
They are linked together but separate;
one Catholic, one Jewish, another a National
with its white simple stones lined up
just so, row upon row upon row.

I don’t know why it is easier to stand here
in this lot of the disingenuous,
rather than recall
what that place of the genuine became;
left to crumble, left to slowly die.
For here was the home of Republic Fairchild,
now among the dead,
as those cemeteries know.

And in the lot,
places that call themselves restaurants,
an intentional misnomer.
The multiplex, a huge construct,
only places a minor footprint
upon what was once the parking lot
to a national achievement.  

The Italian place, the corner to the
buildings that housed the offices,
and behind, the hangars to the war planes,
built with honor
and pride.

Where I stand now,
the ground once trembled
beneath the rumbling power of jet engines
built to near perfection,
to almost impossible tolerances.  
Their roar still haunting -
recalling the sound
of the free and the brave

In sorrow I watched as the buildings,
behind chain link
suffered blows from rocks thrown
by those too young to care or understand.  
Busted windows, shattered dreams.
I saw the tarmac split under natures call to green.  
Intrepid little weeds grew through each lot
and along each runway line.

The service road, now public -
beside it, overgrowth
still hides the tracks and rails
that once delivered beds of covered secrets
to be tailored and trimmed,
riveted and polished,
tested and tested
and flown
above these skies,
above proud faces,
eyes squinting upward in the sun,
above this place.  
This place, as it was then.

Lin Cava © 29-February-2008

-Remembered-
*
He is gone
has been gone
long before his life-light
blinked out.

In the wake of who he was
is emptiness
a chasm only he could fill -
now barren of his uniqueness

In his lingering
I saw the proof
that life is neither
fair, nor just

We have but one life
and many choices
When it’s through
there is no more

We bear our burdens
of poor choices
bearing witness to our
mistakes, or lack of purpose

And we ponder
near the end
feeling the hard pain
of having wasted time

Never wasteful, he was a man
who did not need to ponder
he took up the cause
of his fellows in life

Life’s circumstances; beyond the control
of the accident of our birth
become our burdens,
and change; our redemption

He filled the many lives he touched
with happiness, support and reason
He helped, when help was needed
and he Served; hard but well

For such a man is a hero
in many ways
and should not pass
through a lingering chasm

But life is not fair, nor just
and mankind has tinged
our natural outcome
by un-natural measures

He is missed, and the emptiness
more pronounced for the living
because of who he was
how he filled their lives and hearts

In memory, we must celebrate
for we all were touched
by a quietly remarkable man
Our lives ever improved for it.

I shall return to his gravesite
And place a stone upon it
For as long as a stone, is a stone -
He will be missed.

©Lin Cava
14th March - 2013

In dreams I see her blonde hair
always in a pony tail
She walks along the shoreline
Scouring the sand for treasure

Light blue shorts and a striped shirt
She quietly wends her way
Bare feet in and out of foam
In her hands, she holds small shells

Delicate and colorful
Orange, pink, yellow and white
These were wampum long ago
Gone now, all gone from this shore

But there she is, eight years old
Golden, tanned, happy alone
Treasures, wampum in her hand
She slips them in her pocket

Stepping into the water
She sees something moving there
A scallop!  So carefully,
She reaches down patiently

Leads it with her hand until
The live mollusk slips right in
Clamping shut as she lifts it
It is beautiful, alive.

She knows they have many eyes
A bright blue like no other
If opened, they look like eggs
Cracked, sunny side up inside

Return it to the water
Watching for the many eyes
It hesitates, then opens
Jets away, ever backward

She lifts her face to the sun
One must notice those blue eyes
Then they cloud, time is short now
Soon the sun will leave the sky.

She runs for her red bucket
Half fills it with salt water
The water to her ankles,
She twists her feet, digs up clams

Chowders and some Cherrystones
Digging clams with little toes
Fills the bucket, off she goes.
Wednesday’s child is full of woes.
© Lin Cava 29-August-2008

I grew up on an island.  Clams and scallops, ***** and flounder were plentiful and available for the taking.  No one took more than they could eat.  I had bay fishermen in the family – and they earned their living from the bounty of the waters around us. This poem is about a girl growing up in just such a place.  Children this age are often not left to themselves.  She thrives in solitude, happiest there.  Notice there is no running or jumping or laughter.  This is meant to be a somber work.  The child knows that she is older than her years, yet she takes her happiness in those simple things that children do.  So might we all be awestruck at the beauty of shells, the feeling of a living creature with its own beauty, in our hands.  If only we could take the time.  In whatever life holds for her, the girl takes her childhood in whatever way she can.  Gazing over the water, whether it is the ocean, the bay or a lake, she often sees a woman there, a projection from within.  I often see the child in my work.  I am a Wednesday Child.

Age and Perspective, A Prelude

Another birthday
trod over me
once again

It's been said
the alternative
to them is not attractive.

I suppose.

This, a significant milestone
best not approach me with it
nor any consolation.

I'm getting ornery in my time
Used to be mellow in my cups
Not any more
Though I shall imbibe
...don't care about anyone’s opinion
of THAT.

Another birthday.  How many more
will I see
And will I be lucid?
Will I be of able body?

Perhaps.
Perhaps not.

-Lin Cava
20-June-2013

Up and down and all through the house,
Went the scampering of a little grey mouse.

Running ‘round the corner the furry thing belched.
“Oouu” he squeaked, “I should keep those things squelched.”

For the cat can hear the drop of a pin,
But against a cat, I don’t think I could win.

And as a mouse, I much prefer cheese,
Than fuzzy cat hide and chewy cat knees.

There are stories told, (I heard from the rats),
That one can go bald if nibbling on cats.

Yet I wonder about the gas they’d create,
Could it be as bad as the dog I just ate?

Now, don’t be upset, it’s not what you think,
It was only a small Chihuahua named Tink.

I was on my way to a meeting, you see,
With a cutie girl mouse who’d been flirting with me.

When out from behind a bush Tink did pop,
I got such a fright that I let my jaw drop.

Tink stepped on my tail; I had no way to run.
Then he gave me a yank, and I thought I was done.

I’ve heard you gain ten times your strength when in fear,
So I turned ‘round and ate him, and shed not a tear!

But, like most spicy food, he gave me such gas,
I could not dare visit that cute little lass.

And that’s when you found me as I turned the bend.
Good thing I’m not hungry; this would be The End.

-Lin Cava-
copywrite

Tide

It washes over me like an errant tide
pushing and pulling; leaving me off balance.
I reach out without thinking, and feel rebuffed.
It arrives as a hot flush, color rises, blooming in my face
as though the aftermath of a slap; true enough to fit.

But the pain envelops my heart, the center of me,
the place I escape to, curl up in, like a comforting chair
to be alone, undisturbed; often my balm, my cure,
and steals from me the peace I search for to heal.
He is gone, softly, but thoroughly, like an old song I recall.

I try not to open my heart for want to pull back,
in denial of the pain that will come; but I am compelled.
I gasp in grief – no longer surprised at the emptiness
and am wounded by loneliness – the heart’s prison.
I am stabbed with pain in the knowledge he feels it too.

No caring soul could pull away from another
once connected at their very core, regardless of the mind’s decision -
Not without the pain of sadness, or of grief in the loss
for one so dearly loved.  The pain is mirrored -
the gossamer thread that connected them – near severed.

A part of me bleeds, but I gather it up, and hold it close.
I cannot let it pale me, nor shall I harden my heart –
a rigor-mortis to set in.  I shall bear the pain, perhaps until my end.
There is no release for me, no happiness, no vision into tomorrow.
Joyful events pale, as the paled blood of loss drains me.

I hear the call of the zephyr; see his face in the stars
Always, a scent of limes, of sea breezes and salt water
and that gossamer thread bears ever weakening vibration,
once alive and electric, or soft, quietly humming with life.
I worry, and deny that it is fading – a self-serving trick of my heart.

It washes over me like an errant tide.
In time, I may find comfort in the pain -
knowledge in the rhythm of its pounding waves
and hope it washes away this loneliness,
far and away out to sea; if he shall not answer again.

©Lin Cava
10-March-2013


©Lin Cava
revised 12-31-2017

Mars flickers above.
Moody Red blinks his response -
To Venus' hot wink.


Lin Cava

…And When We Leave

Time ticks down the remainder of my life.
Though no reverberation marks that forward existence
I feel its passage, none the less.
Where once my horizons were open
unfettered by human limitation,
I knew, but did not have true sense of it;
that one day, all too soon, my tomorrows
would no longer outweigh my yesterdays.

Even at that midway point,
like the carefree grasshopper’s gay existence
I played on, danced free, set no focus, charted no course.
While about me, time ticked on, my sense of self
distracted from the truth, as though Time itself
were the magician, and I the audience, unaware and
awestruck by a force so surprisingly adept at an ancient skill,
my sense distracted, far beyond the point of rescue.

All I can do for the lost hours,
for inspiring sunrises, and stunning sunsets,
gone beyond my grasp, is reflect…
I am lost in mirrors of reflection
lost in a puff of magician’s smoke
surprised by the season of life I am within
still wondering why the other seasons
went so fast, beyond my ability to hold onto.
Autumn, nearly over, Winter approaches –
festoons of colorful leaves hide the death they herald.
Winter’s colors have faded me to pale,
the once rosy blush of my cheeks has gone;
my heart, once full and light, is now empty
and so heavy with sadness as a final time
will visit, and bring to me unending night.

I have had my turn – sorry, but there is no other –
we get one shot, one chance, and yet every day,
we get another chance to make it count.

I used to ponder,
“What will people think when they remember me?”
But it’s a Vanity to toy with.  
What I should be thinking;
what I reflect upon, now daily,
is if I made a difference.
…if for one, brief, white-light and glorious moment
I did or said something that made a lasting difference,
if even to just one solitary life.  
If, in so doing, they looked forward –
to see the truth long before their Autumn ended,
and lived as though each day were their last.  
I’ll never know, and another wish goes unfulfilled, its song unheard.

Do not, my friends, put off until tomorrow – for by the time
we see that our tomorrows are so very limited – it will be late,
much later than we would have wished for.  
Be glad for the dance,
happy in the movement through life,
when all is said and done -
it is our own, solely our own,
and we take it away with us
when we leave.

Lin Cava
6 – May – 2013

More prose than poetry, I've posted how I feel in the best way I can.  I have run to ruin, lost my words, my ability to express, and worse, need to write.  I have no thought that I contain talent.  I will write, and one day, it will all go away.  Much as I shall, someday, meet my last breath.

Missing You

The teardrop gently slips down the cheek
leaving its salty trail upon my face.

Born of the chasm of missing you
it slipped out against my will,
so powerless to stop it.

In a ray of sunlight it hovers,
capturing my attention…
I grasp for the wisp as it floats
beyond my reach
and for one moment of crystal clarity
I remember, and hold still…

The wisp lands, softly bouncing,
upon my outstretched palm
dancing in the warmth of air above it,
and barely touches me and I travel back…

I remember youth, remember song
caution to the winds, trampling through life
carefree…

When the wisp settles
like a flash coursing through me
I feel your heart and wonder,
if, like me, you have cushioned it,
wrapped and restrained your heart -
safe from pain and salvaged for another day.

The future is never certain and we seldom know
the length of our timeline.
Regret is a lonely emotion,
apology often too little
and always too late.

Another teardrop falls…
I cry – for I have lost a gift
one so unique, so dear
that it can never be replaced.

We are foolish, we men
and women of this earth.
Knowing, fully, that life is short
that some things are more precious
than any others
we tread upon them in careless abandon
as if we were children
senseless to our surroundings
imparting damage
to those whom we most love

And cry the lonely tears
of missing what we hold so dear.

4th February, 2013
©Lin Cava

I walked with my daughter, yesterday.
Hand in hand, as when she was a child.

Her mother, guardian once more, I give her hand
a double squeeze; get a double squeeze back.

Her child’s bubbly giggle
inside her adult laugh
shatters time’s persistent grip.  
She is five, once more.

Living sweet memories from before,
our break from battle; recaptured innocence.

“I do that with my sons, too.” so softly said.
“Like you.  I squeeze twice, and they squeeze back.”

Simple things, lovingly engaged,
become our trademarks.

Unplanned inheritance enriches us,
blossoms in the bouquet of our lives;
the endurance of love, to become
heirloom offerings to the future.

Lin Cava©

Theodore Roosevelt –

Teddy ceased to walk this earth, benefactor to his beloved Nation, valiant in his service to his country, his family and the family of Americans, on January 6, 1919.

During his remarkable life he never wavered in his support of America – these United States, and Americans.  Were it not for Teddy, there would be no National Preserves or parks.

He had much to say.  So sage was his insight that it retains universal relevance to this day.

Sadly, we have no modern day Teddy to set things right; there is so much to address, and so little time to meet the challenges.  I fear we have adopted a timidness of heart that would be a foul countenance for this President to see.

What follows are some of his words.  See if you do not agree that they remain relevant words of wisdom, to this day.  Teddy is gone for 96 years.  How I would love to see another like him at the helm.



“Any man who tries to excite class hatred, sectional hate, hate of creeds, any kind of hatred in our community, though he may affect to do it in the interest of the class he is addressing, is in the long run with absolute certainly that class's own worst enemy.”



“Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned an invisible government owing no allegiance and acknowledging no responsibility to the people. To destroy this invisible government, to befoul the unholy alliance between corrupt business and corrupt politics is the first task of the statesmanship of today.”

“Our government, National and State, must be freed from the sinister influence or control of special interests. Exactly as the special interests of cotton and slavery threatened our political integrity before the Civil War, so now the great special business interests too often control and corrupt the men and methods of government for their own profit. We must drive the special interests out of politics.”

We should insist that if the immigrant who comes here does in good faith become an American and assimilates himself to us he shall be treated on an exact equality with every one else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed or birth-place or origin.  But this is predicated upon the man's becoming in very fact an American and nothing but an American. If he tries to keep segregated with men of his own origin and separated from the rest of America, then he isn't doing his part as an American. There can be no divided allegiance here. . . We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language, for we intend to see that the crucible turns our people out as Americans, of American nationality, and not as dwellers in a polyglot boarding-house; and we have room for but one soul loyalty, and that is loyalty to the American people.

-Theodore Roosevelt - January 3, 1919 - Publicly read on January 5, 1919

Roosevelt passed the next day, January 6, 1919



“Every immigrant who comes here should be required within five years to learn English or leave the country.”



And, wouldn’t this apply to the keystone pipeline? –

“Here is your country. Cherish these natural wonders, cherish the natural resources, cherish the history and romance as a sacred heritage, for your children and your children's children. Do not let selfish men or greedy interests skin your country of its beauty, its riches or its romance.”

“Leave it as it is. The ages have been at work on it and man can only mar it.”

*

“In foreign affairs we must make up our minds that, whether we wish it or not, we are a great people and must play a great part in the world. It is not open to us to choose whether we will play that great part or not. We have to play it. All we can decide is whether we shall play it well or ill.”

“In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American... There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American. We have room for but one flag, and that is the American flag… We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people.”

“In this country we have no place for hyphenated Americans.”

Presidential thoughts and on leadership…

"Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in which he himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to oppose him to the exact extent that by inefficiency or otherwise he fails in his duty to stand by the country. In either event, it is unpatriotic not to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else.”

“People ask the difference between a leader and a boss ... The leader works in the open, and the boss in covert. The leader leads, and the boss drives.”

“The best executive is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint to keep from meddling with them while they do it.”

“The things that will destroy America are prosperity at any price, peace at any price, safety first instead of duty first and love of soft living and the get-rich-quick theory of life.”

Yes, he had a lot to say.  Not everyone can agree on everything.  But, I am sure that Teddy would have rather a person support their position, firm in the knowledge of the situation, when not in agreement, than go along meekly, unwilling to effect change.

Summer night,
black velvet blanket
aglow in silent luminescence
sparkles of the distant stars
a beckoning to other shores
the ebb and flow of ocean’s tides
a scent, so carried far and long,
that on a midnight zephyr rides
an undercurrent to salt sea air
unmistakable, though faint,
intimate aroma of only she
transports her essence
there, to thee.

Lin Cava©

I am so angry.
Tired, and so angry
Hurt and missing
the softness in my life
the gentle touch
the kindly spoken word
the look of love
to convey a touch
from across the room
or across the globe

I don’t care
anymore
about anything
or anyone
after being for others
what I wish I had
for me
and nothing
ever
comes back

lies
deceit
words said to provide
what they think
I want to hear
and never
a care
or a thought
never a hand pitched in
only criticism -
do it this way
don’t do it that way
“you’re wrong,
am I right?”

I’m so done.
Embracing that which
trails so far behind me
but has come ever nearer
and nearer
until I smell its unsung
victory
until I know
this broken heart
won’t hurt any more
if I just give in
just give up
just turn
and offer it -
food
for the black dog.

Lin Cava©
18-November-2010

Night.  A dark, starless night,
settles in with the chill
down close to the ground
swirling around the ankles
as if a snake, slithering by.

The leaves have fled the trees,
once their grounded home,
now free, in death, to fly
upon late Fall breezes;
a last hurrah
before the winter ****.

The air is clear, cold, crisp.
Nearly soundless,
save the whisper of the wind;
rustle of the leaves
left on the ground.
Barren trees murmur
as their branches sway.

As surely as the breeze,
the chill, the night sounds;
As real as the earthy smell in the air,
the scent of snow yet to fall,
as true as the flight of winter geese
you are here, everywhere
in everything, around me, within me.

Even within a dark, starless night,
all is safe, settled, calm.  
In the fullness of your touch
the warmth within me burns,
and chill slides away, harmless.

Lin Cava ©

He dies.
Slowly.

We learn that time is relevant
under the worst of circumstance
for it is then that we linger mercilessly
in a span that is not quick to end.

He cannot move,
harbors pain…
Pain that at first
in tight-mouthed determination
went unvoiced, unannounced
and only the expression
buried in his eyes
bore witness to others it was there.

He is losing ground.
Pain is winning –
in a clumsy sputter of movements;
the **** of the hand
a spasm of the neck
the errant jump of the leg at the knee;
and in each, a display of pain…
Pain that has finally found his voice
at first in moans
and then in suppressed shouts
of surprise, and upsetment
now growing more frequent
and ever more loud.

She watches, ever concerned
not put off, though he tries;
but hopes he shall not succeed
and with each day he worsens
each time he tries to push her away
he is ever surprised of her determination
and will to stay, relieved she does –
but loathe to let her know.

He is dying;
in tiny increments he cannot control
and not afraid of death. No;
he fears more that he shall not be able
to take charge of the choice
before he is unable, infirm in body or mind;
and tells himself he lives on
only because of her…

She is defiant – carries on
and knows
she cannot comfort him
without rebuke
and yet he is relieved
at her acts of comforting
and cannot show it.

He thought he had less time
and has lingered double that.
Each day brings new surprises,
never good, and hard received.

She sleeps, but does not rest.
With practice, the slightest sound awakens her
as she watches over him night or day
and waits, knowing one day
she will find him cold.
By the devil that consumes him –
or by his own hand.
And though her eyes are dry;
Her heart weeps tears enough to fill a river.

Lin Cava©
7th-March-2013

Staccato taps upon my window pane
Reflect the way I feel
The pulsing of my angry heart
Dark, dark the time ticking like the rain.

The shadowed world melts beyond my sight
In tense, taught moments I lie in wait
A moving force, fast, out of control
Contained within, the urge to move in flight.

Lightning flashes reflect dark eyes back
The semblance of a wretched twisted face
True Evil painted, writhing in the glass
A captive frozen picture of hatred done in black.

The rain has turned to pouring in a roar
Loud against the walls, the roof, the mind
Beneath, a sound, the turning of the latch
I wait for you, set to pounce, beyond the door.

Lin Cava©

Tonight
The moon has me.
Cloud laden sky
bright with the pooled cream
of the heavy harvest moon
A halo twice as deep
as the center.
Other nights
dark and sparkle,
a forgotten beach
of volcanic black sand
dry and sterile.
Not this night of silver shine -
Overtake and possess
the whole of me,
my darkness, secret -
secure in places, warm
in the scent of bread
not yet baked, moist
with the color of cream.
Tonight
It takes me over
as I lay peaceful; calm
open to the touch I feel
wide awake and willing
harvest moon, heavy -
fills me as a lover
with unspoken
possibility.

Lin  Cava ©

Remember When Love Was New...

...and bodies and minds had *** and love
all jumbled up together,
as if one were symbiotic to the other?

Remember when love was new,
and we went to bed naked,
woke up naked,
touched?

Remember?

Sometimes it might have been
one of either
a blessing or a curse.

In the name of children,
we hid our nakedness
akin to those before us
in the garden
who suffered the awakening.

Should have stayed stupid.
Should have shunned that tree of knowledge.
But then, we'd be no more than animals.

Ta dump dump.

Remember when the feel of clean sheets
against naked skin was enough to
have us start the dance.

And dance some more in the naked
mornings that followed.

We are naked.  No matter how we
dress our lives, we arrive, and leave
with nothing.  Naked.

Some of us struggle just to stay warm.
Others of us are always in heat.
Sometimes, we are frigid in our nakedness,
fruitless despite the dance.

Remember when love was new?
Do you still go to bed naked,
only to sleep?

Ah, but dream.
Dream in your nakedness
and I shall know you.
I shall search for you.
And beware, my love,
for I shall find you.
And though I may be chilled
in this age of mine
I will arrive naked, and warm you.*

Lin Cava
16 - July - 2013

Flowers everywhere
Butterflies and bees breeze by.
Filled with sweet nectar.

Colored leaves of Fall -
Winds scurrying them about.
Brightly coat the field.

Snow. Crisp, unbroken.
Pop! The winter hare jumps out -
Piques the hungry fox.

New green. Spring has come.
The hare, still there, turned to brown.
Bunnies everywhere.

Lin Cava©

To you…

In the dark dreams that have become my life
you are sunshine and starlight.

For the unreasonable, the unfathomable, the disparities
surmounting daily, you are sanity and reason.

For my silence, you are song.
In my lack of expression, you are music.

My words fade, my world diminishes
and focus affords me only darkness.
You are there, ever aware.
When my world ties me tightly into knots
you see how to loosen them, and weave me fabric.

My heart beats to stale metaphor and abused imagery,
though your words softly sigh, touched with fresh breezes.

I have seen sandy shores, and known the scent of fresh loam,
bursting with the seeds of spring; gentle rains, and the flight of seabirds,
through your eyes - there, within your words.

And when my world falls apart and crumbles beneath my feet
I am caught upon your open palm, within your caring touch.

I am relieved, refreshed, and comfortably happy
in the darkest of times, for you, whose care lifts me up.

There will never be a way to thank you, as I would want.
It is there, in my heart, in the blood that courses through me
All that I am, is all I can give, and I will ever give it willingly
to you.

©Lin Cava
15th March, 2013

I’ve been drifting in a clearing at night. Alone
once more; the music of this place sings sweet memories.
I listen to the spill and tumble of the water nearby.
In quiet reflection, I can still hear laughter.

Pieces of our own music come back to me
as remembered kisses on the sand -
an embrace; the lightest touch amidst the trees
a tease and the chase; the mystical haze - lifted.

Awakening to delicate remnants of its touch
evaporating too soon to recapture.
Was it there? The sense of it; the caress?
By some connection; is it with me, even now?

In the sharp sunlight of morning,
summer sheers flutter at the window –
and I am filled with it once more.
The scent of sun on skin, sand in my toes...

I hold out my hand to the finger of sunlight.
From no-where, a fairy puff lands on my palm.
In my morning shower, a tendril of grass.
In the kitchen sink, a sliver of lime.

Is it that place, or the Spirit, calling me back?
Have you journeyed, too, as freely as I,
to breathe in tender sweetness,
to listen to the laughter once shared?

No. Perhaps not; my shadow of doubt, alive.
But the flame burns again, and as much as I try,
I cannot close the door, nor ignore the call of its
enchanting charms or the heartfelt touch that beckons me

In dreams...

Lin Cava©

What Has Gone And What Remains

In the silence
of fresh fallen snow,
In the dark night;
stars shine after the storm.

Clouds veil the sky
and obscure some star-glow –
There, above this Northern land,
to reveal a Southern Cross.

I look to the sky,
not by will of mind,
but by the pull
of a heartstring.

My breath catches
amazed at what I find.
I shake it off –
Free myself from superstition.

Once more, through strength of will
I push down yearning
strangle desire, and know
it is my will who is my heart’s jailor.

In dreams, I know I am free.
While unrestrained,
my love searches for his touch –
lost to me until I sleep.

In my waking hours
I know my sanity is forfeit,
should I dare to believe.
Yet my heart searches for him always.

Iron bars of rational thought
contain a love beyond capture.
A flame of desire, else unrestrained;
its heat calls to me; cries out for him.

Though I try to push it aside
In my denial, I admit I have fallen.
I had let irrational love capture me
and rivet my mind behind iron walls.

But Jailor Mind broke through those walls
a burning effort, aglow so hot
as to leave not even an ash behind.
It could not destroy a persistent remnant…

After the forest has burned
and the Mind has broken, insane.
After all that was is in ruin
Love, remains.

Lin Cava
10 – February - 2014