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  Oct 2015 Sia Jane
Sara Teasdale
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,
And shall my soul that lies within your hand
Remember nothing, as the blowing sand
Forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep
When winds along the darkened desert sweep?
Or would it still remember, tho’ it spanned
A thousand heavens, while the planets fanned
The vacant ether with their voices deep?
Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,
Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see
The desolation of extinguished suns,
Nor fear the void wherethro’ our planet runs,
For still together shall we go and not
Fare forth alone to front eternity.
  Oct 2015 Sia Jane
Nat Lipstadt
measuring the small pieces of daily endeavor,
the small bites of how I stay a survivor,
taking each moment and weighing its value,
upon the scale of my cupped hands,
living in ounce and grams,
deferring the pounding poundage of
what ails, haunts, curses us to an
existence of forever indebted dementia

in downsizing life to first cup morning coffee,
a passing sensation of another's hand grazing,
a message from a friend that brings tears and joy
so much that there is no distinguishing either,
this is is how I get thru the onerous calculations
of all that I fear.

in a small fist of
firsts and seconds,
I grasp and hold on
till the next one comes along,
my next handhold on the sheer cliff with no top,
that we are forced to conquer with our first waking breath

and I thank anyone who cares,
anyone who understands simply
these words, the small comfort therein,
when we acknowledge as we are loath to do,
that the permanent curses of our lives,
cannot ever be erased, nor put or washed away

but from a new flowering, a ciel blue
tapestry colored, happy tainted
withe pure white cumulus,
in the photo of my grandchildren entwining,
in my backyard garden in a city of concrete lines,
in overlooked surprises under the bed,
these are the amuse bouche, the little tastes,
the amusements upon our tongues
that give me just enough to hold on and wait,
welcoming the next one with even slower measuring
so that I can log just one more stitch of hope upon my skin,
a teaspoon of, an eighth of a cup extra,
of comfort, of the pleasures of existence

I think of long ago captures, old poems,
and write this and them down
free formed
as they come,
waiting not for any editor of life
to improve. upon them,
from and in their own cracked shell
I see and share,
the nut of value within

sometime I guess but do not upon it dwell,
that we will see each other once again,
and when in taking each other's current measurements,
measure ourselves not
against each other
but our growth within and
for each other

and now I sip my coffee and weep,
a grown man,
writing in the dark,
of loss, of love,
of lost sons,
of the
sun-rising
colors that demarcate dawn
as the time between,
between black nighttime bitterness
and the fresh yet to arrive, works in process
moments
that will uncover and soon tremble in their delight,
and say another day to come, another
moment
to measure and savor,
one more instant
in your mind that proved
you
can measure
up


~~~
6:42 am
Oct. 23, 2015,
by the early morning light
of a New York City palette
I write this for the poets and friends here who have
welcome trespassed upon my heart with
their sadnesses, joys,  losses
and in  their sharing,
make me measure better and desirous of
tomorrow
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
  Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
  Oct 2015 Sia Jane
Pablo Picasso
i have a face cut from ice
a heart pierced in a thousand places
so to remember
always the same voice
the same gestures
and my laughter
heavy
as a wall
between you and me

the ones who are most alive
seem the most still

behind the milky way
a shadow dances

our gaze climbs toward the stars
  Oct 2015 Sia Jane
Pablo Picasso
heartbreak
parallel to eye
without razor

sobbing

wet leaves
pressed in
a book
will not
dry

next

tears
do not
outlive
themselves

discovery

for another
generation

still

when in doubt
quote rimbaud
no verbs
no more

choosing the vowel “o”

that
i’m not
going to
remember
again
Sia Jane Oct 2015
He wanted to know her
he wanted to touch every inch
of her imperfectly perfect skin
to know every scar
to know her tiger stripes
from growth spurts and pregnancy
the pieces of metal left in her
and the dislocated bones
all had their own stories from childhood
the day she was caught on a fence
the tom boy in lace socks
her mum had dressed her in
for Sunday school
the ripped dress as she fell in mud
breaking her right elbow which to
this day left her with a bone pointing out
he wanted to spend days
just looking at her scarred face-
her upper lip – sat in the changing rooms
after a gymnastics competition
playing catch but the bottle of water
went right at her face
her forehead – walking at ten months
trips and falls, she hits her head
on the way down face to face
with the rockery -
incidentally the rockery where the cat
is buried
poor thing was stood on many times
as she was learning to walk
he counts the freckles on her left cheekbone
which on her porcelain skin
shine like Orion’s Belt on a clear night
he loved every part of her she did not
he memorized every feature that made
her “her”
he knew the truth had always been there
right in front of him since the first
time he saw her naked –
her naked soul exposed a long time before
anything he could ever make tangible.

© Sia Jane
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