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 May 2017 Suzy Hazelwood
L B
“...Your words were found and I ate them.
They became a joy to my heart. In my mouth—
a sweet delight, but in my belly—bitter...”
                                                ­ --Jeremiah


...But that night
by dim background of next-room light
I could not see your face
just feel your hush of shadow words
on spine of shudders

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!

...And I was sure?
that it was right?
because...because....!
Their eyes were slanted!
So they could not see—
the “Good Guys”
VANISH—
WIDE-EYED—!
in its TOO-MUCH-LIGHT

Still your voice insists
in pause and fissioned hiss
that I MUST KNOW
in tender half-life
TRUTH
too pure
too deadly white

I swallow lethal glowing dose
HOW CAN YOU SPEAK
SUCH WORDS SO CLOSE!

EXPOSED!

“...in mouth sweet—in belly bitter…”

Stories? and the Grandma Song
rendered tender—lull of voice
Soul’s cabinet cleared of venial sin
Last of all—the tucking in.....

They say you first get sick....*

Seems we dropped this bomb
that would not stop exploding!
And I am invisibly ill—with truth
approaching critical mass

Will angry rads incise their ways?
Will leaden swords of angels drive them back?

In this night—
my bedtime stories fainted at your
whispers...whispers...WHISPERS—

fusing an oblong fear
that I MUST NOT DROP!
but I cannot hold!

Fetal-folded
frail and freezing
under covers— just barely peeking

“Jesus hanging on the cross…Tell me-- was it I?”
Jesus hanging in the cross
TELL ME! IT’S NOT TRUE!

"Tell me, mother
Were you God talking?

I could not see your face
by the next room’s light..."
My mother told me some bad **** sometimes just before bedtime, and I never forgot it.
Written 1995
 May 2017 Suzy Hazelwood
L B
There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
shade glare
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day

There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference

And the river heaves its way along
ever on
eternal mission of earth
and...

...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days

Cool remote
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air

Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack

Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash

They come--

crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
Wild
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields

“The poor you have with you always”

“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
except maybe….

Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands

Who fondly held or hoped for her?
Before....
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
derelict denial

How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape

They--

of always
This was observed after an event supporting the rehabilitation of the Lackawanna River.
A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.

Blushing in the cool air,
Waking like mist,
Listening, as we are, as the great sky,
Is kissed.

We tremble, high in the air, like
Harp strings.
Silent as we are, separated by some
Feathery wings.

Some ethereal air,
Is cold on our lips.
Quiet as we are, in the mornings
Soft prayer.

Breathing on the damp ground,
Falling like leaves,
Hushed as we are, chased by great
Blood hounds.

A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.
The windows on my painted sill,
Are covered by the winds and the spitting rain.
In my chamber, the sounds of thunder are bottled and shelved.
They roll just above my head, in the corners of my high ceiling,
Can’t reach them.

Stillness of the shadows in my dark room
are frightened by the light that is thrown from the murky sky.
The blackened sky, now light, they curse as they hiss and hide behind my wooden vanity.
And before the rumble of the thunder in my ceiling has begun,
they have crawled from the corners to be painted on the floor.

I wish to be the wind that beats itself against my window,
the waves that crash on distant sand and shores,
the blackened sky bruised
and bruising.

But how I wish I was not the glass and dusty window,
nor the shore that is beaten ‘till it is knowing nothing but movement and stillness.

How I wish I was not the chamber in which I sleep.
The chamber in which I sleep.
There was little left,
On the fields.
The rain had come and gone and it was dry again.
Dusty hands and dusty faces frowned.
Dusty shoes kicked the powder ground,
Heads hung low in the slouching and shaded doorway.

Squinting eyes looked up at the yellow bowl,
Hands covered creased foreheads,
Mouths chewed tobacco in the thin shade of a dying tree.
There was little left to talk about and little less to see.

Children lost marbles in the heavy dust,
And mothers take deep breaths.
The sky turns the colour of dirt and rust.
Another day gone and there is little left to love.
She brushed the ash off her jeans, though managed to rub some in.
She separated the roses from the weeds, but a few petals ended up in the bin.
She tried to let him down gently, yet she managed to bruise his heart.
She is full of good intentions, but sometimes her plans fall apart.
She listens to Kate Bush
on a Sunday morning
looks out on her garden
and the new buds flowering
sipping Earl Gray tea
a spoon of sugar she's stirring
then says to me,
"Bet you wish it was raining."

"How'd you know?"
"'Cause your a child of the rain.
I sense it in your smile,
but I can't explain.
There's a strangeness to your eyes
like a constant pain.
Just thought you should
know what I see."
I think she knows me.
 May 2017 Suzy Hazelwood
martin
She's planting out her window box
Young shoots are showing through
She thinks about the Springtime
And the garden she once knew

There were primroses and daffodils
Sweet violets white and blue
She thinks about her husband
And when their love was new

Buds and blooms open up
They scent and colour Summer long
She thinks about those happy days
When they were young and strong

Sunset's falling sooner now
Petals drop, the show is done
She gathers up her Winter shawl
Tries not to dwell on things to come
Delighted to be the daily
Thank you He Po
And thank you Eli Yo
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