"steadying" poems
in memoriam Woodrow (Woody) Rifenburgh
The soft purr of a Piper Cub
drifted over Italy's southern hills.
Soul stirred by the landscape’s song,
the young army pilot gently spoke.
“It’s mighty peaceful up here.”
Touching wheels to the tarmac,
Woody shed his flight suit
for an engineer’s desk
and placed a viola beneath his chin.
For three score years
Woody molded horsehair and wire into string song
steadying the orchestra’s midriff
with the vibrations of his spirit.
On Christmas Eve he played for the coming child,
fell stricken and flew his last flight
on instruments at Memorial.
Early New Year’s morn one could almost hear
the faint soft purr of a Piper Cub
as it banked to the right around the moon
and merged with the waiting heavens.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
emergence is an act of rebellion.
our eyelids peaking open like rusty curtains
as we steadily count backwards
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1
climbing from our morning covers in one swift movement
like the bold musketeer ready to pierce his opponent.
allowing the cold to wash over our body
towards the to do lists and outdoor morning mist.
legs miraculously sprung to life from our dreams
seconds ago resting in a field of sunlit streams.
allowing forced smiles to emerge in the mirror
if the natural ones forgot to attend our morning ritual.
those cowards.
allowing our own smiles to send butterflies down our spines
if our lovers forgot to play their part.
those ********
our routines steadying us on the road
outside the house
into the yard
outside the fence
into the deli
out of your mind
into the grind
all forming like some rapid fire kiss of motion
where emerging and departing
become inseparable lovers.
and we cherish this sort of alchemy
where our paints emerge as paintings,
where our words turn into poems
that string along
melodies
into song
for
the pulsing of life echoes within
calmly waiting
to emerge
from the gilded cage
we are meant to burst open
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder
I say that’s ********
Distance makes the heart suffer
Distance took my heart and plucked its petals
one
by
one
It holds me tight
Too tight, until my breath gets short and my legs go numb
Distance built a nest in my mind out of fragmented memories
I will never let go of
Memories that are now so distant I can no longer cherish their brilliance
or remember their fragrance
This distance is a cry that cannot be silenced
It is the side of the bed where you should be lying
It is the dial tone when you hang up the phone
It is the dreaded groan of waking up alone
Distance is disappointment
The hollow echo of loneliness
My vacant arms
Distance is sorrow
We have no choice but to be bold
Distance is the strength found where hope was lost
Distance decorates the wings of the butterflies that
f l u t t e r
in my stomach when the distance disappears
As the miles between us fall apart, distance falls quiet
A moment of reunion
A moment outside of time
Building bravery in our cores
Steadying us for battle once more
Mounting our horses, drawing our swords
We are bold.
Distance keeps our memories close to home
It is the struggle that taught us how to be brave when we are alone
Distance is the challenge
To determine how much we can handle
Distance pushes our love to its limit
Distance is brilliance in the tragedy of our goodbyes
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
In this tangled web of energies
emerges truth ,
lined with golden love.
Tentacles grasp and hold,
striving to keep smiles alive and well.
Forcing back negative entities.
We rebel primal ways,
expanding facets of creativity
To push forth,
To push off,
To find yourself somewhere in between.
Sunken in the sidewalk’s crevasse.
***** and beautiful, the lotus blooms in harmony
We’re here waiting;
seeking.
Trying to balance this chaos we’ve created.
Calming minds and steadying tides,
the ocean pulls by Luna’s force.
The subtle aspect,
when we have no control.
The moon rises.
Bending blood;
bending minds, bending emotions.
All subjected to planetary reactions
and protractions.
Measured by our willingness to flow.
Desperately trying to find solace.
We cave.
We faulter, and give in to the moonlight.
Taking in all it has to offer
and becoming reborn within the sun.
A new birth in the light.
Refreshed and retrieved,
we emerge from our reckless physicality
and burst through in spirit.
Gods.
Beings.
Light bodies.
Humans.
Tangible, broken and beautiful.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
Trusting steady for flower petals floating on moonlit beams.
Fractured cracks running into sewn seams of honey-colored threads.
Layering sunlight of emotions,
Rip-tide oceans hold your boulder heart open.
Velvety warm blankets shimmering with lavender energy,
Of a silence unspoken.
A roar within of a constant fiery flame.
A warrior armored with stars and an army of willowy trees.
Song buds upon lip, striking a symphonic flowery melody.
Eyes sparkling, you captivate with an alluring smile.
Flowers intertwined within your raven locks.
Summer night of fireflies and dancing bees,
Forgiveness never a weakling of knees.
Soft spoken heart beats.
Sun-fire but shaded with purpling blues.
Steadying hands even though your lips may frown.
Ever present is the sleepy shadow of a sugared temptation,
That only the befallen will know.
A darkness muddled into the after-hours of dawn.
Self-pity wars that your feet danced into nothing, no more.
You let the colors become vibrant yellows, even greens.
A warrior surrounded by atmospheres of light,
Tinged with the milky blue hue of night.
Oceans come and gone but forever in your heart is song.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
You’d have better luck storing rain in your mouth
Steadying quiet clouds with your eyes
Alive
Mere perfection doesn’t exist I see
No
And the cake is a lie
It’s the desire to interject
And infuse
Which I push against
Yourself insinuating from which I hide
This look says me
Let me feel my feelings felt
Or else there is no point left alive
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
There’s a place of perfect simmer
where the flame runs just so high,
never quite to boiling over,
neither still a tepid bath.
At least that’s what you insisted to me
in your frustration at my inability
to find a soft place to land between
pulses of ecstasy and re-heated casserole.
Even still you love me
like a whirlwind loves the dust,
gathering it in by picking it up,
steadying it's spin by collecting debris.
I thought we would make a respectable tornado,
together, instead I find myself
breaking loose from your gentleness
and destroying homes, alone.
If only the weather could tell us whether
we were headed for perfection or destruction.
If only the *** I stir could be a crystal ball.
If only I could love you
as much as I do.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING
( for Onelia )
The cellist's hand
waits outside time
pauses
beside his instrument
like an exotic fish
steadying itself
in the flow of the music
before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral
eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by
at his head
his cello bobs
like a seahorse
questioning
all that is
happening
as he tries to enter
the same stream
(despite Heraclitus's advice)
.. twice.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
Wave after wave we rode the highs,
Steadying our footing before the next rise,
It all crashes into laughter and the salty foam,
Time flew by as the clouds framed the setting sun,
Lighting our path as the time came to head back home.
I lived in the fleeting moments loving the rush of being alive,
Forgetting about the dark night that lay over the horizon,
As we crossed the threshold back into our abode,
The interlude ended as the last light receded from the windows,
Leaving me in unattended in the murk of my thoughts.
Unequipped for the blackness that glared at me,
I searched for a glimmer of a forgotten dream,
There was once a fire that shone bright my hopes & ambitions,
Not even embers remain that I may stoke a new flame,
Aimlessly I move through the motions of the daily mundane.
Slowly collapsing under the unbearable weight,
Wishing that I could find meaning in life,
Or give up altogether and end it tonight,
"Why am I even here?" Echoes back at me from the dark,
I fear there is nothing else left for me here.
Nov 13, 2022
Nov 13, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
Hypnosis
Comatose so close to death
Another dose of coldness swept away all my regret
Some die by the sword of vengeance, others by respect
I myself will die calm and ready, steadying my breath
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
There’s a place of perfect simmer
where the flame runs just so high,
never quite to boiling over,
neither still a tepid bath.
At least that’s what you insisted to me
in your frustration at my inability
to find a soft place to land between
pulses of ecstasy and re-heated casserole.
Even still you love me
like a whirlwind loves the dust,
gathering it in by picking it up,
steadying it's spin by collecting debris.
I thought we would make a respectable tornado,
together, instead I find myself
breaking loose from your gentleness
and destroying homes, alone.
If only the weather could tell us whether
we were headed for perfection or destruction.
If only the *** I stir could be a crystal ball.
If only I could love you
as much as I do.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
we waltzed
into the bridge of
a ballad melody
slowly crippling upon our feet
steadying everything
to ensure the one whose falling is
nothing close to the heart
the melody
dawned us into
a trick of pain we need to evade
to ensure that neither you
nor i got the scratches
from the shooting arrows of the Amor's
before the cacophony blaze came
deafening the ground
we swore to never cross the swollen hope
and bring ourselves to another fallout
even with the closeness just
an inch of breathing the air
of a faintest droplet of eternity
and again
we need to ensure
not to let the feelings infiltrate our waltzing ground
not to let other sound come ruining the walls
which we have construct for too many years—
to be called for another destruction
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
a memory wrapped its cold, rough hands
around my throat, squeezing it tightly.
as I tried to walk away, the memory
stuck its foot out, blocking my path.
I could only muster a pitiful squeak
as I fell face first onto the ground,
and the memory fell on top of me,
effectively holding my body hostage.
its hands were still on my throat,
but it was invisible to everyone else.
they only saw me fall to the ground.
they asked me what was wrong,
but I did not have air that could
breathe life into the powerful words
that were begging to leave my mind.
a sheet of paper suddenly appeared
underneath my right palm,
and a pencil rolled my way.
I gripped the sturdy pencil with
every ounce of strength I still had,
steadying the paper with my wrist,
and I wrote the words I couldn't say
so they would stop begging to leave,
even as the memory gripped my throat.
as I kept writing, I noticed the memory
stopped feeling as heavy on my body.
it was getting ****** into the paper.
it resisted at first, but after a while,
the memory slowly let go of me
and relaxed into the pencil marks.
when I had no more words left,
I picked myself up off the ground,
placed the pencil above my ear,
took the paper, hugged it to my chest,
and walked away with a smile on my face.
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 12:39 AM UTC
What am I between these driving
delusions of all my anxieties, aside?
When every moment is a revolt against
suicide and my steadying decline
and my internal monologue dissolved
into reminding myself why.
Who am I but ceaselessly unsure
of the lens of my own myopic, miserable mind?
Between the shadows stirring
in the corners of these drying eyes
and the alarming cry for predators nearby,
these countless confines multiplying wildly.
How often I find I am fighting my brain every second, all the time
my own excessive efforts led awry
as my uncertainties undermine.
But now all I know is I am finally
freeing myself from being so spine numbingly paralyzed
now that I've realized I lie
underneath somewhere within
the way of still waking up
from this frozen comatose demise.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:50 PM UTC
I’m scared I’ll never stop loving you
You’ve long stopped caring, but what if I can’t stop
I’m scared I’ll never outgrow my bad habits
I’ll be grown, a grown woman,
and I won’t stop.
I won’t stop sneaking out in the late
hours of the early morning, shivering
in nothing but your old t-shirt, steadying
my hands enough to light a cigarette, puffing
slowly, reflecting
on the good ole days,
when we were each other's everything, the nicotine
numbing me when I think
about how now, we’re each other's no more.
I won’t stop sitting on the floor, distressed
leaning on the pale empty wall, a single
bottle of scotch, almost slipping
through my numb fingers, sad memories,
regrets,
flashing through my head, I close my
eyes, let my head lean on the wall, think
about what could’ve been.
But is not.
I won’t stop slicing my skin with a
thin razor, my heartbeat
so slow, I’m practically
dead, my mind
racing,
a mile a second.
Disappointment. Failure.
Unwanted. Unloved. Sad. Depressed. Suicidal.
Blood,
running down the sides of my
thighs, so much blood. It won’t stop
bleeding, just like my heart.
I won’t stop loving you.
I won’t stop missing you.
I won’t stop thinking about you. Us. Our love.
Your love was my drug. My tongue tracing
outlines on your skin, drawing
hope for tomorrow, but tasting
nothing but sorrow. We
were each other’s remedy to our own sad
thoughts. You saved me once,
Can you do it again?
(a.f.c)
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
A gentle hand, with reassurances
steadying the heart under a barrage
of threats, of anger
my shield against the world's waves of insatiable hate
His love
and constant kindness
deflected barbs of my fury
the icy indifference I affected after every argument
The world is full of fathers
who don't know how to love
I'm one of the lucky daughters, with sunlight
in his gaze
Pride, delight in me
and in each of my siblings.
Every time I whisper, "Dad, I miss you"
I am telling him
I learned from you, how to love
to stand my ground
that family must always come first
You taught me
laughter
joy in the simplest of things
to forgive flaws in others
and how to forgive and give of myself.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
I watch for you
And keep an eye on
The horizon
I cannot help but
See the sunrise
And it's orange edge light
Hugs my curves like
You would
Warms and burns like
You would
Smoldering then steadying like a match
Igniting memories of
Sleepy passenger seats
In an old black jeep that
Tasted of fish and old stories that
You told me
Of the late night in between in
A skinny dorm bed and the
Delirium of love and fatigue
Folding our eyes closed and our hands together beneath the pillows
And collecting on us like a heavy snow
The scent of old tobacco, skin, gatorade,
And dryer sheet that
Rests on you like
My sleepy hand
Rising and falling with your breathing
And then my florida dawn
After new world night and
A heart full to bursting
Watching big fish gather around lighted docks
And talking of things in
Beach towels on a bridge
Leaning
Looking over
The edge
I watch for you
With my eye on the horizon
And I know you in the
Break of day
I carry your gold dawn and it
Tempers the steel beneath
I watch for you
My love
Until you're home
It's 7:14 am
And I love you
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
you don't notice the pitying looks until it's 9 in the morning and you're halfway done with your third cup of gas station coffee
you barely even notice it then
so you're dragging your feet across the pavement, eyes mostly shut, carrying a briefcase in your left hand and a scalding cup of caffeine powder + water in your right
it's not that you're tired
you manage to get a good four hours most nights
it's that you cannot focus
everything around you is more than a little blurry
red edges on your vision and shadows somehow pixelated
you're stumbling across the street when you realize that somewhere along the way
you managed to finish that third cup
and your hand is uselessly gripping empty air
it falls to your side
and it takes a few steadying breaths to deal with the headrush that always accompanies such a revelation
you have an agreement
but you don't know who with
it's someone you met years ago
in a hospital
eyes bright and idealistic
you don't remember the agreement either
but it was something important
and you remember that
that's what matters, isn't it?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Tell me where I can go, he said,
just get me out of here.
Give me truth in every form, he said,
be the answer to my prayers.
Listen to this man, she said,
his poison words will taste so sweet to you.
I'm not going anywhere,
anyway.
Hero's the wrong word,
but it calms his mind.
It's what's steadying his hand.
A rationale so absurd,
he'll take what he can get to silence the voices in his head.
Give me something to believe in,
cuz I don't believe in me.
Give me something to hold on to,
and I'll cling tenaciously.
Listen to these men, she said,
their words of death will seem so wise to you.
I was never taught to care anyway.
Hero's the wrong word,
but it calms his mind.
It's what pacifies the guilt.
A rationale so absurd,
he'll take what he can get to silence the voices and he says,
I'd buy anything so I don't have to grow up poor.
I'll go anywhere for you, I'll walk through any open door.
I'd do anything to feel a part of something more.
I'll **** anyone you say to feel fear nevermore.
Hate is a strong word,
but to him it comes as easily as fear.
And fear pervades his soul. He's so far gone.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,
steadying it with her hand,
your ghostly friend,
your little Jew.
None sees her form,
her bright blue eyes,
her blonde hair
tied with ribbon,
her rosy complexion.
She ghostly moves,
amazed by the Aladdin’s cave
of goods upon the shelves,
the packets and boxes,
the loud advertisements
hanging from the air
here and there,
everywhere you
and she stare.
Neither Strasbourg
nor Bordeaux
nor Tours
nor Auschwitz
was like this,
no overpowering display
of commodities on show
of this she tells you
and to a degree you know,
and what was on show
at Auschwitz is still there
in memories or records
or photographs
with staring faces
and deep set eyes.
Anny waits and watches
as the conveyor belt
moves the goods
to the woman
at the till
who pushes buttons
or scans bar codes
and pushes by
to the paid for end
and your son
and grandchildren
pack all away.
Anny gazes on the process,
then at you, smiles,
your little friend,
your ghostly Jew.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
You are solid ground
When it feels like I'm falling.
I want to be your parachute
To give you a safe space to land.
You are steady and safe
In a world shaken and turbulent.
I want to hold space for your feelings
When everything is too much.
You are a soft, warm hug
In the coldest night air.
I want to walk with you through the darkness,
Supportive and steadying.
You are truly a gift and
A love I cherish deeply.
I want to feel your soul dance with mine
But I know they already do.
I love you sweet baby
And one day I'll kiss you too
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 3:19 AM UTC
the first time we make love
*your body will tremble, from behind, my arms’ will, to encase,
I, sponging up every tremor, shush-stealing each shuddering,
the outpouring of sounds will grow softly and steadying,
as gasps slow lessened, till the breathing is regularized.*
you will sly ask for words, but I will come prepared and you,
will laugh when so informed, happy by my thoughtfulness,
wondering if they are being reused, and knowing this, I will
coax you to feed me morsels will I shall then embellish, proofs*.
there is a first time in almost every aspect, but for one, which
you won’t refuse, forgiving my experiences, a history to become
now partly yours, the priors paying forward my debt to serve,
a gentling interplay of eyelashes ********* fingertip confessions*.
you will alternate tween fragility, regretful solitude, emptied but
then refilled, you’ll want to define, identify, label for storage and
reuse, classification for acceptance, thinking that will make this
moment lasting, but it won’t, but it will, last, under closed eyes*.
when the need to sob returns, one or two may escape, unelicited,
but won’t go past that, you’ll hear me saying “Hello in there, hello,”^
and ten thousand skin cells will in unison firm gel a single sensory,
not a trick or strategy, an honor bestowed, medaled, molten medaled*.
that you were held captive, it will be a proud mark, for freedom only
comes from being released, and an anthem will start to form, words
all raw and wholly yours, then you will sing to me “good bye stranger,”^^ granting me a pardon, for being who I am, a wonderingly, somewhat familiar face...*
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING
( for Onelia)
The cellist's hand
waits outside the music
pauses
beside his instrument
like an exotic fish
steadying itself
in the flow of the music
before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral
eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.
At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs
like a seahorse
questioning
all that is
happening
as he tries to enter
the same stream
(despite Heraclitus's advice)
~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
the ocean is unforgiving.
it ebbs and flows and drowns.
you are perched there on your sailboat;
you have thought this out.
at your feet is my body, alive but immobile, bound by ropes you twisted yourself using my vocal cords and your shoelaces.
the makeshift ropes secure the rocks you've tied to me,
made of quartz and the unchanging fact that I always come back.
it's almost time.
I look at you with fear and desperation, and you look back for just a moment.
your face is a board hammered down to your skull. you feel nothing.
you pick me up, not looking at me.
steadying yourself near the edge of the sailboat,
leaning your shin against the wall of the sailboat,
you throw me
in.
the water hits me in stages, the cold slicing my shoulder.
the last breath is a hardship,
but a necessity.
bubbles spore from my nose in the water, ascending in schools
but I am only a dropout.
I plunge downward.
the light is running away from me
I would catch up, but i'm not in shape.
this was your plan.
you sail back to shore;
a storm is starting to brew upstairs.
you will not give it a second thought --
I have enough second thoughts to supply an army that you command.
can you use second thoughts as gunpowder?
as a mask?
as an escape?
I will never find out.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC