For Giving

"Forgive me," does not mean "I'm sorry".

Nascent

Nascent

A punishing winter stripped branches naked,

hardened water and blood;

sweet somnolence giving way to a yawning ache behind the ribs.

Then -you.

An ember blown to a rosy glow beneath kindling

meticulously piled by fingers  not yet devoid of hope.

Blooming warmth, and the anticipation

                                                                             of spring.

Authors Note: A SH inspired poem, drawing on experience of meeting a kindred spirit- finding something worth living for. I have to admit that I am slightly embarrassed that I have found my muse in such an unlikely place, and I hope that doesn't cheapen the poetry in anyway. I like to think my poems are universal. 

Comments/ Constructive Criticism is welcomed. Poetry is a fluid art and I am forever open to editing.

Giving Way

Giving Way

The pavement sings with the percussion of a steady precipitation,

     heavy blanketing the city with a dampness that seeps to bone.

Long ago the saturated gray afternoon gave way to the inky night,

         feeble street lamps pushing back the tangible dark.

Rain drums its fingers on the windows,  BORED.

          The wind heaves a gusty sigh against the frame- bored.

More alone than alone on a night like this- an isolation unique to itself-

         grief, too tangled to unpick, leeches warmth steadily –

 No fire can warm the flow of blood through the veins-

       pooling instead on the colorless sidewalk- mixing with rain and cooling.

A hollow shell, abandoned when its owner took flight- now cold- a brittle reminder.

In the morning the rain will ease and the pale winking eye of the sun begin to dry the night’s tears,         

gently washing away evidence, making the city smell new again.

authors note: Another SH inspired poem. 

Transport

Transport

I collect the burrs you leave behind- those clinging to my clothes and scratching at my tender skin- and put them in a jar labeled with your name.  Each prickled barb, a gift from an intransigent friend.

I do not keep them in resentment- or to show you later how many of your words snagged my flesh

     Made me bleed

but because they are from you- because they are enduring- unlike fast fading flowers-

because I understand you better than you think.

These burrs that stab and cling with tiny hooks, desperate for transport, were meant to repel predators,            

                instinctively protecting the vulnerable seeds within.

I keep them because they are you- alive with potential. 

authors note: This in no way glorifies a dysfunctional relationship :) But sometimes people say pretty awful things and sometimes they say them because they are more vulnerable than they want to let on.

Pendulum

Pendulum

Unraveling a pale strand of yarn, the dawn picks apart the horizon, tearing open a seam of light.

Those first sweet moments of forgetfulness ebb, dragging sleep away like a reluctant tide.

Another day.

Routine does not comfort- only enables a body to move from task to familiar task without thought-

cogs turning in a perfect mechanism.

Springs tightly coiled.

Heart beat- pendulum and escapement –

Hands slowly climbing, grasping the minutes and pulling them past like oars on the Thames.

Only a grinding silence in place of chimes-

You machine- it says.

Full rotation- the sky is knit together again with black cables that stretch across the sky—

 And sleep spills forth in waves, thick and drowning.

authors note:

(a brief study in Grief. How the body continues to function- dragging the soul along)

Subtext

Subtext

Eyes can articulate with a clarity that mouths envy-

         but glances cannot be cataloged like phrases, tucked away in tidy files in locked rooms-

        instead, they evaporate like dew, dissipate into the air like curling tendrils of steam, that the brain cools     with a breath.

Silence is slippery and cannot be held down and dissected, examined, and deduced.

It has weight

       and shape

             and temperature

                              but no mass.

Eyes serve as transmitter and receiver

            for the brief coded messages that communicate meaning

when words would unbalance us-  topple us-

                                 pitching us over the edge.

Saudade

Saudade
What remains of you is
the depression you left-
                an emptiness that space refuses to crowd.

You remain here unseen- in the scents that linger, the eloquent sheen of dust-
  atoms of you.

The mirror- that had absorbed your image daily
but cannot now remember your face- no reflection.
 The soul cannot piece itself together- cannot suture with memories the loss of you.
It will forever ache like a phantom limb. 

You will live on- in the plaintive cry of a violin- the line of a finely tailored suit.

You will exist as long as I can keep here-
                tethered to me.

(Another S.H. Inspired poem. Not sure what's up with change in font - it was unintentional) 

Unfinished Melody

Unfinished Melody

It is a score left unsettled, pages open on the stand.

Notes tattooed against stark lines, trapped behind bars -

       when behind bars was our only fear.

Fevered measures inked in haste; each phrase a crescendo.

The conductor raises his arms gracefully to an invisible orchestra,

and the silence is a roiling timpani.

The last note

                    a rest under a fermata.

(A S.H. inspired poem. I would love for your to digest it for a while before I go into my explanations. My hope being of course that it NEEDS no explanation- but well... This one is still tacky and can be remolded and reshaped. Points I wanted to emphasize: 1.) The parallel between them being arrested (behind bars- arrest/ a rest) 2.) that last note was a pause held for an indeterminate amount of time based on the conductor's discretion = faked death but he'll return... the raising the arms was before he fell... it's a rather haunting image. I think I have watched that poor man fall a few thousand times by now.)

Comments/Critique desperately wanted... gimme!!

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