Closer to the Spirit

Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

The Siren’s Lullaby from The Songs of the Mermaid Queen

siren song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9bWI9zf1YQ

Words by Alethea Eason  Music by Melanie Harrington  Performed by Melanie Harrington

Ocean lit by a million sparks,

Last of the sun before the dark.

Drifting through the path of stars,

Merland follows the tide’s great flow.

Merpeople dance in crimson light.

Their songs reflect the moon’s soft glow.

Sun fire streaks the sea dark red.

You’re getting sleepy. It’s time for bed.

Sirens sing you sleepy songs

So you can join their ocean throng.

To the secret place of dreams

As you dive toward silvery ocean streams.

You will slumber safe and sound.

For the Mermaid Queen is all around.

Gold, a poem

image

Seven minutes:

Silence is so deep,
words washed like the mother lode,
bereft of gold, all riches sluiced away.
Empty heart and hands. My pencil
is today’s device of torture,
graphite molecules in wastelands
of discarded ghost,  step-children of hope.
A rock sits, and I see all that it is,
made of molecules like my own.
Stars in passing, worn down
by  motions of time.
My words are shards eroded by the heavy rains
of the year, their death days washed to ocean.
Open your mouth, Watershed, and consume my body,
the body created by exclamations.

Tattoos: A Poem

Some wise woman wants me to see the pictures on your skin,

beautiful white azaleas in a copper dish.

The deepest of all tattoos inscribed there,

a compass rose showing my direction.

 

SW toward a form of death the dark man holds,

plying me with spirits, tonic water, evil weed.

He’s messed with datura, that white lily,

and has come back a changed man.

 

You stand happy above the ahnk

losing your baby vampire teeth.

Some wise woman told me your story,

beautiful tattoos that I’m supposed to see.

 

 

Image

Contemplation of Stars

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The Siren’s Lullaby

Go Fish

 

The Siren’s Lullaby.

 

Ocean lit by a million sparks,

Last of the sun before the dark.

 

Drifting through the path of stars,

Merland follows the tide’s great flow.

 

Merpeople dance in crimson light.

Their songs reflect the moon’s soft glow.

 

Sunfire streaks the sea dark red.

You’re getting sleepy. It’s time for bed.

 

Sirens sing you sleepy songs

So you can join their ocean throng.

 

To the secret place of dreams

As you dive toward silvery ocean streams.

 

You will slumber safe and sound.

For the Mermaid Queen is all around.

 

Seven Minutes: I Could Not Help But Cry

cave in quintero   Seven Minutes:

Surprise to find the opening.

Secret cove.  A world and a dream away.

I was insufficient in my southern adaptation

unable to make sounds into meaning.

I was drowning.  The ocean at my feet

so beautiful, so lonely.  I could not launch myself

into the world turned upside down.   Today I am nostalgic

for the foreign, for the music on the streets,

the dogs who roamed the avenues and barked

until the night was black and blue.

Such a small space we lived in.

Years later,

I can touch the sadness and loss,

the untethered part of me that floated

and could not find the words to make the world right.

I could not help but cry,  and I am sorry I stayed with feet

caught on the sharp stones.  I could not go through

the opening and find the wide ocean.

The Hidden Bone

There is a bone in the wilderness

Etched with my name

Small scratches on the underside

Hidden with mud and twigs

 

The rain has fallen there

In and out of seasons

 

The brilliant summer

Has baked it brittle and clean

 

A fire, a torrent, sweeps

Across from fir to pine

But the bone remains, a wrinkle

In the sunlight

Above Bear Valley

Above Bear Valley

 I feel I don’t inhabit the world, my body separate,

unreal.  I drive toward the canyon.  Rags of coyote body

drape fence post above the flowering fields,

above the orange poppy cups, and the cows stare

with sweet indifference to the arcs of the kingbird’s belly.

 

Farther on, the trees are drowned by reservoir.

Bodies submerged.  Top branches, stripped like the dead,

float above the water line.  Farther still, toward ruins

of Bartlett Springs, charred sticks scatter across

burned hills, legs and arms without flesh.

 

Clouds, gray as ash, press down, their damp breath

hovering over holocaust.  I reclaim tears.

The silence of cell and bone.  My skin becomes grass,

sweeping like wildfire over scars.

 

I reclaim my blood in the flush of redbud,

my bones in the spines of yellow lupine.  The road

climbs again, then drops toward the belly of the lake.

Spirit, supple as willow, as present as the buckeye

along the creek, tethers my flesh to earth.

Poem for an Absent Lover

Poem for an Absent Lover

Roots of the pine are exposed

amid the rocks, curled

and twined like question marks

asking me why I am here alone.

 

This waterfall murmurs

as it wears away the earth,

your voice absent

from the rumoring descent.

Mist sprays across my skin,

but where is your kiss, your tongue,

the brush of my body with your lips?

 

I mold myself into a cleft of rock.

This is what holds me,

not your arms.  I pretend I move

under the weight

of your caress.  My eyelids

burn orange, hot

beneath the sun.

When I open them

you are as far as that patch of snow

nestled in the granite cliff,

a place I could not climb or touch.

 

When this seasonal waterfall runs dry,

you will be the promise of rain

evaporating above the thirsty ground.

But now you are the wind, and, in your wake,

I am the aspens quailing as you come.

 

 

7 Minutes from a Friend

My friend Gail Marshall’s 7 minutes.  I really resonated with this:

Cool tufts blowing through the cracks in the window

bringing it’s bone-chill  into my heart

go away! And leave this place

Warm soul, and blood fill me

 

My guitar strings wait on the chair

leaned back in repulsive relaxation

stream of consciousness, intuitive writing

Oh, Beth, you would be proud

What color to choose?  Life? death? Joy?  Sorrow?

Which one fits as I make my way to the table?

 

Dip my brush into each of them, some call me and make me come back for more

I hover over the jars as I try not to wonder which I should choose

 

I want to pick pink!

But I’m not a pink kind of girl.

 

I love that teal, but teal doesn’t belong on this paper

 

Black is such a statement – bold and strong

But it looks so morbid there among my flowers.

So I stand, among the colors and choose none.

Like life itself,  choosing colors for painting can be so hard

Don’t want to pick the wrong one

Don’t want to do the wrong thing

 

What am I so afraid of?  Color?  Life?  Living?  Laughing?

 

There is nothing wrong with joy.  Why is it so hard to find?

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