Archive for the ‘the body’ Category
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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?
Seven minutes: My eyes have changed from gaudy kaleidoscopes to half-moons
There is an angel in my hair
who guides my fore-thought, my wisdom,
my knowledge of body and the pearls
that rest within it.
Enigma angels offer questions
and warn me of
my Pharisee tendencies,
my judgmental stance,
my narrow focus at the hem of
the Jehovah angel, who has sternly restricted my breath.
Have no fear for there are flowers, and the devil with the pitchfork
is small like a gnat. Mama Angel love me, make me feel loved and blessed.
Make my moon eyes trigger the flowers.