Archive | February, 2014

Spring Cleaning

28 Feb

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Snow and cold have produced literally no travel for me this last month. Not only were the conditions pretty miserable, but I honestly could not find activities which interested me enough to go.  My focus is shifting and I have had to rest in a no-woman’s land of sorts. Spiritual quest is fuzzy, perhaps Lenten discipline will sharpen the view.

February has been about relationships.

Learning about what’s there and what is missing.

And I have learned quite a lot.

I’ve learned how to allow, to not try to help someone or change them. To accept them for who they are. But then, somehow I need to journey on.  I think the choice which puzzles me most is this: Is it better to be barefoot than have a shoe that doesn’t fit?  Some shoes rub blisters and of course, they have to go. Some sort of fit, an attraction prompted the purchase. But is there buyer’s remorse?  Maybe they just don’t go with one’s style after all, not a daily wearing pair one comes to love so much it seems impossible to be without them. Or maybe they can only be worn for short periods before becoming incredibly uncomfortable; perhaps one can’t wear them on any occasion. Maybe they are just too impractical or just too average. That great balance of comfort, practicality, and excitement just seems…missing.

It’s that moment when cleaning out the closet, a woman hesitates…do I give them away? It’s a perfectly good pair, just not perfectly good for me. Do I walk the road barefoot again now that my feet have become soft, so used to shoes?

I’ve written only poetry in February and painted.  My art has blossomed and soon, I hope for a show. One of my pieces received great comments at the Georgia Morgan Art Show, good enough to keep me going. So I’m painting, writing poetry, and trying to write some fiction on the side for class. March will soon bring green, and I must decide what to keep in my closet, and what to put aside before summer and a return to the road.

Cage Free

21 Feb

All the good ones are taken,
placed warm
into calico lined baskets
from fresh birth into the sweet nut straw
of Spring.
Floating high,
they ride on the crooks of smooth skinned arms
as in tiny gondola
to kitchens brimful
of morning beams and May wind.

The good ones are deep,
rich yolked
like an aged orange sun,
rising huge and silent from the far edge
of the landscape of a woman’s dreams,
staining her life,
sticking to the bottom of the plates so long
she wonders how
they were never not there before.

And she is gentle with them,
because she knows her way around a kitchen.
For blush brown shell can be cracked so easily,
or left to spoil on a neglected counter;
they won’t be kept.

The good ones must be nested,
preventing precipitous drops
from hasty words or whipping
the daily pot absent mindedly onto a hot eye
for a non descript soft coddle
in the pre-dawn light.

The perfect ones
are smooth, imperceptibly pebbled
with intricacies so lovely
a finger’s rub over their smooth slopes
proclaims witness to an orb.

However.

I wonder.

How could this have been made?
How could such tenacity and fragility be born
from a thing which no longer flies
but roosts like a perpetual tenant
in the heart?

The good ones have all been
laid, taken, nested, cracked, scrambled, fried, boiled, and blended
and my basket still wants
for the rounded weight
of promises.

For the ones that are left
are thin skinned or misshapen,
a bin of ordinary sterile domes.
Perhaps hairline cracks have let what good
was inside seep through to stick shells to the carton
in which they were shuffled on to me.
Extracting them? Tedious.
All held breath and then,
regret.

Or maybe they’ve simply sat
and become rancid,
a sulfurous promise
only revealed upon use.

Two -Toned

4 Feb

Tangled barlines,
cacophonous fingers
coil the pearl rose lip of my ear,
slowly sliding the scale
past curls,
tossing the twirls
of ginger copper and brass.
An undulate tone
wraps round my shoulders,
and fringes my lower spine.

What is this fretted frame I feel,

warming a sonorous G
from the outside toward the in,
weighty,
finer than fine?

Crisp collared,
he glides
on oxford soles
cordovan and cream.
The bar gleams
with gin and lemon
and whiskies neat.
A brushed cymbal
pursues ice
in a crystal glass
toward the tinkling

into a melting mood.
Strokes of muted trumpet
roll around my rump
perched on a pin striped lap,
sharing a single seat.

In and out
of tensile tone,
the warbling wave
sends me into love
with myself.
Not him.

But how would he know?

Why would I ever tell him?

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