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Embers and Tears
She peripherally saw the swirling waters at her feet. Glowing embers lifted on the breeze dotting the dusk like fireflies. She uncurled her fists and hit the wall but quietly so nobody knew
yet not so soft as she was wanting someone to catch her. She wondered as she watched everyone walking through the puddles why they didn’t seem to mind or even notice when she greatly disliked wet socks. Why don’t they stop, roll up their trousers, and wade barefoot? she wondered. Of course no one likes murky water or walking where you can’t exactly see where you’re going. But isn’t that part of the fun? she cried to herself? She was rare in that she truly liked being surprised.
Strange to be seen but not heard, she thought. Like a wisp of smoke rising from newly minted ashes with some grey warmth reaching out carefully. She tried to speak the words people wanted to hear but it always felt like she was playing dress-up with clothes that would never fit. The verbal costumes were fun, but she’d never want to keep them for her own. She’d rather sing and laugh than be so serious and weighted down with worry. When she blinked errant years away the crowd saw the tears and moved on, leaving her shaking and alone.
She wanted to share how happy she was in her own head with somebody in the world but maybe that kind of love is an illusion and the only magic that is true is what we dream when we’re awake. At night, the dreams don’t discern but describe things we don’t want to admit. She probably will never stop reaching out like tendrils of flyaway hair to find the connection that would help her finish her thoughts.
Breathing deep was getting harder as the waters rose but the burning nearby kept her warm. When she looked around, she realized she had missed some living while treading in her thoughts. Catching moments was harder than counting grains of sand. But not as hard as counting snowflakes.
Embers and tears combine and conspire to make the work of messy art that made her cache of nightmares come alive in a rich two-dimensional frame of reference.
an intimate portrait
he saw me only in words and letters and not sounds or tastes but kept coming back just the same
when he needed to feel higher and better
he asked to sketch me and when he was done I was shocked for it was not my face I saw looking back at me
but a portrait of my most private thoughts and places
every nook, crevice, hill, texture
rendered in pencil so deftly and softly drawn
showing something raw and beautiful when I had never been beautiful
but when I looked closer I saw him looking back at me
as he saw himself
so it was never just me
but I was still beautiful because we are all mirrors to each other
and the reflection does not exactly lie
but just reflects everything backwards
so we have to look a bit differently to the familiar in others and ourselves
to find beauty and truth
whether gently drawn or roughly chiseled in stone
we are not lesser or lower than anyone to anyone for anyone
if we remember the reflection and the silhouette of the shadow in the afternoon glow
as it fades to evening as do we all
we are left with artist renderings or words and pictures
and we are beautiful and higher and better
but still words and letters will not describe
what we hear and taste but we can try
to be true
Ol’ Blues Man
He spoke to me only through the music we shared
The pain was evident in his eyes
The weariness was etched with every line on his face
His fingers strummed and sifted through my memories
I couldn’t let him down
We couldn’t let the stony silence win
So I started to sing
I felt my voice take over the room even softly they could feel it in the back
While he opened his eyes for the first time and saw me and we moved together through the blues
We traveled through some craggy slopes
All that need to be said was sung
And the guitar wailed on
Between verses were only muffled curses
But there was joy in the harmony
There was harmony in the words
The words that only came in a song
And the song was all we shared.
Porphyria’s Season
She was fine with the solstice but the equinox got her every time.
He told her she was just the same as everyone else.
She thought that was not true all the time.
Someday she’d be someone’s The One and not a stand-in For Now.
She was an expert at transition
But could not abide consistency.
She didn’t see a calm pond but saw a stagnant cesspool.
She’d sing to the songs the breeze carried
He’d try to pin her like a moth to a board
When she really wanted the flame carried on the wires.
Had she really been told she could do anything
Or was that a daydream like the others?
What a lie if true, what a story if not.
There were constraints binding her to the Now but not her mind which delved into Then and Again.
For every change she built a pattern
For every room she’d create a space
In her vision he glowed like starlight
In her ears she sang for herself alone.
He thought he knew her seasons but she surprised him just the same.
