Labels

I spent some time today labeling all of my entries to this blog. I still have a great deal of poems and stories to upload here, but this is definitely a good start. It was so difficult classifying my writing sometimes, though. There are things I've written that seem to defy a label. I did my best. For me, perusing by topic is a more interesting way to read someone's writing than to follow a chronology. I'll try to keep this entry at the top of my blog so it's easy to find what interests you.

Links to all topics are listed below. Enjoy!

Labels: Being a Woman, Death, Dogs, Dreams, End of the Relationship, Eternity, Expectation vs. Desire, Grandfather, Growing Up, Journaling, Laws of Attraction, Love, Nature, Nighttime, Sailing, Short Story, Time, Unrequited, Writing

The Dream King

I once had a dream that wasn’t quite a dream
In which the Dream King came to visit.

He stepped in through my bedroom window,
Long tails of his black overcoat
Dusting my windowsill
While his feet touched down like silent night,
And he stood tall and dark at my bedside.

His voice was full of stardust,
Midnight, and mystery
As he spoke to me
And bade me come with him,
Stretching out his hand to mine.

I don’t recall his face, but it was handsome.
I don’t recall his voice, but it was deep.
It is his eyes that I will never forget,
Black, shining, and pupil-less,
And like Poe’s raven, they said “Nevermore.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment,
Then my fingers touched his.
His skin was soft and smooth as polished stone,
Warm as the blankets,
And I was comforted.

I rose to his side.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he replied, and I did.
We floated on moon glow,
And I was clasped tightly in his arms.

He bore me along effortlessly,
He wrapped me with his coat,
A coat that could cloak the sky,
And I peeked out over the dark landscape,
Safe and snug as a bug in a rug.

We flew ever so high, ever so far,
Over pastures and rivers,
Small towns and villages,
Highways and byways,
Until we came to a city.

At last, we came to rest
On the top of the tallest building,
And he held me there under the moon like a lover,
And we looked out over the streets far below
As though we were gods.

I can’t remember all of what he said.
But I remember he taught me to fly.
I remember his laugh like the soft wings of birds.
I remember his touch which was gentle and warm.
And I remember his love, pure and endless as the skies.

The next morning when I woke,
And the dawn crept golden across my face,
I felt as though I’d slept for the first time.
And a smile crept to my lips
Which still burned from his kisses.

YEAH, RIGHT

You're talking like a sailor to me
Strutting like a peacock, proud
And I wonder suddenly,
"What should my reaction be this time?"

You smirk and you smirk and you smirk
And you think you know me, don't you
You don't know me
I've got news for you. You don't know me.

For how could you begin to know
When I don't even know myself?
All I really know
Is that what you're doing isn't working.

Won't work. Can't work. I won't let it work.
Just give up the act, won't you?
You're not getting to me.
No, not getting to me at all.

Man, you're getting to me.
On my nerves, I mean.
That's what I meant.
Don't tell me what I meant.

Blood

The life of a woman is intimately connected with blood. The smell of it, the varying colors of it, become a pattern that mark out her days. She plans her life around the loss of blood; her wardrobe, her activities, her romantic encounters, her travel plans, her childbearing, indeed everything connected with her is in some way prescribed by it.

It is a rite of passage. It is something to hide. It is a monthly agony. It is a nuisance. It enslaves her. It is something to look forward to. It is something to dread. It is her pain. It is her gift. It gives her endurance. It wears her down. It makes her emotionally erratic. It brings her insight. It is one week out of every four. It is beyond her control. It is a war waged within. It is the blood of the women who came before. The blood of her womb. The blood of the mother who bore her in tears. The blood she will give to her own children. It is a sacrifice to life. And every woman feels it, knows it, endures it.

No man can ever understand the profound nature of this relationship. Very few men wish to know even the slightest details of her experience. For most of them, blood is death, something to be feared and avoided at all costs. They hate the thought of a woman's body becoming an open wound. They cannot be reconciled with the pain and bleeding that issues from the same place between her legs that gives them so much pleasure. The blood reprimands them, makes them feel as though they are somehow guilty of causing her discomfort. It becomes their shame, an unsightly mess to be cleaned up and made pristine.

Untitled for......

Understanding my feelings is the first step
Learning to accept them is the next
I hardly know you, and yet I feel
I’ve known you for eternity

How can it be that I feel so much
For someone I’ve known so short a time
How can it be that I know so little
About someone for whom I feel so strongly

You dream of me, you say
And I see you in my dreams as well
That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
Or does it? I hardly know what to think

Sometimes I think there’s no point in thinking
Sometimes I think there’s too little time
Sometimes I think you feel the same
Sometimes I think that I’m the only one

I wish it were easier to speak my heart
I wish it were easier to listen to my soul
I wish it were easier to ignore what others think
I wish it were easier to know your feelings

But we both play it so close to the vest
We both hope not to hurt each other
We both fear what we do not know
We both seek our destined ones

Are you the one? I cannot say.
Am I the one? Only you can know.
We seek the one who completes our selves.
Is there only one? We hope. Who knows?

Frozen

When the ice storm came
I was falling, falling, falling
I thought you’d catch me
But you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I loved you—how I loved you
I thought you loved me
But you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I cracked and splintered
When a word from your lips
Said you didn’t

When the ice storm came
I felt frozen, white as porcelain
Sharp as an icicle and twice as brittle
Because you didn’t

When the ice storm passed
I was left like trees that shattered
Into pieces on the ground
Because you didn’t

Pool Hall Jazz

Cue balls clank and thump in green
Angle-arched patterns 'neath neon gleam.
Smoke-curl tendrils writhe in streams,
Float on currents of wet-warm breath.

Butter-warm light-cones pierce the shadow,
Fall graceful from glass-globed lamps.
Above chalk blue tips poised for play
With arm-bent tapping amorous.

Fire flares in flickering flash
Twixt two fingers poised--grey ash.
You talk. I laugh. Sly smile and wink.
Clink of ice in short-glassed drink.

Fitful dreaming, the effort strenuous,
My brain on the verge of unconsciousness.
Suddenly wakeful--Did you call my name?
My fast-paced breathing fills the empty gloom.
Your voice cried out with urgency, I swear.
I look in the dark, knowing you’re not there.
It was a dream. A fancy. Nothing more.
Yet still I squint and strain to see your form,
Your face. My pulse echoes in the silence.
Did I hear you? Did you send a message
To my dream self, to my soul in the night?
No. Impossible. I don’t believe it.
I turn from the door, heavy eyes closing,
Your presence enfolds me, warm and wanting.

England, Spring 2005 Journal

Whenever I travel, I try to keep a journal of my trip. Last Spring Break when Mike and I went to England, I decided to turn my journal into a scrapbook as well, and what follows are scans of the pages. Early in the book, I was very good about writing every evening, but as the week went on, there seemed less time to work on this project. I did manage to glue all the scrapbook items inside the book, however. Enjoy!

TESTING THE WATERS

With fingers curled, uncertain, yes
This unworthy hand stretches forth
Do I see what I, but, oh no
Surely not from you, not for me
Study, I would, your sultry eyes
Plumb their furthest inner reaches

And, ah, do you reach too, trembling
Or in your eyes a reflection
I see, reaching, tentatively
And if I dare, and if I dare
Will you run like a frightened deer
Or bite the hand that feeds, that bleeds

Or if not, oh if not, what then
If my touch should go unchallenged
Still trepedatious will I be
For then, after all is said
And sighs and ohs and "yes, I do"
Will the flesh still flame the same

But who am I to think of that
No promises, oh, make me none
For who am I, there is no us
Not yet, not yet, and gently now
I stretch forth, slowly forth, to you
Please, don't run away, don't run, don't

MY OWN INFERNO

I've grown accustomed to the rack.
Once painful stretching of limbs
Now has only a familiar tug.
It's amazing what we can learn to tolerate.

My torturers are not unknown strangers
But familiar old acquaintances.
Expectation, the handmaid of Responsibility,
Guides their eager efforts.

Enterprise, at my right hand, sits silent to his task.
He does not suit me well as companion,
But supports me in my hour of need
And relishes not my strain.

On the left hand is Joy, whose pull is strong,
Gently whispering of phantom fields of ecstasy.
If I could loose my other bonds,
I'd follow her wherever she willed.

At my feet are those whose work is worst.
I see them now before me and I shudder--
The Creators on the right side,
Amity on the left.

The former encourage Enterprise to call to me.
Plaintively they goad him on,
Yet stubbornly he sets his lip and will not speak.
Theirs is the strength of disappointment.

Amity, I fear the most. Its ruby lips belie
The fangs that wait to strike at an open vein,
Its bite draining respect and fair regard.
The sweetest face hides the cruelest of torments.

Each of these captors I accepted willingly,
Choosing not to see their full intents.
I fastened my own chains with eagerness to please,
Then one by one they tightened round heel and wrist.

Now numb, I feel the pangs no more.
Distended, I hear the rush of time's car passing,
Thus dully waiting out the day
As an effigy of humankind.