Retrospective

I find that, from time to time, I will open up past journals and revisit my poetry and writing. Several times in my life, I have contemplated using some of these past writings in a novel or story. This concept has hit me again today as Nanowrimo is coming up, and I thought I would share some previous work as I look through the journals.

Spring Thaw

glacial drips run head long

into puddles, feeding

moss and winter lilies,

as snow loads shift and

the Earth sighs with breaking

spring.

Rives

Old live oak roots run

deep beneath my family tree

strung with Spanish moss.

I Reside in...

a small brown box in the attic

of your mind. Mine is a world of remnants.

I live forgotten, fed upon dust,

muted sunshine, and the muffled

sounds of your life.

Abandoned, I sometimes

push aside the veil into your

world and slide softly over dusty

pine floors to peak into

the cradle of life. Gently I

move, disrupting

no air flow, creating no

ripples in my wake, and stand

unnoticed juxtaposed against

the animation of your world

the feminine yin to your yang,

I continue to dance amidst

shadows, somehow

immaterial.

Illusions Verde

My job reeks of despair, reminding me of high school

French where Le Belle Cruelle

embarrassed students for fun and profit.

WE sit like tethered veal between

grey partitions before dusty

outdated computers, pouring

time into research fluffing

out viteas of the elusive

unknown. Depression lies

heavy in an air steeped with

criticism, reams of paper

are pressed before the accused,

signed under scrutiny, and filed, in the illusion of

efficiency, with no break in the insistent

pick up, dial, type, hang up.

Monotony abounds and relative time drips molasses thick through

pinholes in altered reality.

The Uninhabited Mind

And so it begins, words

spilling upon the page in

search of illusive tells

rich with meaning, pointing

the way, to see and be

seen, to know and be

known: illusion, myth,

time, a field of infinite possibilities, sown

like a meadow of carnelian

poppies, thick with

scent and opportunities:

to speak the truth

unwavering and improbable.

Illusion/Reality

I walked a road thick with brambles and weeds.

The vines, grasping hands of the men

who entangles me,

Attempting to bind me within

a simple white shoe box.

I raged, breaking the goblet

called reason, and as I glued

the jagged pieces together found

myself anew. Now I stroll along avenues

cobbled and long trodden brushed only

by the silken whispers of your kind wishes.

J.D.

You came to me and

once in your blue eyes

I saw heaven's star,

the promise of passion

and God.

You came to me and

once in your arms

I became a queen draped in

illusion and love, dear.

You came to me and

with a voice or thunder

that drove

clouds away,

cleared by path of debris.

You came to me as summer changed

to fall and I was in the dark

searching for my soul,

and then I found your light.

You came to me.

Amore

I call with my siren's voice,

and wonder, will you

follow. I beckon with my

enchantress eyes, knowing

your heart is mine. I

touch you trailing

fire beneath fingertips

careless and calm.

Poetry

Poetry is a life practice, or

practicing life, in

symbols meaning

something new for

each reader—a collaboration of

life, grief, love, death:

It is all and nothing,

the beauty of a lover's

eye cast upon a

tempest sea.