Little Embers

Spine Poetry

Good Morning

Good morning, lady.
You'd glare if I called you that.
You're no lady,
Just a woman, a mother, a wife.
Other labels have peeled away
to leave you feeling somewhat hollow.
You let the shower warm up
while you brush your teeth.
Mist settles on your collection
of rusty pink razors
and empty shampoo bottles.
The baby coos at you from her bouncy seat.
Her brother wakes in search of the remote,
and cartoon theme songs echo off the tiles.
Your pajamas come off
and you cringe at your reflection.
All you see is a pile of flaws,
but you shouldn't.
Your thighs do not thunder.
They are the concentrated strength
that lets you run, bike, play.
They are the soft lap
your children seek when they need comfort.
You scratch at your stretch marks.
They are warrior tattoos,
symbols of the trials you survived.
Your stomach is not dough,
it is a patterned pillow
where your children rest their heads.
It was their first home,
and where you first fell in love with them.
Your breasts are not ugly, not ruined.
They nourished your children,
were the remedy to their discomfort,
were why they smiled as they dreamed.
I know you feel lost,
like your old self is gone forever,
but it isn't.
You just need a little time
so be patient, you'll get there,
you'll find your way back to yourself.
You don't need to smile yet,
just breathe.
Your weary face is beautiful.
The baby giggles at you,
her favorite thing in the world,
her entire world.
Lady, magnificent mama,
step into that shower,
and wash your self-loathing away.

Time-Lost

My cat enjoys being time-lost far more than I do. She also enjoys sleeping on my partially-finished quilt top.

The dream-time of narcolepsy... a month passes in an instant and I am left wondering where I've been. My creativity goes into overdrive but I can't find the energy to utilize it. I spend my nights semi-sleep, and my days semi-awake. There is not always a clear division between dreams and reality and I differentiate what I have really done and what I have dreamed. Spiders drip from rippling walls, disembodied heads float above my bed -- these are the paralytic hypnogogic hallucinations that spring forth in the darkness when I am caught in the asleep-awake threshold. I occasionally have hypnopompic hallucinations as well, but those are rarer.

I lose time. I live it, I function within it, and I remember most of it, but time undulates in an irregular pattern that sometimes leaves me frustrated. During these periods, which usually last several months, I become hypercreative in visual endeavors instead of literary. All the while, I remain frustrated that I can't focus my fatigued mind enough to write. I don't often recognize I am time-lost until dissatisfaction over my writing failures peaks. Eventually, time flips over and the visual is eclipsed by the cerebral as my focus returns and I slip into a less aggravating phase of my disorder.

Time-Lost

I'm adrift between awake and asleep,
Halfway to nowhere, regrettably languid.
Worlds and stars spin around retrograde idioms,
Askew, and dripping microseconds into annihilation.
I careen to avoid another day, another nebulous morning,
Where the time-lost slip into Lethe and drown,
Forgetting the hours, the days, the purpose,
An abeyance of everything, continuance of nothing.
Find me if you can, capricious Time,
For I am caught in the maze of the narcoleptic void.
Awake, asleep, and egregiously haunted
By the fickle visions of an effulgent stupor.
Arise from the shade, little muse, little whim,
And recover my lucidity from meandering seasons,
Unbind my perception from sidereal rambling,
And spin my balance away from dream-time.

Lullaby

Sleep now, baby, it will be all right. 

Quiet now, baby, drift over calm seas. 

Don't cry, baby, you are never alone. 

Whisper hope into the sweet, dark night,

Sing out in love to the stars so bright,

Dream of beauty and dream of light. 

Fly away, fear, and leave him to sleep. 

Fly away, sorrow, and no longer weep. 

Sleep now, baby, and drift off to peace.

-Bethel Masiona, Sand into Glass

Y is for Young

I found a relic of the past today.  When I was in 10th grade, my English class put together a little book called Soul Food, which contained essays and poems from every student in the class.  I located it in my garage.  Garages hide boxes of memories.

This is the poem I wrote for the book.  I was fifteen years old.

A Forever Friend (Winter 1998)

When we were young,
That's when we had readl fun,
When imaginations soared,
When Chihuahua dogs were dragons,
And tulip flower fairies were real.
We dashed across green grass all day,
And did not give a care
About the past presidents of France,
Or the bloody war in the east.

When we were young,
We flew like sparrows under the sun.
The jack pine lions roared
At the pink and orange snapdragons,
And chocolate ice cream was a meal.
We skipped on ivory moonbeam rays,
And jumped alligator infested moats on a dare,
And slashed our favorite corduroy pants,
And concocted a delicious mudpie feast.

When we are old,
We'll rest on the porch until the day is done,
And we'll wear purple and never pore,
Of hearing the child down the road bragging.
Our everlasting friendship will have a tangible feel.
We'll sit and remember our play,
And not mind if the wind blows our silver-gilt hair.
We'll recall the time a pine bough was a lance
Used to spear the mighty shadow beast.

When we are old,
We'll snooze with our hair in a bun,
And won't care if we snore.
Grandchildren pushing red wagons
Will help wizened hearts heal.
We won't care how much we weigh,
And will irk the young by eating an eclair.
And for eternity we'll watch the kaleidoscope sunset dance.
Together through the ages, friends forever.

Gloaming

twilight is a clawed embrace,
raking at the golden hour.
a hunger burns unrelenting
but i know not what i desire.
the dark, the stars, a misery,
to touch the gossamer sweet light
with hazy eyes and hazy mind.
the shadows set, transition to gloom,
twilight gloom, a weighted dark,
and sunlight's last remorse.
darkness growing, ever burning,
coldly creeping ambiguous light
the claws of nightfall longingly reach
for my soul, my twisted soul,
which aches for the taloned caress
and hungers with sharpened teeth.
it lasts but an instant,
and then all is dark,
the end of twilight, that fleeting hour,
power fades into the trees,
and my soul retires
until the gloaming of dawn.

Lux

Are you illuminated?
Or are you a prisoner
to the shadows of your soul?
Do you fight and struggle
until you are past your limit,
or do you wilt and fade
without trying?
Do you fear the monsters
both within and without?
Do you listen to the song of the stars,
the cadence of time,
the rhythm of the earth?
Can you feel the pulse
of a fading echo?
I can.
I am almost fearless,
but I am an abyss.
The only thing I am afraid of
is those who fear the unknown.

11/11/08

Boreal

A frozen field in autumnal pain,
The bitter damp feels no remorse,
The pale sun pleads for mercy,
Her glancing blow a creeping glare
On the low, writhing horizon.
The darkened stare of night's embrace
Haunts the withering lichen face
Of darkened fields, the tundrid ice
Where naught a weary head may lie.
The northern lights submit no warmth,
Though they dance with frantic grace.
The sun surrenders futile heat
And retires to a safer place.
On the ice where the caribou roam,
Silence, a breath of frigid hope,
For gloaming creeps below the cold.
Though colder yet will winter be,
A dark embrace of misery
Beset only by dawning light.
Frigid hearts return to a thaw.

Tangential

I can see your face in my dreams.
I don't know if it is really you,
or someone I conjured.
You are intangible,
but maybe so am I.
Maybe we all are
tangent to life but never
really touching it at all.
Do you smile when you're sad
to hide the pain?
I think you do.
So do I.
Why do you call yourself that?
You are not that, you are not hateful.
You are not cruel.
You are vibrant.
I am the phantom, not you.
Do you whisper when you are angry?
Do you draw the life
from everyone you come near?
I can see you,
but I can't see the real you.
I only see what I want,
because I don't know any  more.
I can look in the mirror
but I can't touch it,
touch the person on the other side.
No one can.
Which side of the mirror is real?

Hypnogogic

in flux,
midway between asleep and awake.
the terrible absence of feeling,
a numb reward for...
nothing achieved.
flights of figments
infiltrating peripherals with insubordinate ease,
waiting, longing, striking.
reality merges with imaginary,
creates a new phantasm.
what is real and what is not...
indistinguishable, imperceptible.
it's all the same, meticulous botanicals,
a bit of remorse for a life less extraordinary.
fleeting, evading, submissive
freedom to create, victorious,
and finally, troubled sleep.
flurries of thought never diminish,
teasing, taunting,
coaxing to apex.

Shade/Mirror

While I was having a breakdown over my lost work, I found a missing and forgotten notebook.  There are  notes for three of my books in it, as well as a bunch of poetry.  I'm going to do a series of posts using the old, forgotten poetry to take my mind off of things for the moment.  They are dated November 2008.

Shade/Mirror

Showing everything, revealing
nothing.
Bright pools, mirrors
reflective,
but reflecting nothing real.
Show me who you are.
I see no reflection in your eyes.
There is no reflection,
no mirror, only
pure color, only
a shade within.
You elude me,
creature of twilight,
neither dark nor light.
In between.
Rays of murk,
ambiguous.
Oceanic spray.
No remorse, no envy,
only confusion,
loss.
Pelagic quandary.
A cleave between soul and form.
You are not the creature in the mirror,
you are something else.
Who are you?
What are you?
Why do you haunt me?
I almost see you,
but I cannot grasp.
Sleepless dreamer,
the phantom internal,
come out and play.
I want to see you.
I am not afraid.
Reveal.
Hiding no longer?
But, you are!
You always hide.
No truth and no lie,
only fate, only being.
Frailty.
Some fear you,
some ignore you,
so you stay in the shade.
I do not fear you.
Show me your reflection.
I am your mirror.
I am grasping, yet see nothing.
We are one.

Star Baby

Star baby, water baby, who are you, little girl?
You look like me and came from me, but you are not me.
You are a dreamer already, but what are your dreams?
Is there music in your soul, or physics, or poetry?
Do you wish to soar through the universe,
Or would you rather stay closer to home?
I'll help you either way, my star baby, my water baby,
I'll help you find your dreams and make them your reality.
Your future belongs to you and I am just your guide.
Sleep now, sweet baby, and dream your favorite dreams.
Weave your dreams, my baby, let me rock you to sleep.

Gloaming

twilight is a clawed embrace,
raking at the golden hour.
a hunger burns unrelenting
but i know not what i desire.
the dark, the stars, a misery,
to touch the gossamer sweet light
with hazy eyes and hazy mind.
the shadows set, transition to gloom,
twilight gloom, a weighted dark,
and sunlight's last remorse.
darkness growing, ever burning,
coldly creeping ambiguous light
the claws of nightfall longingly reach
for my soul, my twisted soul,
which aches for the taloned caress
and hungers with sharpened teeth.
it lasts but an instant,
and then all is dark,
the end of twilight, that fleeting hour,
power fades into the trees,
and my soul retires
until the gloaming of dawn.

(This was written during a sunset thunderstorm a couple of years ago. The photograph was taken at a campfire a different night.)