Yes, I still love
You
but my love holds
no Sway
Yes, I still reach for
You
but my arms do
not Tempt
Yes, I still miss
You
but my tears don’t
Cleanse
Yes,
I do
No,
you don’t
So, I decided to take the next logical step in blogging and have moved to a self-hosted site. I’m a bit bleary after the last couple of days of putting it together, as it is an awful lot of work, much more than you might think – but I do believe it’s worth the effort.
I hope you’ll update your links and continue to visit – I have appreciated your readership very much and I thank you, as always, for reading.
See you at the new place, I hope.
Love,
Sarah
I put together a few more pods. You can find them here – I also re-recorded a few others, finally found a recording software that I could understand. I think they’re better than the last batch. Enjoy.
Sarah
We don’t want to forget
so we read
the Names
we sound the bells
we Remember
We don’t want to lose (again)
so we go to the desert
get them their justice
bury our dead
read the Names
sound the bells
We want to honor
so we wrap them
in Flags
gentle their bodies
into hallowed ground
utter prayers
relinquish tears
fight the futility
carry on
build memorials
fight amongst ourselves
drive with the lights on
wonder Why
why can we not live
in co-existence
God does not want this
we do not want this
I do not want this
who wants this?
We do not want to forget (them)
so we read the Names (and weep)
we sound the bells (to their souls)
We Remember (always)
copyright 2008
This post has been moved here.
Trees don’t lie
there is an expectation
of the dawn
and tomorrow
will be different
and yesterday too
if you let it
A backward story
makes your beginning
possible
characters out of tune
can sing a lovely
song
if you listen
A solitary hill
is not a lonely place
if it what it shows you
brings you closer
to the truth
and
you can see it
Time cannot own you
nor waste your dreams
if you travel between
the minutes
above the hours
then
it is yours
copyright 2008
And the poet
wrote her story
in lovely metered
prose
Nothing more
that she could do
than lay
her heart
eXposed
Life is still a
dance
no matter what you
do
And everything’s a
chance
a door
for walking through
She leaves it widely
open
and worries not the
risk
and fills the air
with Chopin
and breathes in
morning mist
The days will make
the colors
that shade
the things to
come
still, the world can be
a dullard
and leave your soul
undone
So the poet
writes her story
and scribbles at it
still
with no dreams of
glory
just a view
from toP of
hill
copyright 2008
Lullaby and goodnight…The song came back to Karen on an evening rare and fragrant. She could nearly hear the voice that sung it. She knew it had been soft and sweet and that it contained tears. The windchimes tickled by a small poof of breeze conjured a mobile – shiny – and it had music too. The tune, Karen couldn’t remember, but she knew it was happy. And there were pictures of sweet clowns on the walls, which were painted blue, like the sky and swirled white into winsome clouds.
Lullaby and goodnight…the voice reached for Karen again and she pulled her old sweater around herself – tighter to make a cocoon that could embrace her anxiety. She chewed on her lower lip, craving a cigarette, something she’d given up in a previous life along with booze and fast-talking men.
“What woman gives away her own child?” Karen had asked herself repeatedly over the years – and more now that she had a child of her own who slept like an angel in her room, inside the house that belonged to the steps that Karen sat upon. Waiting.
Karen checked her watch but couldn’t see the time. She should have turned on the porch light and waited inside, but she didn’t want to make it easy for her. Why should she? The woman had never made it easy for Karen. “What mother doesn’t want their own child?”
Karen sat in the dark and waited against her instincts, her better judgment. Lullaby and goodnight...the warble sought her out again which teased tears from large grey eyes. Did they have the same eyes? So many birthdays, so many years of looking, hoping. Meeting only the answer, no. So much time gone by that Karen regretted consenting to see her. Instead, Karen wanted to hurt her, make her feel abandoned, lost and unwanted.
The breeze grew stronger and leaves skittered like a thousand tap-dancing mice across the walk. “What mommy doesn’t want her little girl?” the question screamed in Karen’s head.
A car made a slow ascent up the hill and in her direction. Karen tensed. Was this it? Would she finally face the woman who gave her to strangers? The car rolled to a stop with a slight squeak and Karen was on her feet, halfway down the walk, no longer thinking of old wounds and past betrayals, but reacting with a need that had never left her.
The passenger side window powered down and the driver leaned toward it. “I’m looking for 132 Oak, is this it?” the man asked.
Karen stopped mid-step, shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “No,” she pointed east, “it’s that way.”
The driver nodded and put the car in motion and headed back down the hill and Karen, toward the house. She wasn’t coming. Too much a coward. The story would have no ending – happy or otherwise.
Karen released the tears from their prison of restraint and stood at the steps weeping, hugging herself, knowing that truth would never be hers and that God had decided that she didn’t deserve it.
Then a hand touched her shoulder. “Karen? Don’t cry, dear.”
Karen dare not turn, not look, not believe – she could not bear to see emptiness again.
“Karen, it’s me … your mother..” and the voice was like the song, the lullaby and the hand was gentle on her trembling shoulder.
“I can’t look,” Karen wept. “I can’t look,” she whispered raggedly.
“It’s all right, I understand. You don’t have to look. I’ll just stand right here – so you won’t be alone.”
As Karen wept, the hand of her mother rested gently on her shoulder and stayed there as an anchor to the truth of them. And Karen’s mother sang, “Lullaby and goodnight…”
copyright 2008
Hot
heavy
humid
the air
SqueezeS me
awake
draws me to the
moon
sweltering
and sweating its
light
I linger at the window
wishing for
cooler air
and simpler dreams
or no dreams
at all
just sleep
without worry
copyright 2008
It was a warm breath at the back of her neck. A poem committed to memory, yet never read. It stalked her – followed her wherever she went. Ever present, yet impossible to capture.
Sometimes quiet, like a low hum that murmurs in the background. Sometimes as tempetuous as a summer lightning storm, crackling against a sultry sky. Usually it was a persistant song that hung in the air and whispered her name. That hovered over her bed at night and crawled into her dreams – teasing her, caressing her and forcing her sleep-heavy eyes open. To look.
But it could not be seen with eyes – only felt in the everywhere of the space. Waiting. Holding its breath and pretending it wasn’t. It was a mirror toward which she reached and was met with a duplication of her own outstretched arm. The heat that emanated from that reflection back at her said, ‘yes, I’m here.’
And she had conversations with herself about it – hoping she was simply going mad and soon would find a medication to turn it off and send it packing. Though she knew it was not madness, nor hallucination – it was real and palpable, dimensional, tactile, smellable, tasteable. With the ability to travel over time and space effortlessly, finding her wherever she was, wherever she hid. It was a surge of heat that shot through her core, found the place where it could nest and call home.
