writings, musings, and the like

missing Céline

2011-03-12T20:46:00.000-08:00

One thought,
Of the oh so many after finding out:
And what of the milk?

I wake some mornings
Waiting for my baby to rouse
And release the ache
Of the milk ready to come.

But my pin-drop of pain
Is nothing contrasted with
Morning stretching into
Daytime,
Afternoon,
Evening,
Nighttime.
Weighty.
Full for too long.

In addition to the heartache,
To the arms missing the warm load,
A cuddly bundle of baby,
To the seeing her clothes piled up softly,
To the holding her sister,
To the crying,
The sighs,
The kneeling in prayer.

All
This
Plus
The milk
That will no longer sustain.

2011-03-06T19:50:00.000-08:00

previously she had powers to do anything and everything.

now she's not so sure.

the troublesome part,
the bit that confuses her head and her heart,
is the invisibility and intangibility of the moment--
the WHEN.

the
when-did-this-all-of-a-sudden happen to me?
the
when-did-the-former-me cease to be?

previously she was.
then she became.
now she is.

right?

it should all add up.
nicely.
smoothly.
succinctly.
without a hitch.
sans any sort of hiccup.

but the trouble remains.
disturbing the peace.

moment by moment, though, she gains.
she wins tranquility and normalcy.

she basks in the whole holy present.
she breathes without a glance back.
she closes her eyes without any forethought.

and rests.

keep asking

2010-01-12T19:14:00.001-08:00

Will you? Will you be? Will you be there? Will you be there tomorrow? Will you be ready there tomorrow? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me when I fall? Will you be there tomorrow ready to catch me when I fall hard and fast? I will be there. I'll be coming from the cliff on high and I ask you these questions now because there will be no spitting them out as I rush through the air into, hopefully, your arms.

a start?

2010-01-12T19:01:00.000-08:00

The hem had come undone and she fingered the frayed threads. She'd sat down ten minutes earlier, waiting for the bus. Once a week she took the twenty minute bus ride south. The volunteer opportunity had piqued her interest when she heard about if from one of her teachers. Now she searched inside her bag for the safety pin she'd been carrying around for months. Her hand scrabbled around in her bag before coming to a resting stop as she remembered the safety pin was gone; she'd given it to the little boy with the runny nose.

They'd drawn a blue dinosaur together. Blue with orange spots. And they'd named him Ralph. Well, they was a generous term because, really, she'd suggested at least a dozen names while he stared blankly at her. It took awhile before she hit upon Ralph. His silent smile after her utterance spoke of his approval. He handed her the blue crayon, and she slowly wrote each letter above his own self-scrawled name.

She had opened the safety pin, pushed it through his overalls' strap, stuck it through the paper Ralph, and closed it. The boy had rubbed his eyes and looked up at her with another smile, this time opening his mouth slightly as if he was actually going to let words escape. He didn't, though. She, in turn, had patted his head and told him goodbye as his mother grabbed his hand and whisked him away.

nostalgia

2010-01-08T05:52:00.000-08:00

Some days I find myself walking down streets that stretch so far away from here. Sunny days and ice cream bought from a vendor asking me if I have five kopek to make perfect change. Days like today that start with visible air and end with rain freezing to road tops. Days when snow turns to slush turns to mud. Faces begin to appear in no magical order. Alla's mother stumbles out on the street and presses both her hands against the outside of the apartment. The little boy whose name I've forgotten--he sits on my lap as we ride the bus to his house. We share a pomegranate while he talks of cars and guns in an excited voice. We leave his house to find ourselves covered and almost coated with a gorgeously sparkling sky, uninhibited by streetlight camagflogue. Some days. I have to pull myself back to reality and focus on the task at hand. But I welcome the respite. The small escape into my heart's memories. Shura and her full-cheeked, smiling face. The new scab on her chin from her latest trip on the path. I miss her smile's warmth.

sea sparkle

2009-12-17T05:53:00.001-08:00

We sprinkled sea water
Upon your hair,
So when it dried
We could see it
Sparkling in the sun.

heart close

2009-12-17T05:44:00.000-08:00

I want my heart to pound next to yours. You'd left it at that, and then we stood chest to chest in a hug as our hearts continued their beating of blood, if only a bit more rapidly than before.

I know the words you said didn't signify one distinct moment of heart pounding because we'd stood like this before. Held each other like this before. And, yet, it was different because this was the first time I'd heard you say I want in anything related to the future.

Your eyes met mine and you said I want my heart to pound next to yours. And that's what made me want to hold on to forever.

before the sun woke you up

2009-11-19T18:15:00.001-08:00

Before the sun woke you up, I had already been to the river. I dipped in my toes. Hushing the automatic shocked gasp, I rocked back on my heels. I didn't want to startle you or the deer that grazed but one hundred yards away.

The butterflies began unfurling their wings to the warming rays as you fluttered open your eyes. Too bad we can't take flight with them and skim the surface to search out the source of this icy water.

But not always too bad because here we gaze with our eyes closed. We figure out their flight patterns and follow them even while moored solidly to the rock upon which we crouch.

not of the rain

2009-11-19T18:12:00.000-08:00

I run through the rain.
Wish it would soak through my skin,
Rather than slide off,
Leaving me by myself again.

summer praise

2009-11-09T06:15:00.000-08:00

caught between the lines drawn with two thick black pieces of chalk. there's dust in the air and i find it hard to inhale and then i have nothing at all to exhale. it's just a cough and i feel as if there are hands on my throat. the fingers dig into my skin and I close my eyes. it doesn't have to be so violent, though. we can run through fields on blue sky, yellow sun, pink flower days. we can fall on our backs and wish on a cloud. yes, this is called day-time desiring. it's not a nighttime ritual where stars get wishes shoved upon them. it's just a cloud. maybe the whitest. maybe the puffiest. maybe the one that's moving the fastest and we can stop it long enough to cast our wish upon it, before we lose sight of it to the brown mountain. our wish. we share. it's not a mine nor a yours thing. it's simply simple and all the colors make us smile and shine. we've forgotten the snow-cold winter days when we wore nothing but frost on our faces. for now is the time for freckles. the time for blonding of hair.

a year ago (rushwrite)

2009-11-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

Hopes too high.
Come crashing down like a kite cut from the sky.
Failure to fly
Creates a crumpled figure
Crushed into dirty snow.
My nose bleeds through my fingers.
I wipe my hands on my pants
Then raise them to catch the blood again.
There's no stopping it.
The legs of my pants cling to me with wet.
The patches where I knelt
Have turned a shade of icy, bloody brown.

instant magic

2009-10-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

at least that's what it felt like

because at first
there was nothing

and then in a flash
everything existed

let's

2009-10-06T11:44:00.000-07:00

Because I haven't writtten on here in ages and I haven't really written much creatively of late, I looked back to something I wrote this February and modified it. See below...(yay for lunchtime to give me time to eat, listen to a Conference talk, and write a little bit...one more class to go for the day.)

You'd never guess my greatest fear.
You'd never guess the things so dear to me.
You'd never guess all this about me,
And I, in turn, would never guess as much about you.

That's why there's talk,
No?

That's why we need to talk.

I would like to try to
Get around
All the
Guessing,
Conjecturing,
Supposing.

Things aren't always what they seem to be.
Isn't that a saying?
Well, same with people.

So let's talk.
Because you'd never guess all I want you to know,
Need you to know.
And I'd never guess the same.

orbs

2009-08-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

My dreams miss me.

I startled awake,
And left them weeping their weaving tale.

I almost cried

When I stepped outside.
The moon globed in the west.

But with no glasses gracing my face,
I couldn't make out its detail.

Is it the same with you sometimes?

You step away from me,
And tires spinning have crushed the lenses

Which bring things into focus.

I can see the oval of your face,

But can't distinguish
Between the way your mouth moves
To make an 'O' sound
And the way it slowly

comes to a sad close.

pause

2009-07-21T14:22:00.000-07:00

Waves crash upon the sand. I search for rounded sea glass amid the pebbles that stick to the bottom of my feet. We sink into sand and sea water kisses our knees. I kneel and fill my hands with sand. I move and mound it into the shape of a dome. You remain standing, so, with more sand, I cover your feet. Moments later you crouch down, breaking through your feet's fetters, and add to the dome. But your eyes stretch out to the horizon and don't focus on this moment. My eyes on yours, I can't see where you've gone, although you're still very literally and physically here. I'm not with you, wherever you are. I stand and step a few more paces into the water until it hits me hip-high. I raise my arms and look up at the white clouds turning pink. I sway my hands in the water and bring some to my face. I start back towards you. Looking at my feet, I place them on the bigger rocks. I don't want to slip. And then. Underwater. I choke because the force of you pushing me under has left me without air. The abruptness of submersion incites me to laughter, not aiding the choking situation much. I grab your waist. I laugh. You smile. I quiet down, regain the ability to breathe again, and it's just us standing there. Heaving breaths towards the horizon and wet with water, we pause. Together.

already

2009-07-19T14:48:00.000-07:00

She couldn't bring back the way he said her name,
Despite the ringing in her ears.

Her memory echoed with his voice--

I don't know,

Wait and see,

and

Oh my goodness.

Her name, though,

No.

She would think.
She would wonder.

How did you say my name?
Was it always with a hint of a smile?
Why did I rarely lock eyes with you in that moment?
Was it out of fear?
Or out of too much heedless love?
Did you ever say my name happily?
Or was it always already soaked with regret?

Always already,
Her name
Gone.

set to "Dance Theme of the 80's"

2009-07-14T13:56:00.000-07:00

last night.
sun down.
street lights.
drive round.

song loud.
chlorine sting.
perfect crowd.
voices sing.

pull in.
one more.
perfect grins.
sweet core.

ledge's edge

2009-06-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

Next to the windowsill
She curled herself into sleep,
Hoping some big friendly giant would scoop her up
And take her away from
Here.

But her perch was not edgy enough.
How was she to know?

So,
No sauntering, amiable giant
Became her rescuer.

There she lay,
Awake the whole night.
Eyes closed but awake,
Waiting.

Morning came.
She stepped back into the room
And tried to face the day.

rushwrite 4 may 2009

2009-05-05T13:45:00.001-07:00

How can I miss something I have never had?

I miss the way I held you in my dream.

You were mine,
And I held you.

You were new to this earth,
And I was yours.

I held you.

A soft new towel to swaddle you in.

I miss the way my hand supported your head.

I miss your eyes.
Your mouth.
Your round belly.

I miss you.

You had no name to me yet,
But I knew our blood forged the bond between us.

Sometimes it's just you.
Sometimes you're a girl.
Sometimes you're a boy.
I hope it doesn't disturb you--no set sex.
It seems no cause for alarm to me;
Just dreamland making dreamy sense like usual.

Sometimes it's just you with me.
Sometimes, like last night, more accompany you.

Last night you had two older sisters.
All of you were mine.
I was all of yours.
And I miss you all.

I ask this question too:
Who stands,
Who sits,
Who stays
Beside me?

For in dream, there is no one.

Not even a phantom
Not even a wisp of tangible air
Not even a vanishing flash

Nothing.
No one.
No one here now either.

I stand

Sol
i
tary

Almost solitary.
Solitarily missing you.

Visit me again soon.
I already miss you.
I miss you already.
I will always miss you.
I always will miss you.

And this part might not make sense:
Even when you come, I might still miss you;
I might be in such shock that you've finally let me hold you for real,
For the first time--
We will be each others.

steel my heart

2009-03-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

water my eyes
rock my knees
flower my forehead
wind my hair
fire my feet
dirt my belly
light my hands

could I?

2009-03-21T18:32:00.000-07:00

I could almost
If you would

I could almost whisper your name
I could almost write you a letter in another language
I could almost laugh at your eyes making a silent joke

I could almost
If you would

If you would call me up to describe the shattered bird's egg you held
If you would perch on a rock with me and gaze above and below
If you would see me

If you would
I could

I could jump without a fear of falling
I could hold my breath forever
I could let you see me

I could

open after

2009-03-03T19:21:00.000-08:00

it wasn't the way you blinked your eyes before laughter
it was the way you opened them after
they always seemed more sad
as if you realized nothing at no time in no place
could possibly make you laugh in precisely the same way

you would open your eyes
and the spark of light would shine
still brightly
but tinged with a more serious edge

it had something to do
also
with the slight furrowing of your brow

for an instant
the space above your nose would converge
holding back something unseen

and so it's you I think of now
as the laughter dies
on an exhalation
followed by a deep inhalation

it's you because your after-laughter-eyes
haunt me
taunt me
with a morsel of knowledge at which
I cannot even begin to grasp

so keep it up
you
your creasing brow
the withholding
the keeping yourself out of reach
I cannot understand you
and your laughter's aftermath

yet?

to rachel

2009-03-03T19:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, Rachie, 'tis not easy at all for me. It's just my spewing. Don't know if any of it makes much sense at anytime. But thanks for reading. I write mostly for myself; I'm selfish that way, but it's nice to know that at least one person happens to take a lil' gander at these things.

fill in the rest

2009-03-02T10:52:00.000-08:00

writing prompt for today:
Use one of the following phrases as the first line of your poem.
Write at least two poems in the ten minutes we have to write.
No, your poem doesn't have to rhyme.
Be creative in crafting vivid imagery.

First lines:

One window is all I need
Forgive me while I lower my head now
He hadn't fished on any river
Once I dreamed I succeeded in balancing on an egg
She blinked and moved on

(If you absolutely detest all of these first lines, go ahead and write your own.)

Here's what I came up with in about five minutes...nothing much, but it's always fun to go off for a moment:

one window is all I need
though I'd like three or four
luxury is not an option
with these dark dank walls
closing me in

one window is all I need
but no plea
can crack open a break
in this stone

one window is all I need
to see
to gaze
at a spot of hope
removed from here

all I need is one window
is one window all I need?
is survival one window?
survival is one day
one moment

one breath

need

2-0

2009-02-12T05:33:00.000-08:00

They run the length of the field
With their four shadows marking Xs
Round them.

I watch them pass, trap, juke.
I listen to the Spanish.

I don't understand,
But turn it up anyway to hear
The rise and fall of their voices.

It looks cold and wet,
But envy still bites.

I want to make such a crisp pass.
I want to run onto the ball
Perfectly riding into the open space.

Terry Tempest Williams

2009-01-31T08:10:00.000-08:00

“Writers break black letters out of lead and line them up on white sheets of paper and ask others to read the sentences we have created for ourselves” (Finding Beauty in a Broken World 19).

question of the heart

2009-01-27T19:06:00.000-08:00

What do you do with a heart that has stopped beating for love?

This is not a multiple choice question,
For your information.

For your information, also,
It's not really your heart I'm musing about;
It's mine.
You would have probably guessed as much anyway
By my tone of voice
And by the way I've placed my right hand
In position above where I assume my heart to be.

I assume
Because I've never actually opened the cavity in which it lies.
I've bled its blood,
But I've never seen its pounding rhythms.
Only felt.
But the feeling deeper than touch that could have been is gone, vanished.
Could have been.

Like I said,
What do you do?
What do I do?

I've stopped living for love
And as I sank into sleep last night
It was this image which made my eyes blink awake for one last moment.

The image was this:
A massive sledgehammer in both my hands.
I wield the end of it like an expert.
Standing, I take in a lungful of air
Then set myself down, lying on the ground.
It's done, I think.
And in response my force catapults the hammer's thick end upon my heart.
Bones offer no protection.

But I seek no protection, so it's fine.

I'm muted and at peace.

Le fin [de mon coeur].

3 swing shots from 20 may 05

2009-01-21T16:38:00.000-08:00

I'm in the mood to write, but only have 19 minutes and I have absolutely 0 inspiration at the moment. So I'm writing the following based on the above 3 pictures. No promises. Ok, maybe there's 1 promise, but it's pretty much a promise to myself. Write, Lyn, and you'll feel better. Somehow. Eventually. Not that I'm feeling bad. I just know I'll feel better and I don't have to promise anything to anyone else. And I guess there's the promise that minutes keep ticking and now I've only 15 to get to some real writing.

Swing.

Swings.

The lush summertime green looks so soft I'd like to touch it for awhile.
Because today, yesterday, and likely tomorrow, I'll step outside and fill my lungs with mucky gray air.
Waiting for a storm now to blow it all away.

Sophie.
Liza Beth.
Josh.

The children of my summers.

This is the beginning of summer before my mission.
In fact, glancing at the date listed on the picture folder, it's Andrew's birthday. He's in France somewhere in that year 2005. I have five days till entering the MTC.

This is the sharing of laughter.
This is the pushing.
This is the swinging.
This is the sharing of smiles.

I push you.
Higher.
Higher.

Again.
Again.

My mom said once that I'm a child of summer. I agreed with her while thinking, how strange, though, Mother, for I was born on a winter's day.
I despise not winter, but I so delight in summer.
And days like today make me crave its warmth.

Would you look at that grass?

These are the kids who filled me up with love.
Summer nights.
Afternoons.
Mornings even.

Picking raspberries.
Chalking the driveway.
Reading books.
Hide-and-go-seeking.

Swing, little one.
Move away from me,
And then come nearer.

Smile at me, little one.
Stretch your arms,
And yawn.

Swing, middle one.
Hide your smile with your lips,
But I can still see it in your eyes.

Swing, middle one.
Grow so tall,
And soon your feet will scrape the ground.

Swing, oldest one.
Up in the tree
You always climb.

Smile, your silly smile.
Arms wrapped round yourself.
If you fall, the grass catches softly, kindly.

Pray for me little ones, like I know you did.
For I left you once on a long journey.
How I missed the sound of your prayers,
Praying for Andrew.

I pray for you.

As we keep swinging.

As we keep growing
Up and older.

Higher and higher.

Again and again.

Pray always.
Never stop smiling.

And with 1 minute left, c'est le fin de quelque chose. Something to come back to and explore perhaps or perhaps something to leave forever. Who knows?

2009-01-07T13:54:00.000-08:00

"You can see anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend. I bow to them. I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down. I love words so much. The unexpected ones. The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until suddenly they drop." -Pablo Neruda

Just a lovely quote from a more than lovely writer...

wishful thinking

2009-01-04T13:44:00.000-08:00

Darkness outside the windows states
The sun has set.

Yet we sit inside
With lights on.

And, Mother, you create even more
By setting ablaze the candles.

They stick up out of the rhubarb pie--
My birthday request.

No, I did not request one more candle
For the annual addition requires none of my persistance.

It's the rhubarb I've desired--
This pie.

Now these candles call my attention.
They await my extinguishing breath.

I assume everyone singing to me wonders what sort of wish creation
Occurs inside my head.

I feel confusion, not a light wishful-making feeling.
I know not for what to wish.

There are too many things.
Too many people.
Too many situations.
Too many

And I'm one.
I'm one with one more year
Behind me.
Ahead of me?

Smoke.

buried

2008-12-14T09:10:00.001-08:00

Friends we were.
We played in the wind.
We decided on the stem of a leaf
To grow tall and strong and old together.

We buried the acorn an inch too deep,
And now my fingernails are black
From trying to scratch it out.

I want to hold it.
I want to remember you.
Remember you holding it.

You smacked it to your forehead,
Pronouncing yourself king.
I made the leaves
Flutter and fly all around you.

The acorn rested suspended between our palms
Wet with the leaves' dew.

Two rocks scraped out the hole
In which to bury the acorn.
The dirt cast up into two piles.
Yours and mine.
Mine and yours.

The hole dug,
You pressed the acorn to my lips
Then placed it upon yours.
Two satisfying smacks
And we laid it to rest
Before tumbling the earth back upon it.

Our hands brown and smelling like creation.
We didn't wipe them on our pants
But shared the dark fingerprints on cheeks, nose, and chin.

It felt like the sun never set on that day.
But feeling betrays.
For here I kneel, desiring to exhume this stubborn acorn,
The remnants of that day--
Even that day's setting sun.

to do

2008-12-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

Scrape the sky and come away with a handful of blue. Sing to the stars and sleep in peace. Walk in the river and carry away pockets full of water.

how

2008-12-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

How it will feel.
How will it feel?
It will feel how.
Feel how it will.

enjoy it plus shift f7

2008-12-12T06:02:00.000-08:00

Enjoy it.

Take pleasure in it.

Like it.

Treasure it.

Value it.

Prize it.

Appreciate it.

Relish it.

Esteem it.

Attach importance to it.

Revere it.

Admire it.

Respect it.

Look up to it.

Marvel at it.

picking up the pieces

2008-11-26T10:33:00.000-08:00

Pick up these bones.
Breathe some sunshine into them.

Never mind the snow clouds gathering.
Blue sky will come again.
It will sharpen your eyes.

These white sky, gray sky days will fade.
You may remember them hazily in dream.
But in awake, the blue is all you'll view.
Thankfully.

You walked to the edge of your world, yet again.
No harm in one more time.
Your feet guide you
As your heart sings along with the smile beginning to form.

Yes, falling results from jumping,
But so does flying.

So, jump!

The sky will raise you up
Or catch you on your way down.

Each fall makes you stronger.

Pick up these bones.

Ready,
Set,
Go,

Again.

rushwrite 24 november

2008-11-26T09:54:00.000-08:00

Rushwrite: a word which here means, to write furiously without pause, to write whatever comes without stopping to edit, change, hesitate. (In other words: who knows if this gibberish has any meaning. It's just fun to let go sometimes.)

For some reason it's the way you hold yourself upright.
It's that thought which keeps me up all night.
Or perhaps it's a dream starring you.
You've got the balancing act down pat
Yet you can never say no to another object being thrown into the melee.
So you stand and sway.
You afix your eyes at the top of the spinning circle your hands keep throwing.
You wait for me to fall to my knees
And kiss your feet.
Only then will you let everything clatter to the floor.
Before you clap your hands,
Before you dry your tears,
Before you raise me back to my feet,
Please sing a praise or two
For the rainfall which darkens trees' trunks
And sets rainbows in motion.
You will never know how your words crawl to the back of my mind
And sink to a rest at the bottom of my heart.
You'll never know because I'll never tell you.
Perhaps if you stand with outstretched hands,
I'll whisper in your ear.
I'd like to be that close to you,
But it would probably hold less significance for you than it does for me.
See,
I've never felt the rise and fall of someone's breath near my ear
Besides the babies' I hold.
They close their eyes,
And I pause.
I stop
And feel love.
They make me want to be in heaven's reach.
Whenever you feel lonesome, look up.
Whenever you feel doubts begin to fly,
Shake your fist.

baby's breath

2008-11-21T05:59:00.001-08:00

My bike flats,

So I walk.

North up 9^th East.

I see a dad carrying his baby.

I see a mom carrying her baby.

Both of them—

These parents—

Headphoned off into their own worlds.

Why does sadness fill me when I see this?

I view them both at precisely the same time—

The dad walking south.

The mom walking north.

Stepping to a tune I do not hear.

My lament comes in question form:

What if they miss their baby's first gurgle of language?

I would be so sad.

I would be sad

And I don't even know those babies' names.

I’ve never patted their backs.

Never wiped their little noses.

Sure, the mom's baby rests slumbering

Cozied up in one of those front stomach carriers.

Still, is not the sound of babies' sleeping breath so sweet?

I would swear

I can hear it even over the noisy cars rumbling by.

That new-to-earth sound comforts me;

I wouldn’t want to miss a single exhalation.

I walk on,

Holding not a baby,

But cradling my bike’s seat in my right hand.

Thinking: ears always open.

I wrote these ideas down on my regular blog a while back, but wanted to do something a little more with them. I don't know if I made it worse. Just a little release before starting school today. Also a celebration of Sierra and Joe becoming parents. Baby Abel (I'm not sure on his given name yet, we'll see) was born last night!!! I'm a cousin! Congrats, lovelies.

to do

2008-11-12T15:44:00.000-08:00

She had one dream before she died. It never came true. She had even purchased the hammock. She wrote on her to-do list for the following day: set up the hammock. The backyard had two trees—perfect for the part. They stood tall enough to bear the weight which a hammock would thrust upon them. But her pen crossed out only one of the to-do list items: water plants.

She’d woken up and relieved herself. While she brushed her teeth, she stood momentarily next to each potted plant to water it. She set down the watering can, making sure to wipe off the bottom first so it wouldn’t drip on the counter. Then she opened her planner and crossed it off. The second item on her list.

to be continued?

let this light at least dim, please

2008-10-31T13:40:00.000-07:00

No.

Nope.

I've checked.

Did a quick check
And even a long check.

And, no,
There's nothing like that.

I have no neat, white, rectangle
Screwed to the wall
Of my emotional inside.

I've no switch in the middle of me.

My heart beats blood.
It owns no quick method of on or off.
It's on and
On and
On.
And on, drowning in these feelings.

Oh how desperately I desire to reach out,
Bring my hand down upon it,
Turn it off somehow.

Somehow.

Somehow this powerful
On and on and on
Will ebb away
To a low murmur.

Somehow, hopefully,
For I know there's never a complete
Off.

Despite an end's existence.

picture this

2008-10-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

Picture a girl. A young girl. You see the back of her. She skips down the crumbling path of asphalt. She wears black shoes and white tights. Her little skirt doesn’t come to her knees and her long-sleeved shirt stops an inch from her wrists. She skips, remember? She has no fear of falling. Tripping never crosses her mind as she keeps her face up. She looks ahead, not down at all. Her hand holds a piece of paper. You wonder if she’s drawn a flower or a heart. Maybe she’s crayon-captured a tiger. As she drew, she bared her teeth. She growled while blackening in the fearsome cat’s stripes. You copy her confidence in keeping eyes-off-the-ground. You affix your gaze upon her skirt’s belt loops. From her pigtails to her paper-clutching hand, your eyes work back and forth. You feel her fall coming when you see her hand rise up to try to snatch some sense of balance. But stability’s a hard act to conjure. And so down she comes. Paper and all. She doesn’t even look at the blood spreading through her tights; she looks at her sheet of paper. She smiles. You see her smile because you’ve now caught up to her. You offer your hand to help her up and she turns her smile upon you. You look at the paper as she places her hand in yours. It’s a picture of the sky. You thank her. You both look up and keep walking.

2008-10-20T18:36:00.001-07:00

obscure.
we cannot view our past.
our vision slips.
nothing to grasp.
in the middle of a maelstrom,
the clouds pour down their waterworks.
we blink.
we cry.
atop the flawed facade,
we sit.
our hearts mutedly bleating out their last beats.

stairwell

2008-08-28T16:38:00.000-07:00

Your shadow died on the stairs. You couldn't wait to get home, but then your key broke in the keyhole. You were stuck outside with your feet placed on a welcome mat that had long ago worn out from welcoming anyone. You snarled. You pawed the doorbell despite knowing no one sat within. You perched on the cold concrete and waited for other people's shadows to die as they left the third floor's light and entered the darkness of the fourth and fifth. You couldn't hold anyone's hand so you wrapped your arms around yourself. Hunched above the dirty cement, you waited. You held half of the broken key and pressed it to your lips. Thinking clearly became a near impossibility.

the end

2008-08-28T16:36:00.000-07:00

You never wanted an end like this--
a departure void of touch.

drop me a line

2008-07-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

A line of fish hangs from his hand
And reaches to yours.
You caught them;
He gutted them.
We will all eat them.
We will look later at the picture someone took
Of you both standing there connected
By flesh and bone.
We will look at the picture and remember
Similar sticky hot days:
When we watched the night sun color the mountains purple,
When the watermelon's drip stuck to our knees
And clung to the spaces between our fingers,
When with our feet bare against the grass,
We swayed as we gazed up at the coming-out stars--
A line of hope from heaven to our hearts.

tears

2008-07-19T05:29:00.000-07:00

My attempt to remain blink-free fails.
And with the slightest and quickest touch of eyelash to eyelash,
A tear falls.

I want to lock all these tears up in my room.
I don’t want them to spill.
But my room has no lock.
It has no key.
My door doesn’t even shut all the way.

I blink again,
This time prolonging the closure
Along with drawing in a hard and ragged breath.

OK, I surrender, tears.
Come on out.
As you want.
As you will.
As you are.

They do.
They perform their salty gravity show,
With their falling
They leave behind invisibly miniscule traces of my heart.

sidewalk chalk

2008-06-27T20:13:00.000-07:00

the sidewalk.
the driveway.

they absorb the chalk colors.

the swirls.
suns.
flowers.
messages.
the scrawled lines.

the sun fades the brightness.
and rain washes away the time spent sitting on concrete.
tracing shadows.
outlining bodies.
supressing giggles when tracer taps tickle-spots.
time spent face upwards to the sky
bluer than any of the colors now left dusty on your hands,
the smudge on your cheek.

belly to the sun.

eyes to the sky.

arms and legs sprawled outwards
ready to embrace the round, colorful world
softer than this cement support.

by their fruits

2008-06-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

I.
She almost died on an Easter Sunday.
My great-gramma.

Heavy waiting filled the air
At her daughter's house,
My gramma's house.

We unconsciously half-celebrated;
Grampa still hid the eggs
We'd colored with crayons and dye.
We still searched the yard for them,
But the knowledge of Gramma Roth's shape
Weighed the backs of our minds
And the bottoms of our hearts.

II.
She died a week into May.

Gone.

III.
She used to be the top of my living family tree.

She,
my gramma,
my dad,
me.

A tree.

IV.
She raised three boys and three girls.

Her little house must have felt
So empty all those years
With them grown-up and gone.

Then we'd come tumbling in for a visit.
Building lincoln log cabins,
Sleeping on the trundle bed,
Squashing box elder bugs,
Weeding her flower bed.
Her old home managed to hold us all--
Back to its old self.

V.
Great-gramma had a fruit cellar.

I loved swinging open the creaky door
And stepping down into the cool dark.
I would stand, eyes closed, for one breath,
Inhaling the deep air of packed dirt,
Before pulling the naked light bulb's string.

Every shelf contained similar glass bottles
All housing different preserves:
Floating peaches,
Beans snapped and suspended,
Colorful jellies and jams,
Dark grape juice,
Beautiful raspberries,
And rich tomatoes.

VI.
Gone.

She still is.

I walk now into my parent's basement pantry
And witness the dead are still with us
As we fill jars with applesauce, sauerkraut, pears, apricots.

A family's tree.

still there

2008-06-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

dry throat.
hot head.
trembling tongue.
standing there,
feeling it in my heart,
not knowing how
to say it through my mouth.
somehow spitting something out.
sitting down.
breath slowing.
heart still feeling
the truths of words spoken
and unspoken yet still felt.
how does my small and simple testimony
bring on all this?
I don't know.
I don't care.
it's fine with me just because it's still there.

first sonnet: circa 2002

2008-06-05T09:02:00.000-07:00

Blood circles round my heart, making it tight.
Forgetting to breathe, I suck deep for air.
Images of you crowd and blind my sight.
I like to pretend I am with you there,

But conjuring you can't erase these fears.
So this is to you, the one out of reach,
Though it will never sound in your ears,
I'll keep it here inside, my little speech.

You are the one whom I think of at night.
You fill me up like a rush-roaring wave.
You'd make everything more than alright.
For you this first kiss of mine I would save.

But these things of you I never could speak,
So words rest here for now; I am too weak.

Beloved, Fear Not

2008-06-05T08:58:00.000-07:00

A found poem, taken from the following passage from Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton:

Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs from through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.

Beloved, Fear Not

Beloved unborn child,

Love deeply.

Fear not.

Give heart.

Fear not.

Laugh gladly.

Fear not,

Inheritor of our earth.

10 sept 2004

2008-05-17T15:41:00.000-07:00

Soldiers going back overseas.
They've been over before--thus the back--
At the beginning of the war,
But they've been home a year,
And it's time to return.

Mothers and wives
And families fear
A knock at the door.
They fear the bad news--
The worst that might come.

One woman has the hardest time at night.
She lives in the country.
Her dogs bark at any passing car.
So when she hears her dogs,
She fears.
She can't fall asleep at night.
When sleep happens to grace her,
It's not smooth and doesn't soothe.

7 aug 2004

2008-05-17T15:39:00.000-07:00

399 killed
in Paraguay
owners of
a supermarket
ordered their
doors locked
when a
fire broke
out because
they did
not want
people leaving
the store
without paying

man slaughter
child and
woman and
man slaughter
399 slaughtered

28 july 2004

2008-05-17T15:36:00.000-07:00

You,
before I was born,
rested your head
on my mother's chest.

She
held you in her arms
and your body
rested atop her pregnant bump of me.

You
were young--
less than seven months
and I
was yet to breathe
the air of your world.

You and I,
we must have,
must have,
known each other
before our births.

Me and you.

Who will be the first
to stop breathing the air of our world?

28 july 2004

2008-05-17T15:31:00.000-07:00

You exist in dreams,
My nighttime visions.
And though I don't
See you in daylight,
I cannot shake
You from my thoughts.
You remain perched
In my head.
And everytime I
Look up I
Feel you,
Want to see you,
But know I can't.
I can't until sleep
Closes my eyes,
Slows my heart,
Deepens my breath.
There you'll be
Looking at me.

(Or am I just looking at you?)

20 nov 2003

2008-05-17T15:25:00.000-07:00

fossils are nothing
but stone traps.

snatched,
a leaf
or shell
sticks to soft rock's surface.

slated on forever.

2 may 2005

2008-05-17T15:20:00.000-07:00

hands raised
elbows slighly bent
head back
eyes shut but looking skyward
deep intake of air through nose
and then exhale like it's coming from the heels of your feet
toes in the mud--clasped around stones

wanting to run
but waiting
standing
waiting
almost-motionless
for a drop of rain

water to make
the mud wetter
wet to wash
the tears away

yes,
shut-eyed even
you've cried
always amazed
each time it happens

you had closed your lids to halt
the salty onslaught

you rubbed the tip
of your tongue
against the inside
of your bottom teeth
trying to find calm
in that motion

but neither tongue
nor lids can keep back
the cry that has to come

and so you wait

you wait for rain

when it falls
you can open your eyes

16 march 2005 (w/ a boost from alex caldiero)

2008-05-17T15:18:00.000-07:00

Hold out your hands she said.
I stood there.
Hold your hands out she said.
There I stood.
She said hold out your hands.
I stood.
There she said.
Hold out.

19 feb 2005

2008-05-17T15:15:00.000-07:00

lightning lock gaze
sudden shock to soul-center

but it doesn't
burn away quickly

it stays
resides
in the heart
ache
&
pain
till you
have it again

linked vision

21 jan 2005

2008-05-17T15:09:00.000-07:00

My wet hair dampens the rock.
I'm in snowangel position
Without the snow
On my back.
My suit soaks into warm stone.
My arms fill with heat from the slab's contact.
Eyes close.
I see fuzzy red--
The inside of my lids plus the sun's shining.
I crack my toes,
Forcing my calves
To embrace more of the rock's warmth.
Turning prostrate,
I press one cheek
And then the next
To scrape against
The hot, rough texture.

28 nov 2004

2008-05-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

when you lose someone,
how do you start taking pictures of who's left?

there will be a hole.

a space

a void

where that someone used to

be

that first picture
how hard
to stand
or sit
without the one
the one not there anymore

but that space
can serve as a substitute
reminding of the loss

yes, hurting
but also healing
as those left behind
hug each other round the hole.
wholeness again.

8 oct 2004

2008-05-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

I hold the baby.
Her eyes open with surprise
When I touch my forehead to hers.
She burrows her head into the
Space between my shoulder and chest.
And we both gain comfort.

That locking secures us.
My feet stand,
But her natural act
Holds me up.

She edges out and looks at my face
Wanting more excitement or baby talk.
And so I lift her up above my head.
Again.
Again.
And then she squeals.
I smile.
I hold the baby.

the abundant life

2008-05-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

There is a little branch that we got to go to a couple times in my last area when we (Sestra Tislenko i ya) were teaching Nastya. There are about 14 active members. The branch president, his wife, and their four kids make up about half of that branch. Sister Shelton, my MTC companion, told me that she was at their place one time and all the kids were just sitting at the table having cookies and milk for breakfast; everyone was so happy and Sister Shelton just wanted to stay there and soak in the Spirit of this beautiful family. So this is what I wrote:

elbows and glasses crowd the table
hands shove cookies into smiling mouths
fresh-from-the-cow-milk fills the glasses
and sloshes around a bit in the jostle

the clamoring calms
scratched-up arms and chipped glasses
seem to be the only present roughness
but even their edges are smooth

the smiles are warm
the eyes glow and shine with happiness
they hold a secret that aches to brighten the world

it's no secret, really, though

it's truth

and we can all come to know

it's not hidden away,
this truth,
this light,
this love

perhaps forgotten
or maybe even pushed away,

aside
but not

out of reach

we can all beam milk-moustache smiles
and eat cookies for breakfast

we can rub elbows with our brothers and sisters
as we sit side to side
at the thick, wood table

we can feel at home
be at home

find center

be at peace

we can know who we are
and feel pure love

turn
turn to the table
sit down
offer thanks
and partake

smile
and live the abundant life

call waiting

2008-05-06T20:30:00.000-07:00

You left your coat.
You walked out the door.
I saw it an hour later,
Picked up the phone,
But didn't dial.

I put down the phone
And raised the fabric of you
Up to my nose.
I breathed you in,
Waiting for you to call.