Memories Here

There was a memory stirring beneath my breath—

the ancient people singing here,

songs our Fathers put to death,

their bones rise up with the morning tide

the haunting echoes of their past,

so near my heart beats to the pounding drums of their dance,

these worlds we’ve shattered like violent glass.

He is Gone

 

Love stole a kiss from me and buried me in the deep.

I went to find you resting there, but no one was at home.

Love took my life from me and bound it to his own.

I cannot find myself, now, here

and he is forever gone.

Water and Sun, Balloon and String...

 Alexander Calder, Balloons

lithograph-paper, 1973

http://www.cantonart.org/ArtGateway/collection/c/calder-balloons.html

Water Beneath the Sun

I am the ocean and you are the sun, water and fire undone

by one another…

I am a restless wave, you the steady flame

Dark and deep and cold

Light and transparent and warm…I feel your heat

Above me, below me, through me…you make me evaporate

turning into steam just to be near you.

Why are you the only one

with so much power over me?

With so much burning desire that I dance ……under your eye, at the touch of your hand,

begging you to notice me?

You rise and fall at my body’s horizon, encircling me like I am your end game, and also the 

beginning,

making me believe, if only for a second, that you want to dive into me,

to fall from your place in the sky and let me catch you

but you are afraid you will sink again,

Even though I’ve promised you that won’t happen with me,

I will make sure you swim,

floating on the sure current of my unchanging heartbeat.

A String For My Balloon

My mother used to tell me that I was like a balloon—a dreamer, a wonderer, a see-er of possibilities—and that I needed a string (the perfect kind of string) who would let me soar into my imagination, my “head in the clouds” space, but would balance me with his practicality (because it’s always good to have something to hold onto); a string who would keep me from floating too far from reality without pulling me all the way down.  Because even though I can be logical and practice common sense for the most part, I think we can all agree, I am mostly a right-brained girl who feels better at ease thinking with my heart more than my head, hoping that all that is best will unfold in time. But we all know balloons that fly too far away eventually burst, so having a string to give them just enough freedom, to make sure they don’t dissolve in thin air and that keep them attached to the land of the living is paramount for the survival of the balloon, and also gives life to the string. Anyway, when I look at Calder’s “Balloons” lithograph, I am always reminded of her telling me this; even though I’m sure Calder didn’t necessarily place such implications on his balloons and strings, or even on the sun and the water below.I am the water beneath the sun.I am just a balloon looking for her string.

Speaking Glass

I wish I had courage to give an audible voice to the words I write.
I mean, I put myself into their arrangement, I give them a voice as I hear myself speak them from my mind through my hands and onto the page. And I hope it resonates from them clearly.

I can let other people's words fill my body and sound out of my mouth like they were part of me.

Shakespeare, David Mamet, Dr. Seuss, Leo Lionni, Leah.
On a stage, in a classroom, reading for somebody.

But my own words lie there like pieces of glass. Speaking them aloud would be like picking them up and swallowing them. They would cut me. Leave me vulnerable. Show you what I am not yet willing to yield.

I Run...

I run…

as the morning light glimmers into being

cars passing on their way to work or school or just leaving someone behind

I run…

through clouds of color and wind and rain and prayers part my lips trailing toward heaven

I run…

up the hill, through the wet grass around the people walking in the opposite direction, past the kids on the playground—where I used to swing and climb and find a secret hideout among overgrown branches—the laughter of their play still unburdened by the weight life can sometimes be

I run…

the afternoon sun both cruel and kind with its light and heat

my feet hitting the sidewalks, the pavement, the horseshoe drives whose brick buildings hold echoes of my childhood memory

I run…

through the shade under the branches of trees that have been here as long as the people whose language remains in the name of this town— river of blood—even if their tears leave a trail away from it…my ancestors, whose blood stirs in me 

I run…

like I am some wild thing, like I am a river of blood, wondering if my feet are touching any of the same paths theirs once traveled

I run…

until crickets start to sing

through all the songs that can manage it in any tense run, running, ran…

“I run with you…”   “I run to you…”   “I run from you…”

I run. And Buddy Holly’s friend sings “Runaway”

I run…

into the night, the stars lace the sky, Orion standing among them in the east above, always the hunter among Jupiter and Mars, but Someone is still working on me

a police car is in a driveway, no blue lights, only the soft glow of his flashlight in the side yard patting someone down. I wonder what he has done, but on

I run…

I hear the noises of a wedding—music, the soft chatter of new beginnings—before passing the Mansion, black tie maybe white, definitely white, my too short green shorts and hot pink shoes sent no RSVP for the occasion

I run…

past a lady with a grocery bag (has my exhaustion made me indifferent?), past two men walking, past an angel, past a woman with her dog

the smell of smoke in autumn (it smells different in every season), a fire burning somewhere, fills my lungs
the cool air on the sweat of my skin makes me even colder, my sides begging to split open so I can breathe, but I won’t stop

I run…

and I will run forever 

unless…until...someone can catch me

I Wub You, RaRa...

Animal noises filled the air as we read a shelf full of books about monkeys and lions and dogs. We howled like hyenas before exploding into balls of laughter because we’re silly, too. We played with all of the cars, trucks, and trains, driving them over every surface in the house: up the leg of the dining table, along the back of the couch, across the smooth kitchen floor and bumpy carpet in the living room, noticing that the wheels turn faster in some places than others. We made sounds for them too: Vroom! Honk! Beep! Choo-Choooo! Rumble-rumble-rumble! We visited a friend and listened to a very old music box using our hands to feel the vibrations of its songs; then, we danced to the ones we heard on the radio.

Outside we observed a particular tree very closely. We felt the texture of the bark, we smelled the sticky sap. We crumbled up a pine cone into the dirt and even watched a line of ants travel up the trunk of our tree.

Finally, we landed on the kitchen floor for a snack of blueberries and milk. I suppose we were in a picnic sort of mood. After we ate, I said, “Let’s clean up our mess so Mommy doesn’t have to when she comes home!” We both stooped down to clean the floor. While I was wiping up blueberry juice, I felt the softest, little arms wrap around my neck and the weight of the most precious head lean against my shoulder. Then, the sound of one of the sweetest voices in the whole world to me, “I wub you, RaRa.”

“I love you too, Colby.”

My cup runneth over.

Aerial Flight

Come climb to unknown heights with me...suspending the reality of gravity, testing the laws of physics and the limits of our own physicality...

Balancing the weight of our bodies against the silken slings...

Folded and unfolding...twisted, tangled, tied together...unraveled and still unraveling...reunited to the rhythm of a song...

I'll say I'm a bird if you say you're a bird both flying on borrowed wings.

Our heads still in the clouds when our feet touch the ground...dancing awake in our living dreams.