poem: the curiosity of A Satan

Posted by Marissa

Hidden in a shaded grove by the fountain—
businesses across the street live on Glamour
the restaurant on the corner serves Prestige
cars drive by on a cobblestone street
headed toward The Future and The Next Best Thing

Hidden on the bench of old wood near the water
writing, I am thinking about Lucifer
the curiosity of A Satan
as the pool man nets the water clean
talks of his bartending days with a lady to my left

Hidden in the dappled shade beside the water
I am wondering about people, the Angels, Lucifer
and I believe I am starting to understand
Unreality and Insanity better than Known Reality
and I can See the opposite of Truth is Blinding Pride

The Sufi Mystic in desert-dweller land where Heat
and Longing pull men into a Burning-blind Madness
could explain the craft of Delusion in Mirage
but who speaks that truth on park benches
sitting in the Center of the Delusion—

I think of Lucifer.
I am not thirsty, I say.
And he smiles.

You don’t wanna miss it.

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Poem: You and We

Posted by Marissa

You are the looking out at us

From tired eyes.

You are the gasp escaping

our bewildered lips.

You are the dog cowering beside us

In fear of a beating.

You are the master of the whip—

The lover who gives all for a friend.

This omnipotence-omnipresence

Is too much for our minds—

Like trying to separate

Iron from the blood,

Like trying to separate

Oxygen from breathing.

We prefer you to play King

In some great palace with a throne—

We prefer you to stay crucified

Held on the glass cross above us

in mosaic windows.

That you are part and parcel

Of all that exists

Terrifies us.

We don’t like it when

You step down among us.

We like you better

At a distance.

We prefer you written

In thick books of scripture

Held safely in church pews or

on those silent bedside tables

In old motel rooms.

Poem: Where God Slept

Posted by Marissa

They have taken away

The benches where God slept.

The tired sad bodies

Wrapped in frail clothes, curled

Up to face the wall

Of boards backing the benches

Barrier to the sea wind

And salt spray

Just down the beach

The sun breaks, brilliant

Spectacle rising from the dark

Ocean to the crashing welcome

Of waves, squawk of seagulls.

Some few mornings

Going out to greet the sun

I myself would tiptoe

Quietly past God sleeping

In the guise of his saddest

Creature—alone in the dark

In the hushed-silent hours.

But now, to purge the shores

Of the undesirable destitutes

They have taken away

The benches where God slept.

©_{2023 Marissa Mullins} _{Photo Credit: William Blake (Courtesy of Birmingham Museum})

Poem: after

Posted by Marissa

It’s the smoke off a cigarette
the trail of a comet tailing
the way the residue of breathing
hangs in cold dawn air

it’s the look of knowing
shared between two lovers
the way a caress skims the skin
leaves a tingle after-flowing

it’s the way gnats swarm in evening air
the way a child heaves after crying
it’s the way a tear travels a cheek
drips into space
only the groove of wet remains

or maybe
it’s the way a dog cries and whines
the lingering tones of need after
the owner is gone.

Poem: The Guy at McDonald’s/Cool Grandma

Posted by Marissa

The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
It was a bitch to get moving this morning
because a million speckled memories of past
mistakes, regrets, sad hours, memories held
me to the bed as I tried to wake up.

The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
the effort it took to “put on my face”
and spike up my hair, searching every kitchen
drawer for a smile to wear and looking in each
closet to find the twinkle missing from my eyes.

The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know…
I’m swimming around buoys and running down
rabbits in the field in my mind most days trying
to find the course syllabus for life at 53 after
the end of a 20 year marriage & a million lost
dreams that danced a jig out the door with the X.

The guy at McDonald’s doesn’t know any of this
as he leans out the window awed and thrilled
by the sexy black Audi holding a smiling blonde,
purse dog riding shotgun, and asks in excited tones:

“Are you the Cool Grandma or the Cool Aunt?”
I’m the Cool Grandma I say …. Grateful
that the word Cool is still in style.

Poem: Storyteller

Posted by Marissa

Hours whisper sighs
as the birds swim by
a marigold cuts cartwheels
some angel is digging
a trench. . .

And then, you drop words
like a farmer planting —
dig the earth, turn,
trembling hand
fleck the seed

a story springs
to vibrant life, turn
of phrase or memory
or living life a life
living still the images
coalesce and pictures
move to the memories
flowing like water toward

the sea and I See
the past open
like a crevice drops
away from the land above
into dark otherworld caverns
of muted light and hours
pass this way — open opening
opened heart that hears as I

Listen…

Photo Credit: aysenur via Unsplash.com

Poem: The Dance

Posted by Marissa

The days come and go
another winter drizzle
laughing --
I think of mice in the walls
of houses
all that scurrying about,
what serious objectives
move them.

The days go and come
another year rolls in
grinning --
I think of poets and lovers
and all the horror movies
I've ever seen
wondering why
we drink the gore and blood
as if it matters.

The day
comes and goes
quickly --
I think of you
and wonder how many lives
we've lived, how many times
our paths entwined, the touching
of hands
so commonly common
as if dying held no meaning
we take up the dance again.

Poem: The Archaeology of Being

Posted by Marissa

When they dig into the earth, geologically,
the lines and layers speak their trauma.
Floods and fires, apocalyptic damage
showing itself in the thickness, debris,
lean lines and layers of scarred soil.

My grandfather taught me about the rings
on trees, the drought years and hard fought
survival ines showing in the width of the ring.
Natural growth stunted, thinner. This carrying
within its core, growth circles of pain and plenty.

I wonder at the trauma rings of humans —
slice me open in some way, split my center,
dig down the half of me in layers —
The hours of grief, the days of joy.
How deep each layer or how thin?

Slice me open, split my center
study me as the land or tree,
point the place of catastrophic growth —
line, ring, width, depth, expanding
into the archaeology of being human.

Poem: Untitled 12/17/20

Posted by Marissa

We are a million hours of time
away from the boy who wrote
poems and drew pictures --
and the girl so excited to read them,
to know him, to love him.

Those children lost in the fogs
of doing adulthood --
The Serious Business of Living --
That Delusion --
Teaching them to hide away
in the dark shadows -- alone.

Grief is a selfish master.
His remembering what is lost
always living that past image.
The dearness of it roots the tears,
forces the chest to grow upward
in swelling pain.

We grieve the possibility
that died. The honesty we forsook.
We grieve what could have been
if we were other than we are.
We grieve the hours spent believing
we could be anything and everything
to each other -- those doors
always closing in silence, the noise
of our breaking heart the only sound
left echoing through the room.

Poem: Point of View

Posted by Marissa

There was a man
who felt pity for me
because I didn't have
all the fine 
things in the world.
And I 
felt pity for him
because he did.