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
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.
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…
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.
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.
~for Peter
The Words are only
and always
only
a symbol
for the truth emotion energy
they seek
to convey
hieroglyphs forms symbols
we forget
they never truly say
anything
this artifice of speaking
writing
symbols iconography
for the internal aspect
of human divine knowing truth
that
mute words can’t speak
these mute donkeys that plod
the garden of living
trying
to reach
thoroughbred status
this
is not possible
but
like us
the words do
the best they can
and I find
they are
the one place
where honesty shows up
in mystical magic
the words speak
a truth
we viscerally
know
and I
would never
take back
any of the words
I bled for you
~Photo Credit:
Drizzle of raindrops
across a broken rose
its sunburnt edges
of yellowing leaves
green grass blades
Drip and drizzle
moves shimmers rolls
plops to another petal
falls drifts streaks wet
trail of falling —
like the trail streak tail
of a comet burning
like the sloshed snow
trailing the skier
like the tear glistens
a trail as it wets the cheek
Slow pour cacophony
of water and pain
that floods and fills
with deep misery
or flushes and flows
with deep catharsis
this wet trail of falling
Deeper
Deeper
Deeper
Into
the unknown
~Photo Credit:
~June 2020, for my friend Peter
One touch.
Handshake a million years ago
meaning — only
the imprinted energy remained
your signature
written
in the palm of my hand.
One touch.
Brushstroke upon the canvas
meaning — only
that memory would keep you
vivid bright color stroke
painted
in the memory of synapses.
One touch.
Melody rolling across deprived days
meaning — only
that you sang the hours
a song of calming
solace
in a soft whispered breathing.
One touch.
Illusion and Truth and Seeker
meaning — only
that variegated thread of being
runs through us all
weaving
a tapestry of disjointed discovery.
One touch.
Heartbeat tapping ka-thump
meaning — only
we are living moving flowing life
blood body spirit soul
one
essence divided into many.
One touch.
Begging arms reach out
meaning — only
the tears we cry dream dreams
of yearning and growing then
disappear
into a deeper realm.
One touch.
We have this gift
meaning — only
we are this gift
of chance chaos beauty
expanding
to touch one another.
~Photo Credit:
~for Peter & Mickey
Gulls drop down from a darkening sky —
knowing the land is temporary — sky
their true home. As they fly away again
I walk the sands of shells and time changing
from day into dark into day again- changing
is the flux of dying and living and dying
in this one lifetime — A heart-child cries
in the dark hours of storm and shadow
reaches — toward the shimmering-sparkling
lights shinning on a new horizon – those
bright-built heart diamonds of love light
answer the cry with a gentle-soft whisper —
Come, baby girl, they say, take my hand.
You don’t have to be afraid, storms passing
and a blazing new sunrise is coming soon.
As the mirror loves
The face reflected –
As the water loves
The sun that warms it –
As the lake loves
The night that chills it –
As the air loves
The lungs that breathe it –
As the peach loves
The mouth that tastes it –
As the word loves
The pen that writes it –
As the poem loves the poet
That hears it speak –
Marissa Colleen Mullins 