Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
911,
Whats your emergency?
The world as we knew it ended,
And we are still picking up the pieces
And will be,
Indefinitely,
From the impact and blowback,
For years into the future,
And for somethings we won’t
Even be sure why,
Though we will remember,
In our lived history;
Memory survives.
The flowers were dying,
And yet remained beautiful
Even with rust-colored edges,
I grieved to see them go,
As petals fell,
And valued them in their present state,
But knew even this too shall pass;
I cut a sample of each,
Hung up to dry,
And the memory of the intent and this treasure
Is preserved.
Fragrant peony intermittently perfume my senses,
From those blooms set in a vase by my grandmother’s portrait,
The scent pulls me,
mind and body back to the reality
That presently exists:
My grandparents,
all 4,
have passed on,
To the other side;
And yet the viel between us
is so very thin,
In moments when I smell the peonies again,
Profound fragrance
Of flowers planted
by my mother’s mother,
Her spirit leads the others to,
and me to them,
To feel them
Still,
In the space between.
A white feather,
From one of my ventures,
Resides on my vehicle dashboard,
The air through my windows on a hot day
Lifted and carried the feather
In flight,
As such things are meant to;
Scurrying to recapture my feather,
I am reminded
It was never mine,
It never grew from my body,
And yet now I hold to it
As if it were a part of me,
In a way, it is,
The remembrance of its coming to be with me,
And the miles,
Moments,
Mishaps and memories
I also collected with it present;
The feather,
Worn but white,
is a symbol
Of what I have been through,
Carried by the wind,
To always make a landing,
With grace,
Wherever I may descend.
The creaking of the porch swing brings me back,
Back
And forth,
My brown limbs outstretch to power the rocking
And I feel the air brush against them,
Like when I was small
And my legs dangled from a sun-bleached wooden swing
That like my maternal grandparents
I wish were still here today,
This was their house,
The rural abode
Where I, their first grandchild,
And a then newly dubbed city-kid, would return
Again and again,
With memory of toddlerhood here,
Running,
With chubby caramel-colored baby legs
Sitting in and exploring , and feeling the fresh cut green grass,
on this same land;
This was my first home
It always will be,
It was where my mother carried me in body,
Herself breathing in country air,
In this her family home,
It is where I swing now,
With a new bench beneath me,
And older, lengthened tan legs
moving me,
Back and forth,
Still I have always been
Between places,
In movement,
Like this swing,
And that is what I aim still to do,
To swing back between here,
Pennsylvania,
And my New England home of familiarity;
Between the two places
Distinct accents call me back,
And forth,
incantations to return again
And again,
The swing with its own creaking accent calms me
And keeps me in place for now,
Both driven and pulled by nostalgia
While I figure out best laid plans
To be
In each beloved place,
In each their own time.
What magick did I make as a child;
Undercovers imaging the future?
Let me remember this art,
To manifest a future in which I
Am loved, by one I can trust,
A romantic and life partner who will never hurt me.
Beautiful life with cracks
Where the light gets in
And out.
May it be so.
(Post relocated from my Thepurplepaintedbutterfly.wordpress.com blog)
She of Letters 