Thursday, November 7, 2013

Who walked here once?

Who hears the voice of rock, of tree, of vole?
   Who steps in silence,
through forests damp and dim?
   Who leaves no trace of passage?

Lives once lived,
   In autumn’s dancing color,
Danced as well.
   Now gone,
To sleep in dreamless ether.

But walk through forest paths,
    In footprints left
 beneath the duff and detritus
 of years,
   and wonder
              what remains?
Who trod here once?
   Who left their sigh?
Drifting vague, through treetops
   Sway and shiver?

No fear, but know
   The air is limned,
the line,
The shape
Not gone, but drifting,
   vague, in treetops sway
                                    and shiver.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

What the Shadow knows…………

I sense it,
  Treading lightly,
    poised on toes of dust.
Shadowed fingers
  Reaching for my shoulder.
A charcoal sketch,

It is memory.

A squeeze, a pinch, a caress.
There to remind me, that all life
  Is a ticking clock.
    And each tick
      A still life,
A memory.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

A Slightly Scary Story...

   “You’ll need a rain slicker.” said the man behind the counter. “The rain comes every day.”
    Lucinda checked her wallet for money and handed over the correct amount.
    “Now ya’ll be careful out there.” he drawled as she reached for the door.
    “Excuse me? she asked.  “What do you mean?”
    “Well, “ he said, “been some trouble up there in the forest preserve lately.”
    She backed away from the door and looked closer at him.  He would not meet her gaze.
    “Trouble?” she asked.
    “uh, yuh, been a long summer it seems.  Seems some kids have gone missin’.”

    As a rule Lucinda never spoke to strangers, but this man stirred her curiosity.  He was probably in his seventies, paunchy and pale, with watery blue eyes.  She could see the reflection of the overhead lights in his slightly sweaty brow.  But still, he would not look her in the eyes.
    “Missing? You mean ‘never found’?”
    “ uh, yuh.”  he spoke quietly.  “Never found.”

   A decision needed to be made…

Monday, November 4, 2013

Tiny, sudden sparks that float behind my eyes, periodically slip forward, open their coats and expose themselves to me.

Tissue paper carnations

Third grade…….tissue paper carnations.  I can do this.  I can help.  An island of calm amidst my shattering life.  Shattered and uneasy.  Always uneasy.
    But today I am making tissue paper carnations.  All the children gathered closely around the work table.  Laughter and talking, loud and joyous.  
    But I am quiet; concentrating on my flowers, happy to be in this place. Safe. 
    For several hours there will be no changes, only this thing I can do; tissue paper carnations.

Sunday, November 3, 2013 father was a gypsy

     They emerged from the train squinting and blinking in the clear, pure Florida light. The train smell and grime clung to them along with the fear and longing for what they left behind. The memory of the train, ticking off the miles and hours like a long, sinuous clockwork, still vibrated inside their heads and aged them, rubbing their tender flesh raw, their tender thoughts numb.
     No one was there to meet them.  They milled around each other, shedding blankets, pillows, wool and cracker crumbs.
   The fragrant, deceptive future of their lives hung, invisible, around them.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Errant Thoughts

Intermittently Sparking Synapses #249

Today is no different….
   The game was always the same: girls taller than me, blonder than me; girls chosen first, first before me. Laughter and talking melding into a constant din; the din rising and falling as each girl was chosen.
   And alone I stood, an island of crackling nerves, shuffling my feet, hands holding on to each other for fear they might do something regrettable. 
   And at last I was chosen, last as always, at the end, unheard, unseen, unwanted.

Friday, November 1, 2013

Green Briar Park

In dreams they come,
  Slithering, flapping, 
Leaving dust and shards and feathers in their wakes.
  No scent, just flailing, viscous eddies 
More thought than force.
  And skies of mud, soundless.
Leaving in their wake
To go, not go,
  I stand, and shudder, small 
And deep within my cells
  They push,  I stand.

Age 13.  Somewhere between baby girl, and half grown woman.  A simple weekend walk becomes a war zone.  The park, my destination.  I can see them; all long and lanky arms and elbows, legs and knees.  Raucous yelps of pleasure and something desperate.  All 13.  Somewhere between baby boy and half grown man.  Playing b-ball, at GBP.  I am not able to move forward,  I am too entranced; trapped between my desire to swing and repelled by their cruelty and derision.  They are in my way.  I don’t realize that this is the true beginning of who I am to be.  I will learn, in time that if, and when I want to swing, I am so much more powerful than they will ever be.