Inside
The words she hides
Underneath
Muffled gray skies
Between
Boarded up eyes
Within
Worn down outsides
Somewhere
She cries
Inside
Tag Archives: sadness
between believe and break
in the days between believe and break
the sun rose dark and painted shadows
trees bowed and let go of all they held
bare fingers pointing any and no way
and all that was once held together by time
let fly the wind and broke into pieces
of nothing sinking deeper in the deep within
and cracks spilled hope in freezing drops
bottom chased chained below motionless
curtains drawn, she never left her bed.
empty spaces
long ago he had gone
to the silence, though
she held time as if was
the hands that once
caressed her cheek
before the decay of days
the way his eyes never
fell upon her anymore
their journey away
had begun before the trees
wept and footsteps grew
farther in colder days
the surrender of years
until nothing remained
but the window watching
empty spaces
where is he now? (for Anthony)
where is he now
the gardener of souls?
his “good morning” silent,
cardinals wonder why
sun, looking for a reason
summer holding on,
flowers broken without his songs
the gardener of souls
where is he now?
(shadow me)
torrent churns
(through) green, blue,
lashing upon itself,
reflecting (me) invisible
flow stop crash turn twist
journey ~ day and night,
(lost) shadows, white water
secrets, sun (behind), and
(always) the pull of the
(drowning) water. (shadow
me)
Two Times across the Tappan Zee Bridge
The first time was at dusk. The Hudson River stretched
like an invitation in the gentlest glow, both banks’
forest green arms holding me, as I rose with the bridge.
And at the top, nightfall’s vision sang, and I held,
floated there, watching the city catch the river.
Her skyscrapers gathered and huddled and whispered
of the night to come, and began to switch on spots
of bright into the fading light. And beside, tiny, immense
Liberty stood, knowing the city and flowing the river,
and lifted us all across the bridge.
When I returned, it was morning. The light was harsher,
less forgiving. The climb to the top of the bridge seemed
steeper, somehow, for us all. And I saw signs, along
the railings, read them. “Don’t give up. There is hope.
Call the hotline.” Street signs. Bridge signs. Signs.
At the top: “Do not jump.” On this, the North side, only
the river, the fall. And the ghosts that had put all the signs
on the bridge. I could still see them jumping. And my car
would not float but wanted to stop and fling its doors
open for me. But the sign said, “Do not jump.”
The Girl in the Purple Dress (for June)
Her name was June, but she left in May,
before the sunflowers could bloom and ask
for more days. In the stone church, whispers
spoke of the claim: cancer, a brain tumor.
Stolen summer laid her cold, draped in flowers
taken in their bloom. They would die soon.
I kept my head bowed, listened for June,
waited for the preaching, sobbing, and hymns to end.
In the front of the church, in a purple dress
with a black bow in her hair, June’s daughter sat;
I knew her well. She looked straight ahead and made
no sound, and that is why I kept my head down.
And when the cars were gone, and I was alone
I wept, and I wept to the church and through June.
The last months of her life, when the brain tumor
grasped and haunted her head, June had changed.
And her daughter, so many days, so many different
colored bows, would tell stories of the crazy things
her mom would do and stay. And it wasn’t June.
It wasn’t your Mom. I cry because we have lost
part of summer, but I weep for her girl in the purple dress,
and the June she remembered as she sat on those steps.
Weekly Photo Challenge: My Neighborhood
neighborhood/
I will try to see you/
with more than gray eyes/
when Spring returns
pushed around by darkness
been pushed around by darkness
for decades and for days,
nights go on for weeks,
stillness that sits like moss
on granite in the shade
days pass, slowly wait,
knowing no change, only
time dragging me to night
where waiting crashes and falls
and certain death takes me
every night, leaving a trembling
girl curled in the middle of the bed
to face more of what, that,
nothing, shattered windows and
boarded up doors, hope doesn’t
stop here anymore, shadows
chase, sharp numbness
overtakes, stripped bare
and broken by tidal waves.
Puddles
All night she stayed,
forehead pressed
against the chilly window,
waiting for the rain
to turn to snow.
Pleading eyes watched
the streetlight, as rain
fell down, and wind
chased it sideways.
All she needed
was to see it turn
white, to cover life
outside the window
with tiny pieces of
icy hope.
But morning brought
only dark puddles
outside and on
her face.
The Woman at the Corner
I noticed you on the corner because you look
just like me, but then I saw your cardboard sign with its
searing words, “Mother of 2, homeless, can’t feed kids,”
and all I could think was your sign was the same color
as my minivan. And tonight my kids would eat a nice
dinner and sleep in their own comfortable rooms and
play games on the computer and text their friends. I tried
to look away, but I couldn’t because I saw your eyes, and
they spoke of being broken, and shame covered me
like a spider web. The stoplight had changed to green,
and I had to move on. You watched me drive
away, and your head dropped. My purse sat next to me,
but with no cash, I kept driving, until there were more
drops on my cheeks than on the windshield, and I turned
into the bank, to the ATM, and anxiously pulled $20 out
as the rain fell harder. Driving back, I feared you would be
gone, and my shame would stay, but you were still there,
sign now on top of your head, on that somber corner, shivering,
waiting. And I stopped. I handed you $20, and you whispered,
“Thank you.” I got in my car, turned up the heat to high,
tried to feel better about that corner, about the spider webs
of shame. As the wipers swished the rain away, I tried
to picture two kids eating dinner with their mother, but
all I could see was the needle marks running up your arm
as I handed you the damp $20. You will be there
at the somber corner tomorrow, too.
The Door
The door won’t close. You can’t walk through it
anyway. It’s dark in there, cobwebs in every weary
corner. Secrets hang like fog on morning water, air thick,
creeping toward the open door, but staying.
Outside is bright and green and calls to you, but still
you stay, in gloom. A hand grips you in darkness,
pulls you deeper, away from the door. Cobwebs catch
your face. I pass by and hear you weeping. You can’t
reach the door.
Good Morning!
Good morning….echoes throughout my blog which has yet to find readers 😉 . That’s ok. I will continue to share. If you write it, they will come, right? Well, maybe…
“I have learned now that while those who speak about ones miseries usually hurt, but those who keep silence hurt more. ”
― C.S. Lewis
This is what I am contemplating today. There are times I want to hide and run away and hear only silence for days. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to be dropped off in the middle of the forest somewhere, such is my need to escape the chaos around me. Do other people feel the same? I don’t know. Some people thrive upon it, I think.
When I feel bad, really bad, like the kind of bad where I am spending hours with the pillow over my head and purposely stepping in front of speeding cars, I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to hear from anyone. I want to be ALONE. And yet, somewhere inside I know that isolation is not the answer. I have to force myself to talk to people, to step outside the house.
And, usually, the things I least want to talk about the the things I need to talk about most….
Talking to the Clouds 