Honor: 0 [ Give / Take ]
5 entries this month
08:31 Mar 31 2008
Times Read: 1,212
The graveyard yawns at my question,
Flexing its jaws beneath the live oak.
"What makes a ground holy?"
It sounds tinny and faraway,
Like a golden-age radio announcer
Lost in the static of these old walls
That nursed and imprisoned
The lepers of Carville.
The last Daughter of Charity
Remembers an old man
Stooped over the photograph
Of a wife well-loved.
"Holy ground," she says.
This is holy ground, sanctified
By struggles and hearts pouring out.
And I walk these halls,
Wondering at those who stay.
I shrink from the surreal truth
Of an old woman with no fingers
Who pedals her bicycle indoors,
Smiling at me as she passes
And turns the corner
In the only home she has ever known.
But she is home here
While I am a ghost with a question,
Walking the holy ground
Of the lepers of Carville.
Faith, The Best Untold *
22:41 Mar 23 2008
Times Read: 1,308
My fingers brush lovingly across the clean sheet,
Textured cotton paper and flesh, reacquainted.
I inhale inspiration and the mingled smells of paint and acetone,
A few light strokes of beloved pencils and I am home once again.
I sketch goggled men standing rank and file, focused
Not on the birds flying in widening circles close overhead,
Nor on the planes, which tip their wings, roll, and roar away.
I quarter each face, eye coordinates plotted to the mid-line.
Render, shade, and smudge, mindful always of the light.
These many days my body screams in protest, crying out.
I arch into a back bend and wait. Listening for the sapling
To reach up from the earth and spear me to this place.
I will listen to the thrum of earth’s words. I hear them
With the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet
And I know inside myself, where the world is wild and young,
Art is not “what you can get away with.” It is the now.
The now of a woman fainting on fur blankets beside a Roman pond
And I have no idea how to tell you I love you.
*title inspired by Walt Whitman
18:24 Mar 10 2008
Times Read: 1,429
Windows are thrown open
On this, my sickbed day.
Sweet Olive breeze pipes a Louisiana tune
Charming my symptoms away,
Single file like the rats of Hamelin.
And drowsing here in my room
I wish for my mother's hum,
Warp and weft along my loom,
Her softer songs of things to come,
To weave a warm and woolen afternoon.
I play a game with the ceiling fan blades,
Blinking them backward in time
Where a Grandfather's coffee smell lightly fades
And I can nap in the cradle of a cajun rhyme,
"Tu croyais, il avait juste toi dedans ce pays."
05:46 Mar 10 2008
Times Read: 1,448
• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •
Anoxia, Née Moon
09:03 Mar 04 2008
Times Read: 1,707
You loom there still, fingers pressed into my forehead,
Face red with effort while I list to the side, slipping
As my sanity breaks, last thoughts surrendering
To the edges of your features which blacken,
Melt, and spill into my mouth.
I am choking on your frown, trying to swallow
Your thick and inky rancor.
I have never fit your mold - until now.
My skull is crushed into a moist, brown,
And organic mass, my lungs squeezed
Too small to draw even one last breath.
You carry me draped across your arms
Like a fainting Fay Wray to the ocean waves
Which wrest me from your embrace
Into the warm amnion of my new birth.
And I am Venus, suckling the salty sea,
Pleasing to your eye at last, transformed.
My gown spread wide and mermaid-like
To bear me up a while, til heavy with drink,
I am pulled down from my melodious lay
Inside a womb to ever sleep my day.