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5 entries this month
16:34 Oct 24 2009
Times Read: 1,132
My shame ever lies in the words I did not speak.
22:54 Oct 22 2009
Times Read: 1,171
You are why words aspire to be paintbrushes.
Between the Cracks
19:46 Oct 22 2009
Times Read: 1,185
Thin and frail,
A weathered picket
From a long-forgotten fence
In an overgrown world.
She is stitched together
With nothing but vapors,
Leaning on the arm
Of her tired sweetheart.
Grateful for a bit of food
And fuel enough for the journey
To a strange new bed,
In an an antiseptic room
Where she will be swallowed whole
And her sweetheart will return alone.
I have to lean close to hear.
"Angel."
It is a moment before I understand;
She means me,
And I have never felt less angelic
Than when she waves good bye.
PRIVATE ENTRY
13:07 Oct 01 2009
Times Read: 1,247
• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •
Now I Long For Yesterday
06:07 Oct 01 2009
Times Read: 1,248
He has artist hands,
Rough and surprising,
But not to me.
Your early days smelled of laundry
Pinned to a line in the southern sun
Where bedsheets billowed
Like sails on the horizon,
Always coming in for you, my sunny boy.
But my childhood was fragranced
With the fumes of mineral spirits
And the sweat of concentration
That made me breathe deep
And scurry on little girl legs to his elbow
Where I could watch for hours
In the warmth of his indulgence.
My father dipped his brush in shadow
And buttered the edges of my life in light,
Dappling the world in a mystery of fallen leaves.
And beneath it all, a right triangle motif
Quantified my center of gravity
There at his elbow, in the wake of creation
Where I would search for myself for hours
In the masterstroke of his grace,
Knowing myself blessed to belong to him
Even when he swirled the skies with storm clouds,
Rusting the anvil of a long-dead blacksmith
I dared to see in the slanting angles
Of my father’s unpeopled scenes.
He has artist hands,
Rough from wooden frames
Designed to stretch canvas with care
That he may gesso the weave,
Preparing it to receive a dream,
Reflecting forever a piece of his soul.
I long to be as free as the cloth
Beneath my father’s touch.
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