Tethered Heart
The pilgrim has resided in my blood, insatiate for years,
But now the lust for new lands has grown too strong.
We desire the mountains, the lakes,
The cities, the cottages, the temples
We need lessons learned only in adventure.
Yet, there is a tether tied to my heart.
If he asked me to stay I know I would still go
But since he spurs us to leave
I know I will stay, even when he has gone.
To love me enough to let me go
And still be my home while I am away
And when I returned
Is all that I have ever needed to know.
Another Viola
Look at me. Another lost Viola.
Sitting in disguise and quiet, secret love
To see him, ah! but to love him with a-
No. Don’t say passion. Don’t say smold’ring love.
I, Viola, must sit with patience,
Must sit and not be seen or heard or loved.
To break my promise would kill my conscience-
Would return me to that hated, dark flood.
That unholy night where my soul first lost
Those black times when my deeds were unguarded
I killed my dreams in regretted holocaust.
And now I wait, missing what I discarded.
Their sacrifice that I might learn anew
That grace still comes even when merits are few.
Dancers in Masks
The moon in the sky was shrouded in mist
And the wet earth barely felt her rays.
The dancers came out with their glossy black masks,
They reveled till their cares were erased.
‘
And under the trees with the fog closing in
They met their true selves in the damp.
Beneath the dim stars they tossed away those masks
And left that dark dance to lead a joyful tramp.
‘
The dancers cleared away and the dead trees sighed.
The mist began to clear and lighten the earth.
Yet there in the stillness was one unturned mask
And the dark side of the moon was never unearthed.
Mirror Shards
Staring in a mirror does little good
Shards may come together in a shimmering, glimmering picture
But who’s to say it’s right
Who’s to say it’s good
In a world so often called black and white
There seems an awful lot of gray
That’s right for you
Not right for me
`
In a mirror I stand
Scarf in hand
Dear Isadora my fate is less than yours
Yet so simple a device turned perilous in your fair hand
Your red breast and white scarf
Are cold and burnt in Paris
Though we both danced out of love for life
Your beat is no longer mine
`
It was wrong for you
It is wrong for me
And yet still it was right
To you the world was alive
Isadora I desire the same
But it is so cold without you
You flowed through the world with laughter on your lips
It was exactly as it should have been
`
There are no diamonds on my fingers
Nor screens that hold my face
Lovely Lauren you lived so much more than I
So much love to show so very unlike me
You melted in men’s arms
Held icons as your lovers
I see your face in a darkened mirror
And know it is not mine
`
It was perfect for you
I wish it would be perfect for me
My name on his crooning lips
My hands held in his as the song fills the air
Oh Lauren you have lived so well
My life is frozen in comparison
The silver screen can barely contain your love and life
And everything is as it should be
`
Azalea petals in my hands are bright even as they wilt
The mirror is warm to the touch
But Sylvia you are cold
Your inky fingers have surpassed my untried hands
Tears are worthless at the thought of your loss
But come unbidden all the same
You touched the core of sorrow in life
And experienced more than can be held in this cold heart of mine
`
It was wrong
It is wrong
Why does that make it right?
So much magic in your hands melted away
Sylvia, dear girl, your life was incomplete
My life might be warm, but the chill has pervaded still
Your words were too few; your heart was too heavy
Yet this is how everything should be
`
The shattered mirror shows feathered quills
And papers upon the floor
I see you fair Jane
I know your words and know they hold power over me
To hold your hand which told so much
And still sways many hearts
We dance at gaily lit balls with men whose faces are obscured
Your fate could so easily be mine
`
It was right
It will be right for all time
But it feels wrong and unfair
Vivid characters should be the product of vivid life
But Jane you were ever unloved
You are cold and therefore cold is my way too
Books tell of your imagination which was so much more than your life
Is this how it all should be?
`
The shattered mirror shows a dancer with bare feet
An actress whose eyes held the sky
A writer with too little time
A dreamer who let life slide by
The pieces can be put together
But what does that show?
Is it me or is it fate?
Where did all this gray come from?
Poetic Explorations 