The Simple Things – For Bupa

May 7, 2011 at 11:37 pm (Poetry) (, , , )

You always loved the simple things

Westerns, coffee, corny puns,

You whistled on your cane,

And you played every crane game you saw.

I have piles of cheap stuffed animals

But they’re worth so much more from you.

You fed me cake with your head in gear;

Most of it ended up on my face.

There was a submarine in the backyard

Every April Fool’s Day.

You were never much of one for words

But you sure could swear and you made me laugh.

The simple things were the best

An easy chair, dessert, and game shows-

And though the last years were hard

I’ll never forget the carefree times,

The cheesy crane game toys,

The cathartic nature of swearing like a sailor,

How to make a real dessert plate,

And all the good times we shared.

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Tethered Heart

April 17, 2011 at 8:43 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , )

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.

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Another Viola

April 12, 2011 at 1:09 pm (Poetry, Sonnets) (, , , , , )

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.

 

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Vines

March 10, 2011 at 8:17 am (Sonnets) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

For love, I gave my heart and lost my head.

One look from him was all that I desired,

But still I ran from him – dry-eyed, I fled.

Fear of the future, of secrets – I risked fire –

Soul burning agony. All for freedom.

But there was no freedom in that dark place –

More pain. More chains. More fear. And now, no him,

No love to save me, and so I must perish.

Perish pining, darkly burning in strife!

Regret consumed me. Overwhelmed my soul.

In wandering thoughts I laid down my life,

I let my wits away, and gave up control.

But my knight arrived and in his hand took mine –

Too late my mind was caught in sorrow’s vine.

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Mother Eternal

February 10, 2011 at 12:27 pm (Words for the Great and Small) (, , , , , , , )

This is another poem from this set that I rather enjoy. It was fun to write because I got to tie in some of my favorite tree lore with Rivkah’s (my DnD character) feelings and desires.

Find comfort in the beech trees arms

She loves you, little one

Climb high upon her noble brow

She beckons you, little one

Be crowned with leaves of joy and grace

They’re just for you, little one

Rest in her shade and safety

She will protect you, little one

Though you grow older she stays the same

She will watch you, little one

Never fear her, always love her

Heed my words, little one

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Match Girl

August 1, 2010 at 8:50 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Little girl

Playing with fire

Spreading it all around her

All she knows

Is that it keeps her safe

And warm

But when it is gone

She shivers in the cold

Dreaming of the fire

Wishing it would return

Wishing it would spread

Little match girl

Lost in the cold.

***The only thing I wanted from my grandmother when she passed away was a doll.  The little match girl sat in her living room for years, and now she is in my bedroom as a reminder.  I named her Etterene…after my grandmother.

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No One was Saved

June 23, 2010 at 11:23 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I am Eleanor Rigby.

I come out of this world

A lonely person

Searching for love

Dreaming about that day.

I am a river.

Soft and sweet.

My embrace like cold needles

Carrying my dream away

Back to the lonely banks.

I am a smile.

I play on the lips

Of liars, saints, and lovers.

I come and I go

A sign that they are just barely getting by.

I am a secret.

Shared between friends,

Holding people together

Tearing others apart

Because no one keeps me to themselves.

I am Eleanor Rigby.

I keep faces in jars

Because my own face is the mask.

The river, the smile, the secret

are truth.

***I love allusions and I felt a sudden connection to Miss Rigby, so this is my tribute to her (as well as the four men who brought her into existence).  I look forward to the day when I don’t feel like I’m turning into Eleanor and Father McKenzie any more.

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What Love Is

April 15, 2010 at 9:11 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

You cannot tell me what love is,

I already know.

It is talking and trusting.

It is helping and healing.

It is listening and

Leaping.

Taking a leap of faith.

Love maybe patient and kind,

but it is honest and hard-hitting.

I know what love is.

So let me tell you

What we both already know.

***I did write this with a specific person in mind, but as I read over it again and again I keep thinking that maybe my hand wrote something different than what my mind wanted. Maybe my heart took over for a little while, if that’s even possible.

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Denim Heart

April 14, 2010 at 3:07 pm (Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , )

A denim heart

Rough, tough to tear

Protective and reliable

Hard to rip

This denim heart

was not always so

Hard to break

Look closer

See the seams

See the patches

This denim heart

repaired with thread and linen

is not so

Hard to shatter

For though denim it is

on the outside

There is glass underneath

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