I Dance.

I dance in moonlight
jig time on his grave
toes kicking up the tidy mound
of freshly turned earth
midnight blanket to smother
sounds of celebration.
 
Cold, you say, cold.
Whisper behind your hands
grief has deranged her for a time,
perhaps forever.

No. I’ve cried my tears.
Howled and screamed,
became addicted to the storm.
Habit served me well.

Deep in silence of other nights
liquid grief slid down
without a witness
filled my ears
with distant drums of rage.

Mourners, admirers, sycophants
are gone, food properly covered,
refrigerated to correct temperatures.
The children escape with their families.
Inheritance of secrets.

You think I mourn him?
I lament my own deaths
honor bereavement of the soul
who once birthed my dreams.
Reconcile self betrayal.

In alchemy of final resting
child woman
metamorphoses
crone.

Oh yes, I’ve wept.

So you who whisper know
I’ve slipped back to raw earth
with headstones reflecting stars
and dance in jig time
on his grave.


February 2007

Saving Grace

In my world, poetry too often compares to the practice of speaking in tongues. An interpreter and translation is necessary for practical application of the channeled message to a congregation. While meaning may be clear to the author of the poem, I’m more often than not left scratching my head and frustrated from the effort to understand. I want to comprehend not only the words and meaning, I need, need, need to feel the intention of the author resonate in my soul. Therapists have asked to use my poetry with their clients and I’ve shared the work with friends. By sending my poems out into the universe, I hope the simple words I’ve chosen will clearly speak from my heart to yours.  My intention is to offer my words to those who need a voice and, for whatever reason, can’t find their own at this moment in time.

I’ve packed
memories away
again.
Carefully washed and folded clothes
once molded
to plump, warm bodies.
Now,
nothing more
than limp polyester and cotton,
layer
upon
layer
in apple boxes
in the corner of the closet.
If I save clothes
and toys
little white shoes with pink rosebuds,
pictures stubbed out
in finger paint,
broken necklace charms
old hair bows,
I’m saving them.
No.
I’m saving me
for them.

The New Math ...

What pattern the Fibonacci sequence of grief?
Each loss summed by previous two.
Old wives caution ~ beware ~ death comes in threes!
Sorrow intensified by exponent of repetition.
Crones cackle, “practice makes perfect.”
Single tear raised to power of never ending,
hologram for life and meaning
traces a course of alchemical healing down skin.
Eternal fractals
beauty of pattern
spiral on and on.