presssendpoetry

Even Memories Fade

Written late in the night many years ago. Found it in a handwritten book of notes. I have no idea, on a beautiful day like this one, why I felt like posting it.

Even Memories Fade

you, disappearing slowly,
a mist
a past a past life
crawling away from here like your life
depended upon it
but you really didn’t care that much about life
anyway
you, disappearing slowly,
and I
sit sit still watching
not concerned like I thought I would be
I thought I’d feel
an emptiness for the loss
but instead only numb
nothing.

Crocus (Near Easter)

All winter, I was curled tight in my bed
so that my legs had become part of my torso
and my arms wrapped around the whole bundle
as to let nothing out,
or in.

In the early equinox morning,
the sun rose up over the row-homes that
stretched into a scraped horizon.
I could see it with one half-shut eye,
through one slice of blinds but I did
not move from my bulb.

Soon, soon, the glow blinded
it pierced into my drowsy eyelids and ever so gently
peeled away my fingers, prodded my arms out, then,
carefully pushed my legs straight.

I stretched across the sheets.
I stood gently, unaware.
The sun enveloped the whole of the city and room.
I was unsure of my steps,
but I stretched up and
drank in the light…blooming.

Psychic Ability is Inherited

alone, she
watched the impending
clouds. grey thick and heavy
with waiting.

her father had
warned of such moments
and her mother
spoke quietly, “then,
you must listen”

it was just that their faces
had lit with excitement
despite her “you should
not be here”

they were waiting
as they always had.

and inside she felt
expectant. outside the grey
sky whispered, “yes, you already know
it will rain.”

In honor of post 101 ~ A Small Girl in the Rain by Alice B. Johnson

I’ve made it to post 101! Incredible! It’s a heavy day, grey clouds thick with rain, sidewalks still wet. Perfect day in a quiet coffee shop (except for the reggae!) to write. Think, write. All this alone time in my head is starting to effect my mental state…. thinking all about generations and families and “free will.” I have just finished a Taylor Caldwell book as well (not sure if anyone here would be familiar with her work). Clearly, I could continue to ramble but I think I’ll save it and maybe put these cluttered thoughts to better use later. Here, now, is poem from my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson that I felt fitting for the day:

Small Girl in the Rain

The small girl, with her face uplifted to
The gentle summer rain, stands very still,
Her hands outstretched to catch each lovely drop
That falls in pattering enchantment till
She feels its mystic touch. She opens wide
Her laughing mouth, as if to quench her thirst
With dancing drops that struggle to elude
The questing tongue, stuck out to catch them first.

Her small heart quivers with her love of life,
With windswept rain and each small living thing…
Drawn to bright loveliness of bird and bloom,
And to the lowly earthworm’s tunneling
Beneach her feet. Small goddess of the earth,
With arms upraised, she strives as if to capture
Earth…sky…the magic of the wind and the rain,
And keep the treasure of this new-found rapture.

She feels the vibrant urgency above…below…
Not knowing what it is that stirs her so.

untitled (dreaming of a novel)

it was all
so clear that night
the plan
my skin tight and ready

only a few hours of
time that doesn’t exist….

but I slept
I did. Head crooked awkward
on a pillow with a black cover
and a bed
of scientifically formulated sleep foam.

and the colors
and the ideas

they came and they went.

The Man in Patterson Park

The man’s gnarled hands
fingered his coat collar absentmindedly
and pulled it close to block
the relentless cold March wind
his back curled over slightly
and what had been immaculate posture
fell to gravity and weight of years.

Secrets loves wars won and lost
the battles that were never his to
fight and die for. He, without regret, considered
himself dead since his return
thirty-seven years ago.

The park bench dug into his jeans
with splinters. The man dug his hands
into a snack bag of Cheetos, lightly
devouring and sucking off the cheese
from his fingers. Across the way
a squirrel tenaciously nibbled a nut
and the whole of the park groaned beneath
another gust of March wind.

Satisfied momentarily, he lifted his head, back
still bent. Dogs, babies, people all
were walking by, trees heavy with blossoms
drooped towards the ground, and
ducks circled aimlessly in the man-made pond.

Above them all on Hamstead Hill
the pagoda glimmered with a light that
seemed to shine from the inside. With
respect, Union ghosts let the man
disappear into the park bench with
a contented sigh.

Deflagration

Here.
Storm outside howls
Inside flames burn
and lick the foundations
There is thunder in my veins, in my ears,
Oh God
must be

Rocking.
I roll ever so slightly, to
press my face down,
press my hips
in heated sheets smelling of
cologne and

Man.
your fingers pound rhythm of
rain-soaked windows—
outside drips wet
Inside fingers pressing
hot back

Bare.
palms chase sweaty skin
I roll ever so slightly, sizzling
Hips find air
pressure drops down fast and
roars.

Untitled (the pastor)

The pastor
choked up
calmed himself quickly
and with a snort,
he looked down and spoke.

“Charles knew
To live beyond himself”