Sparked by Words

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

An Arrow Shot Blind

I miss the mark because I don’t understand what the target should be. How can I land a bull’s eye when I have no idea what to aim for? All I’m doing is shooting an arrow to the place hidden from my sight.

Yet it’s my shadow hiding the mark. If I move, if I change, if I soften my heart, if I open my eyes, maybe I will see. Then I might aim well enough.

It will be in your reflection I will know if I’ve triumphed. Your smile, your glow, your pulse. Your gifting hands, your willowed spine.

My cleansed sinew. My renewed spirit.

What glory then for the medal I no longer need to win.

 

 

Just a thought 60

 

Painting Archers by Nicholas Roerich (1874-1947) courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. This photographic reproduction is considered to be in the public domain in the United States.

 

 

 

 

 

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Moth

Captivated by moths. The beat of their wings so soft that the breath of elves do not approach their whispered thrum. I’m alive, I’m alive here.

Bodies thick with fur weighing less than a thimble of honey. The flash of exquisite wing art to terrify predators and frighten humans who approach at night. Leave me, leave me be.

Diurnal creatures attracted to light, intuitively brave explorers. They flit toward all the light in the world, basking in its artificial or natural beams, yet steal none of it, leaving plenty of glow for everyone else. We share, we share always.

To lose myself in your shadow and you in mine, yet each remain whole. More ourselves when paired, more complete than if we flew alone. How can I not be enchanted by greed that is not selfish? Love you, love you too.

Strangers may witness but my heartbeat is yours to claim. Do you see me drawn to your candlelight, my wings beating in the dark? Captivated by you, I’ve claimed all but taken nothing. I am, I am yours.

 

Just a thought 59

 

Painting Emperor Moth, Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

Spilled Water

 

A few ounces of water barely fill a glass

Transparent, silent, static at the bottom

Topple the cup, and water flows everywhere

The surge of ounces conveyed quick as a tide

Saturating the books on the shelf, soaking their pages

A clumsy accident we say, and maybe that’s true

 

Grab the nearest cloth and press dry each book

Yet the pages between covers remain damp

They’ll dry in an hour or three, curling like waves

Each sheet bearing a permanent water stain

Dusk gray or dove wing brown as pages shrivel

The rippled intaglio of having been doused

 

We harbor truth within our heart’s deepest coves

It slumbers quiet as a secret tucked in a locket

While hate flows from our tongue, lashing blindly

A snake hissing danger at the edge of reeds

Sorry is a sibilant word, sliding soft from our mouths

Like fire, water burns and leaves a riven scar

 

Just a thought 58

 

 

Image of glass of spilled water courtesy Max Pixel,  CCO Public Domain

 

 

Kind of Like Stars

Kind of like stars – only the ancient light of them remains

Not yesterday’s anger either, just the sticky path of our tears

What was it we argued about that now I can’t recall

Less the chores of our lives than slights that pierce our flesh

And make me bend as if holding my ribs will heal the pain

 

Kind of like rainbows – name their colors but never catch them

Not the wind either, just the toppled twigs, the skittering leaves

How did I not see you shiver, the confusion in your eyes

Why did you fail to ease the ache of my heart, my soul

Though one part of me is as tender as all parts of you

 

Kind of like water – without shape of its own, only a wild surge

Not the thirst for assent either, just the hungry plea that you see me

Will you call my name, touch my hand? I cannot swallow

Still we yearn to press beyond what we can’t hold in our palms

Love and acceptance, memory and future, all of all between

 

Kind of like fragrance – bereft of corpus, only a scent we inhale

Not the spices we measure either, just the smell of you against me

Even if you leave, I will still feel your breath on my cheek

Yet I run to gather flowers and seeds, as if they will thrive

You will always be a living presence in my life, today, tomorrow

 

 

Just a thought 56

 

Painting, Lovers, 1928, by Felix Nussbaum, courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most of All

Most of all, I

quiet to hear my sons’ laughter but snub the marching band

tongue spicy sweet cinnamon though disdain rare truffles

climb to sight the far sunset  and turn away from the road

yearn to listen to the poet but don’t hear any king

lean to smell the hyacinth though not costly perfume

reach to kiss my lover’s hand but ignore the silken gown

chant the trope of psalms but refute the tyrant’s rant

kneel to drink clear water but am not sated with Champagne

stretch to grasp my toes far longer than to hold a torch

pray for my grandchildren’s health rather than myself a longer life

seek my worth as a seashell more than all the gold in the world

 

Just a thought 55

 

Photo of seashell courtesy Pixabay

 

 

 

 

A Few Words More or Less

First word a child learns:

 

Mama.

Then dada.

Then no. Why. So big.

How come. Go now.

Pick me up. You do it.

I do it.

Play with me.

I love you.

 

Not a bad vocabulary for learning how to get along in the world.

Maybe the grownups should speak less.

Listen more. Share the cookies.

Love better.

Too many words, too much taking.

What have we got to lose?

 

Everything.

We’ve got everything to lose.

Especially our children,

And their future.

 

 

Just a thought 52.

 

Painting Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, 1885, by John Singer Sargent, courtesy Wikipedia

 

 

 

Buttercup

I work hard to corral the horses before they stampede.

Still, someone asks, “How did the buttercup escape?”

I turn to see a hoof crush a flower.

Yellow stains on my hands, I crumple and weep.

 

Just a thought 51

 

Photograph of buttercups courtesy Pixabay