Of Strings and Stardust

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The strings call to my soul
stronger than words could ever elicit.
The mingling transcendent cosmic flavors —
salted by my tears and compelled
by your crashing waves
on the shores of my inability
to know my own heart
to decipher her needs
and control her defiant inclinations
of passionate longing –
“Move me! Make me feel!” She demands.
The strings acquiesce, inciting floods
of serene turbulence – night’s glorious
celestial embrace. My heart beats
to the heightened rhythm. My breast — rising
and falling with each gorgeously tormented
sound – each gentle nuance is like dancing atop
night’s glittering constellations, like waltzing
through the galaxy’s infinite dust of beauty,
heedlessly and magnificently bounding
from one star to the next.

 

 

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My Whisperer

I am enfolding — my infernal evaporation
Into the darkness. This is nothing more than
The declension of a tired spirit: succumbing
To Dante’s path once more. The way is marked
With Virgil’s beguiling light of limited
Human wisdom. The candles dim to flickering
Shadows as I reach for the jar atop the highest shelf
Of my mind. I placed my shattered heart there
In hopes to keep it safe from the darkness –
But these cold, inky thoughts continue to flood in
Through the cracks in the walls and under
The dead-bolted doors of iron and rust.

Then, like a warm summer breeze
That playfully sends my long curled tendrils
To dancing, your whisper lifts me
Out of the sordid pit in which I tried
To find solace. Instead of rebuke and disgust,
Your hand reaches for mine pulling me close to you.
You beckon me to healing as you take
The broken fragments of my heart in your hands
And begin to piece them lovingly together.
Your words become the encasement for my
Reshaped heart until I am all but melting
Into the light of your soothing whisper.

I Wear the Sun Differently

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The sun is shining
and so are you —
your smile is full
of rainbows and
blueberries…and
hope. But, I wear the sun
differently. My eyes —
cloaked in the melancholy
of your scars —
cloud and bring forth
vengeful floods,
unsettled and unavoidable.
My love is messy —
to say the least. Pieces
of me and you are
scattered like ash
in a blaze of
stardust and dreams.
My anvil’d heart
sinks into the depth
of your ocean eyes.
Your words, like water,
wash through me
as you burst into
colors of vibrant mists —
your hues of healing light
glitter the path
to what will make
me whole again.


about the painting: “The Wanderer above the Sea of Fog” (oil on canvas) piece was painted by the German Romantic artist Caspar David Friedrich in 1818.

My Training

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Each Saturday morning
was like the one before —
Get up, eat breakfast,
attend ballet.
Ms. Amy, the perfect ballerina,
taught me the meaning of
anguish and adoration.
She demanded perfection
from her little swans —
but I was just a crow.
Nothing I did was ever
good enough — I was told
that she saw potential
in me and that is why
she pushed me so hard.
Removing my skirt was
my punishment — my back
wasn’t swayed. My hips
were rotated just so —
but that pesky little (ahem)
not so little derriere
caused so much agony for me
at the barre. No skirt, no
dignity. When it was time to
exchange our soft slippers
for our point shoes, Ms. Amy
would watch as we wrapped our
toes with paper towels from
the bathroom — no gel pads
or extra stuffing allowed.
If she was feeling
generous she said
we could use a little
lambswool — but just a
little bit! I remember
inspecting myself
in the mirror — scowling
at my svelte dancer physique
Never good enough — the girl
next to me was always
thinner, more flexible,
more graceful, had a prettier
arch in her foot —
Just like Ms. Amy, I
only saw my flaws, and perhaps
unlike Ms. Amy, I never saw
my potential.

Rain

Your condemnation of all that I am
and will become
rains down on me like
a harsh and heavy hand—I almost don’t feel it
at first, like a speckle of rain dropping onto my
cheek, your palm—open and surging—
finds its target.

Your disapproving eyes shift into focus—
a flood of words falls from your lips
as your palm forms into a fist
to deliver your strongest message to me.
I am listening but I can’t hear you
over the volume of your pain—

My heart—like wetted cement
drinks in the poison and darkens
like the starless night.
Burning and searing—
your daggered love crashes into me—

The sky bursts free
and oceans cover me dulling the sharpness
of your kind of love—the waters enfold me,
bearing me up

like a Sacrifice for all those vices I have.
Water fills my ears so full I can no
longer hear your arid words. My body,

encased in a flood of tears, can no longer
feel the blow of your anger. My pied

heart, no longer needs your cleansing.

 
 
 

 
 
 

Day’s Rain Is Done
by Aleksandr Pushkin

Day’s rain is done. The rainy mist of night
Spreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing,
And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing,
The moon comes up with hidden light.
All in my soul drags me to dark surrender.
There, far away, rises the moon in splendour.
There all the air is drunk with evening heat,
There move the waters in a sumptuous heat,
And overhead the azure skies…
It is the hour. From high hills she has gone
To sea-shores flooding in the waves’ loud cries;
There, where the holy cliffs arise,
Now she sits melancholy and alone…
Alone… Before her none is weeping, fretting,
None, on his knees, is kissing her, forgetting;
Alone… To no one’s lips is she betraying
Her shoulders, her wet lips, her snow-white bosom.

No one is worthy of her heavenly love.
‘Tis true?… Alone… You weep… I do not move.

Yet if…

 
 
 

Dear Reader, 

Each of these pieces, my poem, the song, and Pushkin’s poem, have a similar sadness to them, but what I wanted to point out before I sign off is that there is hope that one day we will be renewed. Each ends with a glimmer of hope for something more — for something better. I think that’s what humanity needs — we need to see and acknowledge the pain, the darkness…the melancholic parts of our hearts we may try to hide — those are unavoidable realities in life. And they are not easy to deal with or confront, but there is something more — there is hope.

Until next time. 

Dandelion Dreams

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When I was a little girl, I thought dandelions
were beautiful yellow flowers. I never understood
why my dad would get so angry
every time I made a wish
with those cottony clustered clouds.
Umbrella-ed seeds floating all
around spoke of all the possibilities of who I could be and
what was to come. My wishes rarely came true,
but then the parachutes didn’t
always catch the wind. Stubborn anchored sprouts refused
to move with a puff of my cheek. And I knew
that my dreams were stuck.
Now that I’m older, I know better.
Dandelions and their seedling blossoms,
the ones that line the beds of unkempt gardens,
are just weeds of wistful thinking.