Storm Drifted

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This wild storm tonight won’t allow me to sleep. I have tossed and turned..a small boat on the sea. Thoughts colliding and crashing into stone cliffs tearing at my slumber. I drift aimlessly in the wind; rudderless. Searching for the safe haven of arms that will hold me in the dark night and guide me peacefully into shore.

 

©2017 Louise Ann Stowell  All Rights Reserved

Picture courtesy of Pixabay

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The Stranger Beast

Lion tamer

Droll

No  something more

hard edged

biting that went beyond

a dry amusement

the stranger trotted out details of my life

in a circus act fashion

making sure the exciting bits

were painful

each bite taken

precise and deliberate

I had no choice but to whip

the little man with my own tongue lashing

getting the conversation under my control

well beaten and skulking back to his own cage

to lick his wounds

while I walked away

the victor.

©2017 Louise Ann Stowell All Rights Reserved

Photo is from  a piece of Victorian scrap

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/droll/

Harbinger

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The sky had that taste and smell of snow

as it gets this close to Thanksgiving

Walking the trail at Mud Lake

there were few fisherman now

Only the rustle and hiss

of the wind through the cattails

Overhead the familiar que of a V began to emerge

as one goose after another joined its mate in the air

the reeds shuttering and shaking in their take off

 snow began to fall lightly

as if by their command

as they squeaked and honked passing overhead

Another year has fled with them

©2017 Louise Ann Stowell All Rights Reserved

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/honk/

 

Marchbank Park – Daly City 1967

marchbank

Ka

Thunk

Ka   thunk

Kathunk

The ball

Slapped the pavement

While white gulls

Circled overhead

Screaming obscenities

At the game

Below

A girl walks past

The chain link fence

Sand crunching

Under the thick soles of heels

Legs and arms

Thin and tan

Ka Thunk

Swish-clink of metal

As the ball falls

Through

Cat calls whistle

Mingling with cries

Of the gulls

The girls walks by

Down the hill

Past cypress tress

 green park lawn

horizontal line

Of Skyline Blvd

3 miles away

 blue flashing water beyond

Her eyes pick out the silhouette

Of the horse stables

Where she’d rather be

Riding than walking

A paper pirate skull

Shakes side to side

Staring down at her

As it dips in the breeze

The boy’s kite soars higher

Scaring no one but

Gulls

He stops running

Black high tops

Slick with city water

And shards of green confetti

The air is sharp

With the tang of cut warming grass

©3/29/2015 LAS All Rights Reserved

No Absolution

calvary in chalk

I have been writing since 5 this morning. Unable to sleep, the poems, no, the emotions ran over in my mind ceaselessly. If I purge this, will it leave me alone? How many times do I have to purge it? It drones on and on as a nun over her rosary.  The beads break, spilling and where does it lead you?

There is a dark side to me…glittering, knife-edged…A thorn sticks in my finger the pain penetrates right to the brain. There are times when I am afraid of my thoughts…but fascinated of what my mind will conjure up for it’s own enjoyment or torture…
…the smell of snuffed out candles in the evening air and church confessions banging my head against the dark, on the wood confessional and the words of someone anonymous giving me meaningless absolution for sins I haven’t even thought of committing…..wouldn’t in a million years. And I wind up praying for absolution from love in my heart so intense and infinite… profound it leads me to God knows where and I ache for you.

And there lies my sin.

I count candles, and rain drops, and tears that were shed over trivialities and nonsense whose intense meaning in my past look absurd in the now. The tears over lost loved ones could fill oceans.  I keep counting them. Collecting scattered beads on the ground, something precious to be put away until I have the patience to re-string them and turn them into something truly beautiful.

The night is young and the spirit is believing in the wax and lighted string and wisps of smoke tangled up in prayers so intimate and unspoken aloud . The silence within me echoes up and the choir screams. The spirit boils.  And as always, I want what I cannot have.

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Laying down at Sutro gate is a cement lion. He waits and watches the decades roll by with the fog from the Pacific Ocean. He is covered in sun, covered in dew, cloaked in rain. His roar is frozen. He is wise and aware of everything that has passed before him in the stream of traffic and time that has flowed down the hill over looking the ruins of ghosts and laughter and dancing in the dark to the orchestra after oysters and champagne. Dancing on the floors of a building that you can’t see above the ruins and the tunnel and the boom of the waves at high tide when the spirits run with your candle through the darkness and snuff it out on the rocks and water at the end of cave. Dancing with their ghost lights and dreaming of us as a fantasy in their mind.

Madness, you whisper.
Silence. So much is.

© 2003 LAS ALl Rights Reserved including Photography

San Francisco and How I Remember It

In the next few weeks and perhaps months, I will be writing stories from my childhood in the 1960’s and 70’s in San Francisco.  A lot of the people and places are gone.  Something has been nagging at me to get it on “paper” before they are lost forever.  So, in a moment I will be posting the first of the stories.  The names have been changed to protect the innocent and in some cases the guilty.  Some of these stories belong to my grandmother.  Some to friends that had passed away.

I hope you enjoy them.  Drop me a line and let me know what you think.

I will be compiling them into a book that will be for sale on Amazon.com

Thank you in advance.

 

Fall Party

 

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As the last stages of Indian Summer pass

I find myself

walking old familiar paths

we used to walk

the green of Virginia Creeper has turned to violent scarlet

bleeding the hillsides

the golden of cottonwood leaves

making a path through the old Murdock trail

with bits of fluff from some unknown bushes

looking like the remnants of a party

only Mother Nature could throw.

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LAS copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved including Photos

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fluff/

The French Probably Have a Name for It

A song, something in the air, maybe a piece of conversation that I have overheard at a restaurant reminds of the longing.  Times I know that I have been with someone and been so connected on a level of communication so deep and unfathomable…diving down to the bottoms of things to surface for one more gulp of air and then dive again…both of us sharing and connecting in powerful surges and waves.

It is a different level of joining each other…the eyes dilate as you both stare at each other and speak of whatever you have in common earnestly…passionately.  You speak as if the whole world depended on just the two of you talking, touching, reaching out in so many ways other than physical.

You hear the music…the beats and rhythm…not necessarily the lyrics in the noisy cafe.   Endless cups of coffee or herb tea come around and you drink them without even noticing or let them grow cold by the crumbling pastry, pissing the waiter/ress off.

Necks extend, heads reach toward one another as you engage in this sharing of minds that is so much more than small talk.  Unconsciously, hands touch, grasp, flail to make a point and then settle down like birds in the park to grasp again; noticed, but yet barely noticed.

But I don’t know you, you think.  How? And the answer comes quickly, quietly: your spirits did…they noticed before you did as two human lump sitting in a cafe beating the cold winds from the the ocean or the mountains.  You recognized each other in a way so primal as to be invisible to the brain.

You want more, drinking each other in, trying to satisfy this thirst that you can’t quench.  The doorbell tinkles, snapping both of you out of the spell.  You see each other again, there is a knowing now.  A smile, then a laugh.

coffee-date-drink-coffee

©2017 Louise Ann Stowell  All Rights Reserved