Patterns (Lissa, Peggy, Karen, Stevie…)

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Riding the full moon

I cannot sleep at night

3 am

and I am still

waking

automatic

decades of it

and I have often wondered

whose dreams

I am walking through

wondering aloud

I have found

my best girlfriends

do the same

the patterns repeat

at the witching hour

we laugh at our

congruity

wonder what we’re up to

the joking conjecture

of stirring up storms

and secret romance

or perhaps

its just so simple

a case of insomnia

of five women aging

but secretly

something in our eyes

the hint of a smile

we know

as creatures of the tides

we hold the world in our hands

spinning the wheel

as life goes on

LAS  Copyright 2017  All Rights Reserved

Photo Courtesy of Pixabay

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

 

 

 

 

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Your Own Version and Mine

A thorn sticks in my finger and it penetrates right into my brain. There are times when I am afraid of my thoughts…scared of what my mind will conjure up for it’s own enjoyment or torture.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.

rerun….

change the channel

twilight zone and  it is

all
the
same

show!!!

popcorn for breakfast with oatmeal and a dash of brown sugar with my tea. Okay, let’s see where this leads me.

Where it leads you.

There is a dark side to me…glittering, knife-edged and very, very sharp. I am throwing it all up on paper, so to speak…the beautiful, bold, insecure and bizarre.

…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.

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. I keep counting them. Collecting them as 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, wisps of smoke tangled up in prayers so intimate and unspoken aloud . The silence within me echos up and the choir screams. The spirit boils.

Do you see it? Do you understand ?

So much I pick up and see. So much that goes unnoticed in everyday hurrying to work.

People pass by the building facade and never stop and REALLY see it. They don’t know about the beautiful tiles and the rococo. They don’t see the gargoyle sitting placid and ready to spout water during the rainfall. They see the piece of yesterday’s newspaper and dog crap by the Doric column and have no idea there is a sky above. Eyes to the pavement. Attention to the bits of litter and trash. (My Note: And now cell phones! 8-24-2016)

I see it, too. I just have the nerve to raise my head. That makes me dangerous.. I know too much.

Laying down at the Sutro gate in San Francisco is a cement lion. He waits and watches the decades roll by with the fog from the Pacific. 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.

Silent. So much is.

Stage Door Exit

“Stage Door Exit” was one of a number of poems that I had posted on my old blogspot site called “Breathing Thru My Eyes.”  Unfortunately, when I lost the address book that had contained my password to an old email account, I lost the ability to log on to the site and edit it.  Blogger is not great in helping you…AT ALL…in getting your old blog back.  So, in an attempt to not lose old artwork and poetry, I am re-doing some of it here.  I start out with the year 2006.  I have added an image I love.
isadora
Stage Door Exit

When I come back

will you be there to hold me?

Not long,

just a moment to soothe

aching nerves and my tired soul…

Give the loving words

I long to hear

from one

so dear to me now…as always

So far

I have traveled so far

but the reason was not clear

I echoed out the cry

only to hear it

bouncing back loneliness

It was the only answer

Walk the corridors to my rooms

and fall in step…

dark ramblings

with the castles of air

of then and now

Shadows come and go

touching me briefly

passing lightly

Too much (sorrow)

wells up and it

taints my dance

I light a candle for you

burning it bright in the window

light in our storms

light for your way

Pulling back from desperation

I walk the sea foam

gazing into the hems of the oceans’ skirt

The decoration and finery of small shells

seaweed embroiders the story of us in her gown

The sea is lifting me

in the shallows

to lay me soft on your shores

silent at your feet

Gather me there, my Love

Away from the lights and stage door exits

lift me away to the fires and warm furs

where I can sleep in peace

perhaps a small time together

without dramas and wars

Claim me as your own and heal this weary soul.

copyright 1987 LAS. all rights reserved.