Like milk when once gone sour,
Love lost is lost forever.
I just made that proverb up.
I don't even believe it, but what if that were a common saying? What I'm thinking about right now is the power of comparisons. We all have lots of comparisons at hand that we use to figure out what's going on in our lives, and it seems to me that whatever is in that arsenal of comparisons that come to your mind, carries a lot of power in your life.
His breaths are copper leaves ripped from a cedar.
She hears the gale in his chest rattle the blinds.
Before the bed can roll over to smother them,
She heaves it off, hearing the storm slam into the window.
She tastes the salt in the downpour, feels
wetness speckle the backs of her hands.
“Abraham’s tree has its foot in the water”—
at this staticky song of the weather report,
she laces her boots with typha, lifts him
in one thin arm, and cradles him over miles of
sharp puddles. They slice at her soles, but she splashes
The cliffs of the sea, stunted and black
stretch crookedly in a line between
the land and the sea. And me,
I am well content
with windowsills collecting dust,
and apples every fall 'til come famine or flood.
A dissatisfied grin, a shambled gate:
the cliffs are strung out like skeleton teeth.
Or the teeth of a rake left out in the rain
for too long. And I chose
to stride one side, plant my seeds and feet
rather than water, and drifting for weeks.
Note: All right this is very different from the poetry I usually write and was wondering what others thought about it. Those around me that are familiar and comfortable with my poetry style are a little confused by this piece. To help explain without ruining other's interpretations, this is a metaphorical piece on my journey with Jesus through His Spirit that works in my life. Let me know your thoughts! Thanks!
~This could easily slip into my nonsense poems, but I though I'd post it separately.~
I look at me and see
the nonsensibility of complaining.
I remind me of a bird
that scolds spring for damaging winter.
“You break it, you buy it,” I shrill,
ruffling my wings.
“Ridiculous,” spring replies.
“The world looks better my way.”
I pulled my hair into a long ponytail and rolled up my sleeves. Time to air out memories, pushing dark shades back. I brooked no funerals.
I only meant to dust them off, to tuck sweet-scented flowers in their folds and hang them up again, but the first one I pulled out I knew I had to wear.
I held it close. "Oh, I love this one," I whispered, the fabric of the memory, all it was made of, rubbing my cheek. Well-made memories like to greet you with a kiss and a warm embrace.
Branches in the puddle on the sidewalk
dark against the pale face of the sky
broken pictures of a broken world
windows to a place like mine
but not the same
I wonder – do they cry there?
The wind, it leaves the flowering branches crying
raining down their life over my face
little echoes of what I was made for
pieces of a near, dear place
but far away
I wonder – would I know it?
though winter had almost gone
and the last remnant of frost
had just fallen from
the leaf
buds.
In the moonlight,
the branches of the old,
country orchard gleamed
like pale limbs, as if waiting
to waltz slowly
through the fields.
A northerly wind
roused the grass
that played beneath
and between
the dancers.
Flower buds,
white as the moonlight,
pink as the dawn,
had just begun to burst,
inviting hosts of bees
to alight on their branches.