Your breath enters me,
Softly,
As a breeze may,
On a warm summer day.
Re-kindling what was
Lost,
Into the tides of time.
Your voice,
A soft whisper,
Which remembers.
Something infinite,
As the sands are infinite,
In the arms of the water,
That dance forever.
These tides,
Which bring the pearl,
Towards the center,
Of me.
Awaiting something beautiful,
To come of this,
With time.
For we are these tides,
Endlessly meeting,
Forever wanting,
Yet never reaching,
What was yours and mine.
Your eyes wander now,
With someone else,
Wishing.
I exist now only,
In the faces,
Of others,
Because you remember.
Your restless body gives it away,
Along with the dreams,
Which keep you awake at night.
I am no longer here,
And you no longer know,
And so we are even.
Denouement was never ours,
My love.
This poem is dedicated to my complex neuropsychiatric patients who are teaching me the meaning of life, the complexities of the brain and the unwillingness of the soul to let go of this thing we take for granted, life. This population is very under-researched and presently without adequate medical and psychosocial treatment and intervention presently available to other widely accepted medical conditions such as Alzheimers disease. It is my hope that with research and funding, this complex niche of people will be afforded a much better standard of living than they presently experience.
Blue and Orange,
Primary colors she said.
Her eyes seeing,
Only the halo,
Laying prostrate,
Upon the prayers,
Of my eternal dream.
Her eyes,
Frozen,
Wide,
In that ocean,
Of forever,
That once,
Was.
She, a girl,
Tempered,
By the winds of chance,
Which brings judgment,
To the misunderstood.
And so we stand here,
In the silence,
Of dreams,
Which hang silent,
Upon the white walls,
Of destiny.
Salvation,
Never coming,
To those,
Who chose.
Only prayers for that,
Which will never be,
The same,
Again.
It was there,
In the sound of the wind,
A fading memory,
Lost to the forgotten shadows,
Of time.
And still you whisper to me,
Quietly,
As footsteps do,
Where your name,
Once existed,
Beside mine.
Hands circling,
The rose,
You once held,
Now tinted with age,
As we are.
And still,
I remember you,
As a child remembers,
The rose-hue fragrance,
And warmth,
Of a sweet embrace.
My hands,
Forever folded,
Around the stem,
Where the petals,
Have fallen,
Into the winds of time.
Tap, tap, tap.
Hollow.
The sound of the
Fallen,
Passing,
Unnoticed.
Hidden in shells,
Remaining,
Amongst shadows,
In a life,
Unknown.
The truth,
Never seen,
With beautiful,
Eyes.
Mmmm…..The use of technology and the computer for writing purposes is both a blessing and a curse. It is far more efficient than pen and paper, and fewer trees are sacrificed for posterity. And of course the lap top is far easier to use than those monoliths of the past, the old-fashioned typewriter.
I remember having to take typing lessons in High School under the rubric of Home Economics or Business, and at the time thinking this wasn’t going to contribute to a cutting edge skill set needed for gainful employment….
I can still remember the typing teacher as a colourful, hip-swaying individual with a soprano’s voice yelling, “keep going!” until our fingers would drop off or our knuckles tapped by a malevolent ruler. Back in those days corporeal punishment was still in effect and student discipline was encouraged. But I digress.
The problem with using a computer is always having to back up your work. I remember being in Sydney and having a spectacular computer crash. I was working on three papers at the time and lost a significant amount of research. It was a Monday morning and I thought the world had come to a stand still. I now have a colourful assortment of memory sticks to choose from at any given time.
Ah, technology, you have to love it. So I have written a few funny lines for those who are slaves to the writing craft.
Green lines mar the pristine white,
A squiggly mess,
On an unpublished masterpiece.
What shameful disregard for perfection!
The lines get removed with abandon,
Despite incorrect grammar.
This insolent reminding,
Of my inferiority complex,
Requires a hammer.
They trail in the wreckage,
Poor souls,
Their fading footprints,
Found on dusty photos,
Behind the Royal Doulton
Figurines.
I have dressed them in suits and ties,
Some against their will.
Men look best that way I figure,
What with their straight lines,
And small hips.
They had taken me out to dinner,
And I had kissed them occasionally,
When the right moment struck,
Not very often.
We would dance until dawn,
Drunken stumbling aside,
Head over heels, deliriously happy,
They were.
Without realizing,
The inevitable crash into oblivion,
Would leave hearts trailing in the
Dust like so many rattling,
Tin cans.
All things happen for a reason. There are no mistakes in life. I have been fortunate enough in my life to meet and form relationships with people who have made a real difference in my life, sometimes very obviously and at other times more mysteriously.
I have always chosen the “road less traveled”. And have at times wondered if I had chosen wisely. But in the end, I realize, that all was meant to be and I was wiser and more enriched for the experience or by the relationship.
This next poem, called, “Transcendence”, is dedicated to an individual who is both my polar opposite and also a kindred spirit. Can they both exist at the same time?
Transcendent bonds can both teach and transform us, helping us to realize the true meaning of love and commitment. The kind of love that is predetermined and for which, for better or for worse, becomes our destiny. I hope you enjoy “Transcendence”.
In time comes transformation,
By convergence,
A light cord joined by unknown,
Forces,
Moving towards,
The center.
In dreams all possibilities exist,
Transcendence,
The polarities of which,
Unite the infinite,
Creating the improbability,
By which you and I,
Exist.
You are,
An unfathomable,
Sea,
Spilling and
Weeping,
Seeping,
Into the
Abyss.
Craving with thirst,
The taste of your mouth,
Against the salt of my skin,
In the tangled silk,
Of my hair.
Open and
Trembling,
Starving and
Naked,
As a fledgling.
Hands,
Piercing,
The crimson skin,
Of Adam,
To taste the forbidden.
Your misguided
Words driven into the page
Common humanity
On the brink of the impossible
Haunts like shadows of a ghost
Ordering words around
Language as sculpture, disparate elements converging
Images are born
The marriage of image and word
Piercing the heart
One last look
tarabridgetmoore
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