In so many pieces of literature, the rain has been used as a tool, a metaphor, for the washing away of old sins, grudges, bitter emotions, and allows new, brighter sentiments to take their place.
It is pouring as I write. For the first time in a long time, I begged for my God to release me from my anger. It doesn't always show, and not for lack of trying, but I have become so angry over the last year. So I walked out into the deluge, and I cried for the washing away of my burdens. For all the things I have said against where I live, the one thing I count on is a good autumn shower.
The Cleansing
It started as a sprinkling, some cloud god flinging little token droplets down.
They dot my eyelashes, dust my hair, and my irritation grows tenfold.
My world has come to that: an irritation, and I seek to be rid of these vexing details.
I picked up my flute, a tarnished piece with the fingerprints of a twelve-year-old
crisscrossing over the keys. I'm looking at the past, and I wonder why I stopped.
My lips know where to go, how to push the air over the oval opening,
and my fingers dance, in steps of a waltz, a ballad
that my eyes have never seen, but my heart has always been sobbing.
I think of the rain outside, and I see myself in that rain, playing with the wind,
the rain drops on the silver like dew on a cobweb.
I put the flute down. My heart is breaking, but I deny it, dismissing my song as garbage.
My heart has been a stone of Provencal marble since my sunlight burned out.
I hear the rain, and I curse a bitter sigh. It comes in droves of drummers and cymbals.
It is dark outside, but I care not for the dangers of the unseen.
I face what fear is left in my heart, and I am outside.
The aggregate concrete under my callused soles is slick and frigid.
My hair, that dances and rebels against all attempt at good behavior,
sticks to my neck in veins of mahogany and coffee.
I blink hard and quick, and the rain melts my fortress of burned bridges and repressed love.
My palms are Mary's agonized pleas, but I do not ask for the return of a good son.
I ask for the return of sweeter days, softer words, and lighter laughter.
I ask for the purity I once knew as my own.
And it ends in a downpour, and I am, for the moment, at the mercy of fate.
I look to the skies for redemption.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Friday, October 12, 2012
You Are as Free as You Let Yourself Be
I'm at that point in my life where all I can think about is how I would love to be out on my own. My own place, my own furniture, my own food, and a dog (I've decided on either an Australian Shepherd or an Australian Cattle Dog). My mother will possibly skin my cat or throw him to the coyotes if I don't take him too. All it is now is just preparing, applying to the school, looking for a suitable car, and eventually looking for a place to live. It is going to suck, financially, but I've accepted that. I've also accepted that, if I don't get started on this new life, it will never happen. Carpe diem.
East of the Mountains
People say, we're in a drought.
When I'm east of the mountains, the place where the sun knows no fear,
I can look at the grass waving in the wind - picturing them emerald -
and I know by the browning golden blades that people are right.
Nonetheless, I feel unraveled here, untangled as the sky and land meet
in a symphonic union, the hills rolling and skating against the blue haze.
In this place, the sun is a coward, between the storms to the west and the wall in the east.
Helios runs and hides, and the sky is an ashy ceiling, with no surprise.
St. Helens sits in her fury to the south.
My cage is a Douglas fir forest, and you can't blame me when I tell you:
It feels so small here.
You knew my frustration with this hell-mouth, and so, like a monarch,
you headed south, fleeing, knowing that if you stayed,
you'd be held prisoner like me; you'd be bound to the darkness, despite your love for me.
I felt the impulse to grab your ankle as you flew, to chain your wrist to mine,
but who was I to clip your wings when I too sought liberty?
East of the mountains, there is another place I am bound, but not by force.
It is by pure fascination, by a familiar spiritual understanding.
I told you of my infatuation, and I still hope you'll remember enough
to come back that way, to go beyond your fears.
She looks at me, informs me of my lacking sanity, and I swallow an angry retort,
quite the horse-pill to be sure.
She says, they're in a drought, and though I know this is true, I look at her
with sharp eyes and tongue bitten, thinking,
what does she know except for this salty scrap of gray and green?
What does she know when she's never been east of my mountains?
All she really has ever known is fear.
East of the Mountains
People say, we're in a drought.
When I'm east of the mountains, the place where the sun knows no fear,
I can look at the grass waving in the wind - picturing them emerald -
and I know by the browning golden blades that people are right.
Nonetheless, I feel unraveled here, untangled as the sky and land meet
in a symphonic union, the hills rolling and skating against the blue haze.
In this place, the sun is a coward, between the storms to the west and the wall in the east.
Helios runs and hides, and the sky is an ashy ceiling, with no surprise.
St. Helens sits in her fury to the south.
My cage is a Douglas fir forest, and you can't blame me when I tell you:
It feels so small here.
You knew my frustration with this hell-mouth, and so, like a monarch,
you headed south, fleeing, knowing that if you stayed,
you'd be held prisoner like me; you'd be bound to the darkness, despite your love for me.
I felt the impulse to grab your ankle as you flew, to chain your wrist to mine,
but who was I to clip your wings when I too sought liberty?
East of the mountains, there is another place I am bound, but not by force.
It is by pure fascination, by a familiar spiritual understanding.
I told you of my infatuation, and I still hope you'll remember enough
to come back that way, to go beyond your fears.
She looks at me, informs me of my lacking sanity, and I swallow an angry retort,
quite the horse-pill to be sure.
She says, they're in a drought, and though I know this is true, I look at her
with sharp eyes and tongue bitten, thinking,
what does she know except for this salty scrap of gray and green?
What does she know when she's never been east of my mountains?
All she really has ever known is fear.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
As Much as I Rip on Guys...
...Girls are crazy catty. And I am one. So, despite my vehement insistence that I am a saner female than most, I will admit to one small insanity that is allotted to me for the sake of my gender. I have a ridiculous superiority complex when it comes to being a member of the feminine community. And when regarding other women who are not exactly up to my standards...I can get a little snooty.
It's a work in progress. Realization that you have a problem is the first step...
Darkness is My Rival's Eyes (A Queen Bee's Lament)
I walk through washed out hall, amongst the various, nameless drones,
and my head is held high bearing the invisible crown as I was taught to.
I turn to observe a work station where one such drone always has a smile for me,
when she catches my eye.
My eyebrow raises, a bridge to let the ships go under and daring all others
- namely her disdainful self - to cross me.
She ducks her head down, eyes cast at her fingers, and I feel the lioness in me growling.
I have already won the contest.
For good measure, I retreat to the powder room, all decorum and ceremony withstanding,
just to make sure I am as regal as I want her to see.
My hair is a wildfire, a diadem of fury, and my eyes are fierce blazes,
with emerald eyeliner to complete the predatory visage.
I tug the hem of my shirt so the look is complete,
and then I enter in splendorous confidence.
I go to my tower, my look-out, to watch them all buzz in procession around our little hive.
All is well.
There are two behind me spewing utter nonsense, and so I ignore their blathering-on,
their he-said, she-said stupidity.
Then she appears from the staircase, like a cloud of gloom on the horizon.
She gives me one hurried glance to be sure that it is I sitting in the window sill,
and she makes her escape to her addled companions.
All the while, I sit, shoulders back, chest out, and chin held high as I peer down at my world.
She thinks she is safe from me. But as I leave,
I make sure she remembers
What she did, and
Who I am.
It's a work in progress. Realization that you have a problem is the first step...
Darkness is My Rival's Eyes (A Queen Bee's Lament)
I walk through washed out hall, amongst the various, nameless drones,
and my head is held high bearing the invisible crown as I was taught to.
I turn to observe a work station where one such drone always has a smile for me,
when she catches my eye.
My eyebrow raises, a bridge to let the ships go under and daring all others
- namely her disdainful self - to cross me.
She ducks her head down, eyes cast at her fingers, and I feel the lioness in me growling.
I have already won the contest.
For good measure, I retreat to the powder room, all decorum and ceremony withstanding,
just to make sure I am as regal as I want her to see.
My hair is a wildfire, a diadem of fury, and my eyes are fierce blazes,
with emerald eyeliner to complete the predatory visage.
I tug the hem of my shirt so the look is complete,
and then I enter in splendorous confidence.
I go to my tower, my look-out, to watch them all buzz in procession around our little hive.
All is well.
There are two behind me spewing utter nonsense, and so I ignore their blathering-on,
their he-said, she-said stupidity.
Then she appears from the staircase, like a cloud of gloom on the horizon.
She gives me one hurried glance to be sure that it is I sitting in the window sill,
and she makes her escape to her addled companions.
All the while, I sit, shoulders back, chest out, and chin held high as I peer down at my world.
She thinks she is safe from me. But as I leave,
I make sure she remembers
What she did, and
Who I am.
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