Sadness

There is a certain sadness
in the gently falling snow,
a softness, a delicacy of touch,
the tender surrender to soft warm flesh.

With dogged persistence,
it bandages winter wounds,
covers the carnage of autumn’s passing,
colors with wonder the weary
through their long gray desolation.

And yet there is a certain sadness
that awe filled eyes, cozy curtained,
cannot understand till jolted
by a thorough washing, to
fully face its joy,
feel its bite, its sting,
and finally believe
it's real.


@jms 30jan08

Bones

You. You’re in my bones.

Moving molecules
you startle and surprise me,
all Goliath, all cat...
through my window eyes

..what have you seen?

Consumed by fire, you travel the planet
as smoke and ash, circling in
ever tightening orbits,
arriving unbidden on wind...
in full face your
moon grace glows...

And I see you, hear you, in unexpected

places, your smile shines out
of stranger’s faces. Yet, wretchedly
when looking back
... you’re gone.

Have you chosen to inhabit me, is this
your haunting, then? Is there no
place, no sanctuary...
Or are you doomed eternal
to this heaven, this hell?


@jms 23/jan/08

Stranger

I sometimes live in a stranger’s house.
The husband,
the children there,
belong to some other woman,
some other time.
Someone ( I once knew well)
has dissolved
into salt and pepper mist.
Hands so close
they might be mine,
prepare the evening meal,
chopping vegetables,
making gravy,
sensing the heaviness,
the smoothness
and chill of plates,
gently placed in semi-circle
on oblong maple.
The texture,
color and grain,
suck me in,
spit me out.
Concentric aromas radiate
like the tracings of raindrops
in the puddle
where I float.
And I must concentrate
to impale the food
upon my fork
and guide it to my mouth.
The clinks and clatter,
the sporadic hum of voices,
orchestrate the strange celebration.
My ears, alive,
attend to their music,
as I sit, wrapped tight,
in a cloak of wonder,
while I live in this stranger’s house.

@jms 29jan08

Libby

“I’m not exactly sure how to start.” Libby lowered her voice, inching her wine glass closer as she waited for the waiter to vacate the area.

“Well, it’s clear that something is upsetting you.” she put down her menu and studied her best friend’s face. “When was the last time we had lunch, anyway... must be 6 months? I thought you were too swamped at work for this sort of thing.”

“I took the day ...”

“Good God! This must really be something. You’d better just tell me, start anywhere...”

“Okay”.... watching the condensation run down the side of her glass she adjusted her drink on the cocktail napkin. “ I’ve heard from J.P.”

“What?”

“I said, I’ve heard from J.P.”

“Libby, do you hear what you’re saying? J.P. is dead!”

“Of coourse he’s dead! I haven’t lost my mind. But I’m telling you,
I’ve heard from him.”

Quality of Light (2)

In winter my waking precedes the light. So I can watch for it, witness its birth. Swaddled in night clothes, I squeeze a warm little island from the nippy night air, while, nose to window, I wait.

Toward the horizon, the darkness is pierced here and there by sharp electrical insinuations, encapsulated puddles of light gently bobbing in a night sea. It’s never totally dark here, and never totally quiet.

Off in the distance a night train wails, while the nearby swish and moans of passing cars escalate and intensify.

The swirling wind cuts and bites, igniting blue sparks in recent snowflakes under fading street lights, in a macabre twisted dance.

The light crawls in, timid and sluggish allowing the fallen snow to reflect its pallid face before lifting pink and yellow cheeks to the sky. Shadows slowly fade while buildings and street signs emerge unbroken and creaking into sight.

In air that’s clear, the muted colors bloom, a monochromatic palette in gnarled unfamiliar shapes.

The skeletal trees mindlessly chatter, in an impotent clatter of bones. The whole world seems winter licked and mummified. I must turn away to get warm.

Quality of Light (1)

Speckled like a fawn and just as new, the morning pours through the door, unsolicited.

Crickets still celebrate, though their song is more subtle, more like tin than the silver song of night.

Wily wrens circle the bird feeder, light, peck and fly off relishing our contribution to their daily bread ... our morning offering.

The wind gently tussles the weeds like fingers untangling hair, primping, preening, shaking out whatever darkness remains.

The light feels webbed like the screening it permeates from the patio door...as it filters, creeps, climbs, crawls and claws its way through any available opening ...windows, doors, the slender spaces between trees.

It scatters forest shadows about, dragging the outside in.
Insisting really , demanding I attend to it. It tugs and yanks and pulls until the front room floor transforms to the forest floor. The ceiling, a canopy of trees. It knocks on shutters till they're opened and chases the chill of night and dreams out of the house.

The air is clearer here, the colors more vivid and vibrant. You can't look away. At night the stars scream at you, You must attend ...they conduct their ancient ceremonies and you must attend.

Everything in order, everything from enormous to miniscule has its place ... and you must acknowledge, and pay homage to the arrangement, the organization the order of things ...it is an imperative and the light is drawing you to court like a royal mandate ... a gilded invitation ... a golden opportunity. Light is the emissary of Ra.