Sentimental Heart

December 28, 2007 at 9:08 am (Poetry) (, , , )

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Safe

Her heart is locked away,

Untouched by passion’s thorn,

Never again to walk on winged feet.

Hollow anxious breezes sway

Where,

Once upon a time,

She danced,

On a beautiful autumn day,

In the arms of Prince Charming

His chosen Fairy Princess;

Their future love a mere kiss away.

Regret

Tugs at her spirit

No more often than every day.

Her mind is scorched by memories

Of love, like Handel’s Messiah,

Written by God,

Translated by angels,

So mankind might comprehend

Such perfectly balanced obsession.

A lifetime gone awry,

Would she take love back?

Play the fool,

One more time to try?

Where her happiness lived

Behind brown eyes

In his perception of their lives,

Her heart is locked away

Untouched,

Safe and sound,

Never again to cry out in pleasure

Or in pain.

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When the Journey Began

December 8, 2007 at 12:59 am (Poetry) (, , , , )

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The rut is so comfortable

I forget that I’m in one…

Until the mud and clay

suck at my feet

and pull me down.

I gasp for breath and wonder why

as the walls of the rut

  tumble down around me.

 

Claws spring from the delicate hands of daughters.

Even if I can’t forget the sweet children are now grown,

     my heart is open to them like a mother’s arms stay

out of habit, and history, and old bonds they broke, not I.

Memories of their innocent doe-like eyes

     keep me off balance,

keening with the effort of owning empty arms

  with the need to rock and sing lullabies

    to soothe aches that no longer need my care.

I’ve helped to make them strong

     Encouraged them to let me go.

         So why am I surprised they do?

Oh mother dear, see here, see here

  We really don’t need you near.

Empty nest syndrome is simply so passé.   

I realize I’m in the rut again,

   But I can’t seem to stop the blood

That pours from my soul

   From the wounds I don’t dare speak of.

(They don’t show do they? 

Like the hem of a red lace slip from under your Sunday best…)

 

Mustn’t whine, mustn’t cry

Stick a needle in my eye

Mustn’t make them ask me why

Mother: a temporary state of being that had all the earmarks of permanence

When the journey began. 

   

© 2007 C. Harter Amos

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Parchment and Pen

December 5, 2007 at 2:32 pm (Poetry) (, , , , )

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Taking comfort in the parchment of my life,

I push limits toward better things.

What power beyond our lives

decides if our smiles outnumber our tears?

It’s not for you or me to know.  Our guesses are only guesses,

but we write,

learning from mistakes,

taking knowledge through the next door

with us as we go.

Take life’s credit card from me, please.

Don’t let me see the total I’ve spent

in minutes 

sighing against my lover’s ear,

staring at the sea to dream

or philosophize…

to love who I’ve loved and to remember that love…

Then to write of it…

 “What a futile foolTo write of such things…to think…to dream…            Peck-peck-pecking out words, making chicken scratches on empty pages like so many others.” 

Fool I may be

That I’ve failed to learn the game, I suppose…

Did I not make a difference to anyone, you think?

Not skeptic, not stoic, not epicurean?

Does everything have to be bathed in obscurity

to be thought clever enough to earn your gold star?

My eyes must be blind

and my art a cage that must surely be a small one:

I learned its maze one inch at a time

by the feel of its edges that were once clean, and smooth,

and as sharp as any razor’s edge.

Suddenly, unexpectedly,

The edges mocked me with flaked and uneven boundaries,

the new instructions you gave me were in a language I never learned.

I promise, I felt each ridge before I threw your list of foregone conclusions away.

I won’t bloody my fingers redefining myself or my writing

because in the end, writing is not an equation.

There is no cage.

There are no boundaries beyond the imagination and the page.

And we write…

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