I Love...

The sound of fingers sliding on guitar strings,
listening to music loud,
riding with my windows down,
the smell of a wood fire,
the scent of perfume on skin,
orange sunsets on cloudy evenings,
pink sunrises on clear mornings,
the sound of an owl's hoot,
the laughter of my children - or any child,
good deeds done in secret,
connecting in a conversation,
learning about this world,
teaching someone something new,
slow kisses and tight hugs,
lavender - how it's purple but smells so green,
wrinkles on the bottom of a baby's feet,
staying outside all day,
breaking a sweat in the sunshine,
when running feels like flying,
laying in the grass and looking up at clouds,
laughing until it hurts,
when someone's funny by accident,
the sound of sails snapping in the wind,
looking into someone's eyes and seeing patterns - so beautiful,
finding beauty in tiny things - sea  shells, leaves, rocks,
studying details that go overlooked and finding the extraordinary in them,
finding something nice to say and saying it - even to a stranger,
the hum of someone talking when my head is on their chest - a rarity,
bees at work - just sit and listen,
light shining through trees making patterns that dance in wind,
good love stories,
good comedies,
I don't love tragedies - life has enough of its own.

Sunset 12*12*12

Photo by Pam taken in Coden, AL

Cold wind bites my neck,
fills my lungs with salty air,
lapping waters on wooden dock
whisper rumors of secrets
kept beneath green surface,
pines of the same dark green
thrust their needles into the
soft blue sky of evening,
this sky is performing her
daily showing of the setting sun,
the waves applaud,
she blushes along her horizon,
This sky sets the sun
into the water,
as mistress moon
prepares to make her debut.

What Poetry Is

A fingerprint on a pane of glass,

Whorls

one may pass - never see -
not comprehending the unique lines,
passing by with their eyes turned inward.

These lines are an individuality,
different for each, yet common to all -
another may stop - see clearly -
and be changed by the sight.

Seen or unseen, these lines -
these fingerprints - exist.
They fill the void,
express perspective of "reality,"
translate, transcend, transect,
leaving their mark on the pages
of the Universe. 

Her Heart Isn't Broken

The above picture is by *amihedgehog and a print of her work can be purchased from Deviant Art.

Her heart wasn't broken,

it was simply asleep,

behind glass,

in the museum of her body,

in the suspension of her soul,

protected by the guardian of her mind.

She hadn't time for feeling,

things were waiting to be done,

so she kept her heart sedated

while this race of life was run.

She checked on her dear heart,

let it up when it was safe,

 let it love what couldn't hurt it,

she couldn't risk a break.

Her heart isn't broken,

it is simply asleep,

tucked in a safe place by an

overprotective mother,

it waits to escape.

Deciever

She's a stiff starched dress
with buttons to your chin,
sleeves to your wrists -
always cutting in,
you wear her, appear to all
to be beautifully dressed,
but under scratchy fabric,
she rubs a rash a rash onto your chest.

She binds and chokes and holds you -
don't you tell a soul,
how misery and heartache
long to take control,
each button made of ice,
freezing spots of skin -

you can't escape her clutches, so you draw deeper in. 

Savage John

He had these words like drums and singing and magic.

His cheeks burnt with the rush of blood -
suddenly there were more words -
the sun went down - the moon rose -
there was a shower of stones,
the rock was like bleached bones in the moonlight.

He had discovered Time and Death and God.

The young man drew a deep breath,
his voice faltered, he had a plan,
the door was locked, a noise made him start,
made him guiltily turn - how beautiful she was.

He was ashamed of himself.

His intellectual imminence carries with it
corresponding moral responsibilities,
a veneer of self confidence concealed his nervousness.
They learn to take dying as a matter of course.

He looked down at her for a moment,

pale, pained, desiring,
and ashamed of his desire,
bound by strong vows that had never been pronounced,
obedient to laws that had long since ceased,
he sat averted - and in silence.

_______________________
This poem is erasure derived from Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley.
I was moved by the character of John and his struggle. As I read this novel I attempted to capture some phrases that best captured John's essence. It was fun :)

Pam

Find Me Here

Quiet the noise of your preconceptions,
silence the prejudices of your ancestors,
stifle the anger of that wounded child inside.

Listen - with your eyes,
let them look into those of another,
not in recognition of difference -
but in knowledge of sameness.

See - with your ears,
open them to the story of your brother,
not hearing what you look for,
but comprehending his message -
you'll find yourself in it.

Find one another in this common place,
where nonsense of differences may be cast aside,
where desires we share draw us together.

Here we will be able to master our dreams,
here we can work together to achieve
the greatness we were made for.

This Could be Anywhere

Escape is here. This could be anywhere, as the fog rolls in off the Gulf of Mexico it makes magic out of the morning sun, diffusing it into a yellow-white haze that warms skin and heart. Waves peak, fold, crash, then roll, massaging the shore into fine curvy patterns that are constantly changing.

Two ends of a rainbow appear in the damp filtered light – one in the water, one on the sand – a bridge for dreams into reality – broken in the middle by a lack of moisture, as life’s dream bridges might be broken by a lack of imagination.

The moon, a phantom upon bright blue atmosphere, compliments the sun with a reflection of her light – moon west, sun east – they chase one another in an eternal game of cat and mouse, the beauty of their love affair inspires human hearts.

The wind rushes north westward, drawn by the North’s cold which is making its annual attempt to occupy this coast, a battle that will result in the surrender of the cold in April to the warmth which stays so much longer here.

In June the stifling heat settles in and draws moisture from the skins of natives – essence of the South, all aglow and bronzed.

For now it is warm sun and cool breeze, a perfect gift of moderate climate that allows for feet to touch water in early December. As waves crash and roll, contentment of mind lends peace to hearts. This could be anywhere.