I've done all this and still....

I've taken some broad strokes at life, I've made some tiny masterpieces, I've colored my world rose by wearing those glasses, I've been blinded by love, I've been shocked awake by loss, I've painted memories to look different in my mind, I've added color to gray days, I've glossed over my mistakes, I've muted the sunshine with my cloudy feelings, I've turned black into red. I've collaborated, I've done solo shows, I've been part of groups, seminars, classes, I've been to the school of love and the school of loss. I've looked at beauty and not recognized it, I've seen something pretty in a drab, dark space, I've done all this and still....

The Bride and Groom

 The bride walked down the aisle, slowly. In a dress of traditional white, pearls adorned her ear lobes, a chain of gold with a delicate cross around her neck, her veil attached to a halo of tiny white flowers, she was radiant. Everyone turned to see her. Except the groom. He stood with his back to her, even as his groomsmen turned to see her.  The groom listened to the parish reactions, the whispered compliments, the "ohs and ahs". He listened to the wedding march, knew the premise moment she would arrive at the parent's pew. He knew the exact moment he wished to see her. As he turned, he let out his breath, that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His deep sigh echoed in the nave. He was beholden. He felt a rush of his deep love for her. He thought in the never ending moment of his first view of his bride that he was starting a new life. He was reborn. How many lives we lead, seasons in our century. No matter how long we are blessed to live on this earth, we pass through many lives; the life of childhood, the teen years, young adulthood, perhaps spouse, parent, grandparent. We may not experience all, but we have so much life to live. He felt as though he had just finally been born. Today this beautiful woman would make him a man. Her love, her beauty, her quiet determination, her faith, her life, pledged to his as he pledged himself to her. Today was the first day of his new life. He pledged his remaining life to be entwined with hers, alongside her, supporting her, enjoying life together. Right in that moment, before the I dos, before the blessing, right then, he already married her.

The tiny canvas caught her eye daily,

often more than once a day,

sitting there amongst her trinkets and memories,

waiting to become more than it was,

the tiny pots of paint at the ready,

the brush, casually laying across the white field,

she thought of the delicate strokes the brush offered,

the vibrant red, waiting in it's pot,

the yellow gold of sunlight,

the green of earth,

and blue of sky,

she wondered what the painting would be,

flowers on a field of green,

one giant red rose,

a balloon, perhaps the hot air type, with basket below,

maybe a mermaid peaking out of the sea,

a house on a tree lined street,

something to do with the beach,

or mountains,

or a stream that wanders through woods,

maybe an animal, or a house plant,

whatever it would be,

it was ready,

but she wasn't yet. 

Soon, she told the canvas, I'll know what to do.

 

 

departures and arrivals

 a car door closes in the distance,

not slammed, but firmly shut,

arriving or departing, one does not know,

birds chirp as they flit about,

they gather and disperse,

little parties of short duration,

the sun warms the air,

the breeze moves it about,

competing temperatures,

on the road, the traffic flows,

comings and goings,

purposeful or pleasureful,

the day progresses,

much like those before and those to come,

each persons own and everyone else's too

another door is open and shut,

somewhere a telephone begins to ring,

a dog barks his alarm,

an airplane passes overhead,

the roar of it's engine distorted by distance,

arriving or departing, one does not know,

the neighbor's car appears and is parked,

the neighbor emerges and gathers packages to bring inside,

an arrival for certain,

a man on a bicycle rides by,

on his face a look of childlike abandon,

this is a departure from the mundane,

a woman comes outside,

she brings her refuse to the bin,

returns to her home,

a day observed,

departures and arrivals.

untitled

 

The breeze came up and tapped me on the shoulder,

 I turned to face it, but it had already passed me,

Changing direction it came and nudged me down the hill,

The sun had sent it,

To tell me that she’d be going soon,

And I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As the sun put on her evening show,      

And dusk crept in to take up the day,

Night hesitated to swallow up the mountain,

The animals ate their evening meals,

And began to think of bedding down.

 

I wanted to stay,

I wanted more time with the mountain,

The wind nudged again and reminded me,

I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As I headed down,

I looked around,

Trying to remember every scene,

To commit to memory the place where your ashes now played,

I’d never be here again,

Not in this way,

Not with you.

 

I’d better not be caught up here alone.

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glimpses

 sometimes I see glimpses of other worlds

they are just movements or patterns seen in my peripheral vision

out of the corner of my eye, a dark column moves

a shadow has dimension

I feel a cat jump onto the bed when none lives here now

a window frame reminds me of a place I've never been

a smell of ... what? I can not name it or remember it's place

I look up and hours have passed without my noticing

the sun has set but I'm still basking in it's warmth

I feel a caress, but is it just a memory?

small movements in my otherwise still rooms

a tapping from the hallway

meant to draw my attention away or to push me back to now?

just glimpses 

even alone, not truly alone

The book of our love.

 When I said "we need to talk", 

I was asking for your help,

 your love, your input, your phrases, and arguments.

 I knew we had fallen off the same page,

I wanted to ask you to make some revisions.

But you just closed the book.

You didn't want to finish the story.

You pulled the pages out and threw them in the fire.

I was on those pages. 

I was on the ones that went in the bin.

I was on the ones that were thrown into the wind.

I was on the ones that were crumpled and discarded.

I'm writing a new book now. 

But you still mark the pages. 

Like a stain, a water mark made of tears.

There's still more to be written. 

The single volume you destroyed still informs the series.

Writing you out of the story hasn't been as easy. 

I've made mistakes that can't be erased, 

but they are in that other book.

This one is still a rough draft,

but writing it without collaboration hasn't been easy.

Your editing isn't kind and it isn't constructive. 

I want to build. 

What is your new book going to say?