Tag Archives: Poetry

Captive water, Frozen earth

The continuance of you feels ceaseless, almost as a recurring exchange of souls passing by in a darkened corridor; blind to the meaning of it, unable to reach out and grasp you, yet herein you exist just the same. Reveal yourself, oh vacant shadow, and allow me the bliss of your gaze once more, for the last time. Better to endure the pain of it than wander, aimlessly wanting, for as long as we both shall live.

Haven’t we had enough? Torture me, silent love, no more. This I beg of you, pardon me evermore, lest I seek you all my life and find nothing but an escaping, dimming light. I loathe how you slip through my fingers at the mere mention of those long misty days. My heart longs so effortlessly to grant you reprieve from where I kept you all these years; my eyes desire nothing beyond a final farewell, upon your face to rest again, if only to say a fond goodbye.

For 8 years too long I have held you fast within my chest. Beat again and break free, oh my heart, here captive against your will, chained only by mine, you dwell – a secret union of souls tethered by sheer determination not to forsake each other. Forsake me, god of desire, unstitch me from your side and let me run for run I shall. As fast as I can away from you, this my only hope of a final break.

My wrist will direct my hand, my palm to tell my fingers, and your face my destination. For that tender caress, through your tears I would linger. My brown eyes, within a fortitude you saw only in a long lost equal and never in any other, they shall captivate you though you try and steel your heart. Try as you may the power here overtakes you, give in, for you mustn’t hide any longer from what we give away.

Is there no more love between us? At least try… Try and make it gone, because with my palms against your flushed cheeks can you not see that I desire my freedom from your grip? A withered, tired soul I became when I walked away, only ever so timidly gathering my strength all these years apart from you. Now, in this moment, as I weep intensely, I take back what is rightfully mine. The pieces of myself that belonged only to you until these moments. The part of my heart only you could hold, I need it back.

Disillusion me no more, sweet love, for astray my heart will forever roam unless again I can see without clouded vision. Uncover me, unburden me, and set me free.

If you should desire from me before I go, I grant you one request. A kiss, full of all the years gone by void of what we needed most; a kiss, a kiss… To bind the contract we never made that we would love forever, shall we bind it at long last only to break it in flames of all we lost those years ago? Sign with blood and seal the fate of us with that kiss, hold me tightly, give me all you have for a moment too long.

Then let me go. Forever. I beg of you.

The shelter of your arms is not mine to indulge. The shade of a Locust tree belongs to a woman with blue eyes and a child, a boy, and the shadow of me dancing there under cloak of night has long since faded. The embrace is hers, though I longed for it – as a thief longs for gold – for years too many. The kiss I steal is hers, but endure this she must, as it my last testament and tribute to what was, until that farewell, the greatest love of my life.

Yet now I seek a new dawn, and as all things follow the reckless pattern of the universe so too I melt now, seeping into the earth that too long held me captive. Flow now I must, to places you cannot follow, for you are the earth, and where you are so you shall remain.

All the years I loved you were not a moment spent in vain, even in my solitude or when I lay beside another I loved you. Dare to find another soul who feels that burden, she exists in none but me. There, darling former, I shall thank the gods for a love that endured, granting me at least the knowledge that I was loved, and loved, fiercely.

We honor the water melting to the sea and the earth that once held it, frozen and waiting, for as we stayed there together we were a beautiful sight. All things move like the tides of the Pacific, and thus, my sweet, pardon me, kiss me as I hold your face, and let me go.

Washington Painter

Douleur vaincue dans le cœur de l’écrivain.

Letters

On the winds off to the West sent by courier on 42-cent postage travel a mere two-thousand words. Tapping fingers on the crumb-coated counter-top, she waits, sure only that it had to be said.
Could seven years prove anything more than what has since been left undone?

With each stroke of the keys, one night, she poured out certain truths only the counterpart in the story will ever understand. The value in each syllable, forethought and cause for lost sleep; her heart escaped through every single word, much as a willow stretches its branches, begging to feel the cool of the grass at its roots.

Bent branches, mostly, but firm grasp held tight into the dirt – leaves plucked thin by raging winds but never more bare than in this moment – she waits here, whispering to answer all that is yet unknown, nearly at a tremble now, wondering if the soul of this endeavor will even be received. When life grants no alternative but what could be most difficult, where else may one go but straight to the heart of it?

Pure beauty in the pain, or at best under-appreciated, were these lost years; others listened to the vague cries of a woman barely clinging to the hope of truly requited love. Alas, could they really torment her so? To grant that life is better served forgetting the past than to forgive it – some may argue it is no wonder seven years have lapsed with her not feeling anything more than regret.

His face, in dreams, a drastic opposite to the reality of life lived apart from him; lovers came, lovers vanished… And yet his eyes the only glint of love in dreams silently cherished under cloak of night. She choked it down, no more than this, the thought of love, for none quite could compare…

No. Not to youth, radiance, and the tender whims of romance felt as a warm flush in the face of a woman feeling it for the first time. Lest, then, she was a newly planted tree staring up into the embrace of the warm sun, whereas the years, they faulted the tree for not reaching the azure of the expansive sky, up the stars where they beckoned her love to go.

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She could not have grown that high, at least not in the arms of unworthy love. Feigned then, at best when, on most days, her aim was to find a strong wind, uproot, and sail across open land until something more familiar again attained. Back to her roots, wanted, but more than that, forgiven for ever having left.

Back to the plot now, she remembers the letter. Every last word read to her heart so many times now it brings a surreal comfort; her thoughts peaceful in the notion that the placement of each sentence dances in harmony with the intention to open Pandora ’s Box. Not for fate’s sake, but for the hands of time to rewind enough to make the memories count for more than sheer loss.

Across space and time he dwells, un-expectant surely for how could he foresee, the shadow of stored and forsaken yesterdays will soon present the opportunity to change. Change for what, one imagines, but perhaps simply to let go what has long been held in vain: The beautiful surrender of forgiveness, and an absolute regard for what was once the hardest moment in his life. How to grow from this apart from the one whom shared it? Impossible.

So, there wrote a proverbial pen to paper… the quill to parchment… the labored chisel to stone in the bellowing halls of a cathedral. She challenged the convention of others, and perhaps some best intentions, for the well-wishers and nay-sayers alike have not even the slightest comprehension just how important this work will be.

Her work that of honest reverie to love’s lingering embrace, for every moment since those days marked with the towering sentinel of things undone. How must one cherish the fortune of all things ahead when eagerly grasping what has faded into dust? Yet again, an impossible feat, so alas to the hearts that would otherwise forbid these candid words; woe to those who would oppose such a triumphant gesture of resolution, at the expense of their tendency to forget the past!

Seal

I am unconventional now, truly and finally. Far too long, speaking directly from the heart, have I shielded myself the ability to let go of all the reasons not to do this.

One life, that is all I am given. One splendid, honest, momentarily painful, and humbled life I have been given. One body, one mind, and one heart… To waste another fleeting second on burying what I need would be worse than the potential for hurt this endeavor may cause me. The pain – brushed free from cobwebs and unearthed from a vault – it will surely be brief in comparison to a life lived nevermore haunted by the ghost of things undone.

I challenged myself to let go of convention, albeit at the cost of total vulnerability and the possibility that it will hurt, to endeavor beyond what I settled for too long. I tear myself open, unsure about the looming structure of this process but hoping for closure, at last, if only to whisper into the heart of someone I once loved whom loved me, and tell us both that life is worth more than mere regret.

Some if not many whom may ever read this may fret and offer, aloud or just within, that life is not meant to gaze at backwards. To you who believe this, perhaps it benefits the intent behind your concern to know that I agree. Wholeheartedly. Which is precisely my motivation… I am just, suppose it to add a glint of guilt on my part where none should be placed, seven years behind.

Yet, my dear well-wishers and nay-sayers, imagine love. Purely young though we were, innocent to the furrowed-brows of society, we loved greatly. Now, venture into the realm of tragedy for a young woman and her soon-shattered lover. Add to this an unmentionable, tumultuous twist of fate wherein every single bit of reality is broken, instantly. No, not the wayward eyes of a seductive man, merely, but the cruel demons of another, supposedly most cherished of all in the life of a girl, and piece together the trappings, even just on the outskirts, of why seven years

Quill

have done nothing but scratch the surface of true healing.

A bended branch you see now, swaying by a fibrous bit of bark, ready to detach at the whims of the wind. Place beneath it the cool of the grass, weeping willow ever-reaching, willing to break apart at the slight chance to feel the dirt beneath her.

I have lived this way for many years, unsure and unsteady, but for the truth that, someday, I would be brave enough to finally seek and attain what was rightfully mine all those years ago… Absolute and total peace of mind in the beautiful embrace of release. In the surrender to destiny, as I could have done but was not strong enough to do when I last saw his face.

I imagine he is sleeping now, yet, if not, perhaps strumming the chords at the mention of long-vanished days. His eyes sparkle as they once did, maybe now just slightly less affecting, because he holds onto the pain of the belief that he is not worthy of love. Not like he once believed…

Would I not offer my hand, extend my fingers outstretched through the years we endured apart from healing and give him, and myself, what we craved but never sought? To help him find his music again, to help him find his heart in the midst of all he still hopes he can forget.

Lest we not forget, but instead, forgive. Die to the regret, but instead embrace the lives we have lived apart all these years and truly, finally, find our meaning beyond the pain of all we cannot change.

I wrote. And now it flies.

Stamps