9 – Man of Action

Posted by sarahsmiles on January 27th, 2008 filed in poetry, strangers
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Man of Action
A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice
confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings;
unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal ‘facts.
No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection
to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill.
In this micro-maniacial moment  you do nothing
but say, “I see…” as you slowly awaken from
an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust
and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye
on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act.


Poem #8: It’s a beautiful day…

Posted by sarahsmiles on January 27th, 2008 filed in herself, poetry
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It’s a beautiful day
Just to wake up in the morning remember who I am;
intake of breath and exhale.
Feel my chest move,
diaphragm relax, the air sing on my lips.
To touch the world, eyelash moving air,
lazy hand catching dust motes in the sun.
A warm sigh showering moist breath.
To wake up and realize that you have survived,
again, one more night.

It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair,
past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough,
when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement,
forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be
a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes
me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie,
this passive repose of someone lost
to expectation and desire.


Beach and Mountains

Posted by sarahsmiles on January 27th, 2008 filed in photos
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Beach and Mountains


Poems 1-7 of 2008

Posted by sarahsmiles on January 27th, 2008 filed in poetry
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First of the year;

And I’ll sing you to the sky
as I’m looking to the stars
as I see you standing
on the edge of here and beyond.

Only when, at that final moment
as you look back at me
reaching for a small reflected
memory that I hold in my heart

you see my eyes, red and kohl,
an arm stretched as if to grasp
what cannot be caught, and
a name whispered on the tide.

Round and Round
so much of the now is riding on her wheels
motion towards, there and back again,
without ever being sure that the direction
is chosen or guided by life’s obstacles
though if there is choice, can one ever choose
to hit or miss, when the wheels are spinning?

Bad Day
It’s a bad year. Wedged between the past and the future,
pollaxed hache body to soul. A sour season.
Short fiber wired, mono-filament that slices flesh,
gnawing bone, wrapped tight around my waist.
Maelstrom month. Hormonal blood-red clouds dim
the sun and blot the light from the sky. Rotten day
once again, telling me it isn’t going to be different
thought the furniture has changed.

4 Solitary Voice
Writing for yourself, each word carelessly placed,
forgiving of trite contrivance, unworried, uncondemned,
spelling out half hopes and stories no one understands.
The voice is clear, full of half thoughts and contradictions,
the dream of a drunken woman, I wrap myself in hope
that I would never share were I not alone by a fire.
My words please me, pleasuring my heart still
uncaring of their eloquence or proper pose,
meaning locked in the reader writer’s soul.
When I sing, naked by the pool, with the wind
carrying scents of the world on my lips
there is nothing but that mingling,
and that perfection in and of a moment
in the lack of any other listening
is the when I ever say I still love you.

Counting

Ten more minutes before the train arrives
at the station, the terminus. At the one
solitary point where I will find myself

in ten more minutes. A journey
will be complete. A passage
that seemed endless, a travail
that seemed pointless, after
I realized that the assumed purpose
what not what I’d expected

with ten more minutes to go
until my arrival, I want to go on.

Flowing
Narratives of ruthless lust and never slaked desire
gush unbidden from the love abscessed pen
that has forgotten the gulf between
the tender touch and the ripped flesh,
so lost in her own shame,
poisoned b regret and yet still inside
a young child cries without surcease.
And the words flow forth on a tactless
waste of white that would but wed the lovers
twain when nothing would release the shadows
and the shade by the spring at dawn.

Prayer
Let the morning sun shine around me,
burn me, burn the terrors of the night
that cling as hoary frost on the hem–
wind blown dust that haunts every crevasse
of flesh–cling as sticky cobs that web
my hair and halo this shrouded form.

Let it shine and burn and drive these
thoughts that rise unbidden from memory;
distorted lens and subtle liar.