evening poem

the sky is vibrant pink-purple-blue,

a cold color saturating colder air.

the tree branches form intricate patterns of black lace—

all i can see through the window—

alarming, alluring, alive…

sweet chords fill my ears,

and a familiar voice

gently proclaiming love, pain, reality…

it is more potent, more understandable through music…

these words i’ve been thinking,

these notes i’ve been living

without knowing it till now…

the blue seeps into the purple,

more defined, overpowering;

but purple gives way willingly,

and with a placid sigh…

“the evening is yours now,

the evening is yours…”

blue rises and deepens,

like looking back into my own eyes,

in recognition of something more beautiful still

in the dim light that makes me squint

and yet sets everything aglow

as with all the energy stored up from day.

in between.

i want to say it’s soft, comforting,

but this evening is oppressive.

in all its beauty, it is cruel.

i cannot judge it because it is inevitable.

i cannot hold a grudge against what must be.

but this day was ours,

and i do not want to let it go…

you remind me of the light of tomorrow,

and with that thought,

we accept that the black lace has disappeared.

the window has disappeared,

so that all that remains is within.

back from the bookstore

i like to be on the road. by myself, i can sing. with you, i can talk... and sing, but we stick mostly to talking. it becomes a state of being. neither here nor there, but in between, on our way, looking forward...

i've bought some books. some out of necessity, some out of desire... no, all out of necessity i suppose. a woman needs her books. even Emerson, whom i don't particularly enjoy, made his way onto the pile for purchase. whatever my likes and dislikes, it strikes me that had i lived when he lived, we may have had a conversation (however unlikely...) and now that his words have made their way to my eyes yet again, why not converse in the present?

"off to it then," i tell myself. soon enough i'll be back on the road, on my way there...

come by storm, you've come by storm...

words and music for this rainy day...

Come By Storm

by Laura Gibson

when my eyes survey the tree line
i'll recall a voice
and how I took great care with words

all that was a picture

was a poem, was a poem
words were trees of brown, of gold
you were a place i had come to know

if the dark falls early
would you come in the night,
would you come with the morning,
come by fire or come by storm

when my days turn to gold,
turn to gold,
and pull to the sky,
to the sky,
i'll recall the time i was more alive
when i lose myself to words
did i die in your arms
or did i die alone?

when the dark fell on me
did you come in the night,
did you come with the morning,
come by fire or come by storm...

unremarkable

i've sat a long time, staring

at the roots of trees.

for me to see, they must be uprooted,

disturbed.

then i can imagine,

and they need feel no pain.

i smell the dirt

and touch the earth,

call up the mem'ry from every trip home...

the fallen tree that pulled with it an almost perfect circle

of ground,

a halo at its base,

lying by the road, tucked away

by the bushy arms of its brothers till winter comes

i want to stop.

i've wanted to for a long time.

months, years...

each time just a glance,

a glance at my holy tree.

now i need no picture,

just the memory.

and in me, i bear the halo,

i smell the dirt.

in the pavement and the florescent light,

i have the earth,

and shall not be uprooted.

thoughts in the not-quite-silent library

almost gone...

whispery voices to keep me company

as i convince myself

not to close my eyes...

i'm fighting,

in my corner,

with its little window and blinds...

the draft,

the lamplight,

and my reflection...

feeling sorry for her

because she's on the glass,

transparent,

cold.

i can feel her blowing on me,

blowing on my shoulder...

"go to sleep..."

she doesn't take or want my pity.

she wants to hide me.

she wants to hide.

in the darkness, she more than disappears;

she ceases to be.

but she likes it there.

unlike me, she can reappear from disappearance.

once i am gone, i'm gone.

the body, such a fragile thing...

inward pressures out, and outward pressures in.

so weak though "the spirit is willing..."

almost gone...

just barely here,

transfixed by dark reds and purples,

and poetry,

mine and yours.

"will you take me in your hand,

turn me over and over,

and read me

like the eyes that proofed my lines

once practiced?"

"will you have me then?"

you will have me then.

never gone...

in the city...

(this is me not doing the homework i should be doing... well, no. that's not completely true. it started as homework... then it took a more natural course and we ended up here...)

Cities Inside Us

By Alberto Rios

We live in secret cities

And we travel unmapped roads.

We speak words between us that we recognize

But which cannot be looked up.

They are our words.

They come from very far inside our mouths.

You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city

Inside us, and inside us

There go all the cars we have driven

And seen, there are all the people

We know and have known, there

Are all the places that are

But which used to be as well. This is where

They went. They did not disappear.

We each take a piece

Through the eye and through the ear.

It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak

In the outside world

We have to hope that some of that sound

Does not come out, that an arm

Not reach out

In place of the tongue.

the words

i want to give you the words,
the words that will warm you like cider,
smooth, pure, natural...
the words that will make you well.
the words you can taste and breathe
and use.

11/1/09

"maybe i was born to hold you in these arms..."