What if it’s the there
and not the here
that I long for?
and not the wait,
in the lost feet
the faraway street…
― Tyler Knott Gregson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
– BY EMILY DICKINSON
I wear other people’s moods
As if my life and theirs
Depended on the reflection
On the mirror of my face.
I carry their hope and mine,
Sticky and rotting
After a debilitating day
Of walking on eggshells.
I balance my dreams and theirs
While I try not to stir too far from center,
As I lay me down to sleep
Every night on my bed of nails.
Dark and light
vividly etching wild colors
through the horizon.
The charm of sunset
makes me want
to scurry home.
Golden hour is my favorite time of the day. The softness of colors yet astonishingly vibrant and the peaceful feeling it brings. As if saying: Let go, relax, prepare yourself, it is time to rest.
This land, although not my native land,
Will be remembered forever.
And the sea’s lightly iced,
The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,
The air is heady, like wine,
And the rosy body of the pines
Is naked in the sunset hour.
And the sunset itself on such waves of ether
That I just can’t comprehend
Whether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,
Or the mystery of mysteries in me again.
April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
TO what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only underground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Twilight is here again the sun is sinking down
Another day had passed soon it will be dark
Tomorrow in the East the sun will rise again
But without you by my side, nothing really matters.
The garden is empty devoid of all flowers
I know they will be there again come next Spring
But whatever season as long as you’re not here
Believe me, in my heart it is always Winter.
Birds always come back to their nests before dark
Will you be home again tomorrow? Next day perhaps?
I’ll be waiting for you every day all my life
I hope you will return before I close my eyes.
__ Your Glam-Ma
You’re growing so fast Sunshine
Your clothes are getting smaller
Your face changing
You are getting bigger
Not in a conventional sense
But you are growing alright
Growing into Oona size
Compact slight petite
Tiny slight pint-sized
All elfin features perfect
A miniature person
Small beautiful Unique
I love the way your toes curl when I kiss them. I love how you look at people with your scrutinizing gaze as if you are studying them weighing knowing understanding. I love the sound of your voice when you are trying to convey your feelings in your own way, without words. I love how you smile when you hear your favorite song and how you listen attentively when your mother read you stories. I love the way your big eyes light up when you are happy and the way your eyelashes touch your cheeks when you’re asleep.
I want you to be happy and healthy Sunshine. I want you to be safe. I hope they are taking care of you properly. You will always be in my heart. I will always be here when you need me. I love you my Oona. My ThumbelOona.