Poem from Springtime…

My ear aches
I cannot tell
if it is from my thoughts
crawling in
or out
bleeding my brain
of energy
enlightenment
the shift in my desire
to live
or drift
wherever the tide takes me…

 

The second Paris poem - from 2005

City of Lights

You never get back from Paris – they say –

stepping off the Champs d‘Elysee

onto gravel and asphalt

surrounded by corn fields

and grain bins masquerading

in the mind as the Eiffel Tower

you enter the antithesis of fantasy.

 

Sounds and scents – when seen from behind

closed eyes – push themselves

into café clatter and fresh croissants

aromas of memory over power

the French fried stale of rubberized eggs

lukewarm on limp toast

and the weak water of instant coffee.

 

Use your dreams

recapture all the color and magic left behind

in the City of Lights

as you trudge through the darkness

toward hope.

 

 

Siobhan

 

He sees London, he sees France…

Paris Still Calls

 

He stepped on a plane aimed for foreign soil,

younger than I when Paris first called.

Unplanned himself, he has planned his life well.

He plays the heart strings, plucking with finesse,

to win this mother’s approval for flight

across the ocean to land in my dreams.

He’ll have seen London, Paris, and the wall

that fell before his birth, with eyes younger

than mine were when I danced with Gene Kelly,

the handsome American in Paris.

 

With souvenirs, postcards as reminders

of adventure–I am almost afraid

to live out my own dreams, yet not content

sitting on the sidelines – Paris still calls.

 
Siobhan
06/18/08

 

Response to David’s poem

High Tide and Low

 

Beneath the full moon or new, tides wash away

the dust of troubles found when we two turn

back to look at yesterdays, forgetful

of the day dreams we hold close to our hearts.

Sounds of surf pounding echo to remind

us that the beat of our life’s tempo moves

as we want – dancing, strolling or drifting

along the courses we set – no one else

 

tells us how to live our lives. I hold dreams,

share them with you when it seems you have lost

the sparkle of evening stars from your eyes,

look to you when my own green fades to pale

reflections in a somewhere honeymoon

on a beach under full moon and clear sky.

 

Blustery Day Musings

On A Windy Day Such As This

 

Wind howls, glass panes rattle, separate

me from the outside world – hot and humid;

I’d step out on the ledge if they opened,

just for a breath of air not over-cooled.

 

I’d drink in the atmosphere, relishing

freedom in space all around me – heaven

to beat the hell out of where I’m sitting,

trapped by responsibility, not joy.

 

Curtain covered windows block my escape,

even the brief glimpses offered by this

glass cage high in the ivory tower

don’t satisfy this desire to run.

 

I would dance with the storm-scattered debris,

relish it with abandon – if only…

 

 

Odd little poem

Paint Curiousity

Your interest waxes and wanes with the moon.
Emotions hidden beneath a blanket,
star-dark or moonlit, refuse to come out.
I am used to your cave, with its darkness
swallowing the edges of you; I know
you exist even when I cannot see
inside to that place you curl around, lost
to me * and the world * licking wounds, angry
at the sound of life lived, even your own.
The challenge to take a breath, let it out,
with no fear of rebuke, overwhelms me
on a good day -crushes me on a bad.

I would paint you with curiosity
if I could find colors to match your mood.

 

Red Lady Blue

Passion’s Dichotomy

Wanting the blue lady in red, passion’s
dichotomy - half revealed, half hidden
behind the moon, not in the sun, always
alone inside herself; she is open
to possibilities, closed to
the pain of desire unshared, unspent
even as experience has taught her
to revel in want, take joy in being
together -or alone - she has issues
of trust, of love and lust, intimacy
never easily opened, once released,
flows freely from within her giving heart.

Coax this woman from her shell, paint her red
blush across her blue spread her with your love.

 

The One They Watch

The One They Watch

 

I am no longer the one they gaze at,

walking into walls for a glimpse of hip

and tight tee. My curves are rounder, fuller

than thin, lithe girls not yet woman enough

to teach them manners and mischief alike.

At peace with the body of goddess,

rather than nymph, I walk with head held high,

my stride not a strut, and yet still with wiggle

enough to entice the glance of the men

who know this experience and beauty

are better than hips bones and odd angles,

who can tell by the tilt of smile, I’m real.

 

 

Warning…

Severe Weather Alert

 

Electricity fills the air, unites

opposite sides of the room. Expanding,

it wraps around everyone, circles us

and pulls tight. Bodies press close together,

flesh prickles with contact, sweat beads beneath

clothing slide between breasts, trickle slowly

reaching down toward a mounting desire.

We are charged particles, bouncing clear of

one another, clinging when we connect.

Inhibition snaps with the crackling

tension, thunder-claps of lust exploding

unspoken words into silent shudders.

 

In a brief collective murmur, we sigh

and wish for the sweet release of the rain.

 

 

Narcissus

Deep Rooted Want

She holds out fingertips, touches Spring-blooms.
Yellow and white blossoms with narrow leaves
grow so innocently beside her path.
She caresses petals, pleasure courses
through, moves her from stalk to stamen, heady
perfume spills into the air with a puff,
pollinating her memory senses.
Beneath soil, buried deep, bulbous heart,
swollen enough to rupture above ground,
flowers; its cup-shaped center offering
her eyes a resting place to remember.
It is an echo of want from a past
too long gone to recapture, a mirror,
a reflection – romance, passion and love.