Power

Falling
like a shooting star,
ceasing to be in a blaze of ancient light
Chronos catches me
with palms painted
in ancient runes that speak with no tongue.
“It’s magic,” Wind whispers.
And like a child, I believe.

Trusting
I frolic along a precipice
as if I would-not could-not fall into depths
so deep, my voice would fade entirely before
the callous bottom met yielding flesh.
And yet, faith & love keep me
on high, sharp edges – edges made of rock and razor
& painted by all the sky-denizens.

See Sun with her vibrant brush,
She sweeps broad strokes in warm hues
of gold & blue & flecks of amber.
And then there is Moon with her soft style.
With delicacy born of veiling secrets,
She tints the world
in shimmering silver, pearlescent gauze
& embraces the dark palette without fear.
Witness the Stars, vainglorious muse of many a poet
(& legions of the lovelorn), who sprinkle
sparkle & luster & glitter to add that
extra something…

Faith
is met, is held to its promise.
Like magic, myth or miracle if it is believed,
there is power.
I have power.

I have power.

I have power

& belief in the gift of beautiful paintings
done by untouchable beings.

Truth
like the universe, always conspires
to shift, to cause worlds, lives, beliefs to tumble
& I must cling
& find strength in chaos
to rise again,
changed in irrevocable fashion
yet at my center, I remain red.

Like an image, a mirror of my creator, I reflect.
I seek answers behind closed doors,
& like Wind before me,
find Beldam,
always weaving with wizened, lovely fingers.
She looks up, stitching never ceasing & answers before I ask.
“You already know the answer, child.”
& my heart shines, effervescent in its bliss.
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(c) JP 5/29/12

She

…for she resembles the greatest Mother,
round & plump with verdant life
& fleshy fruits, near to bursting with heavenly elixir.

She mirrors the mysterious Moon,
every woman’s confidante & sacred sister,
such pale beauty,
tell me true, do you not sometimes weep for it?

She is a Goddess-made tapestry,
each thread a divine gift & blessed quality,
in her resides every face of woman,
your mother, sister, wife, lover, daughter, friend…

for she is beautiful and necessary,
beautiful and strong, beautiful and precious…

Day 28 – Prompt: Space

Not outer, well I suppose you could – but a poem that touches on space, openings, distance, size.  Mine is about the small space/span of time of daybreak.

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Aurora

Aurora sways,

arising in the first blush of dawn.

I see a chalice made of petals

and brimming with nectar that shimmers

like radiant diamonds melted.

My throat clenches in sudden dryness

and like a serpent’s, my tongue flickers out to taste the air.

Lips the color of coral part in a moist, breathtaking smile

and even with such space between us,

I am rocked to my core.

Curves swirl

and twirl,

slow

lazy,

as a ribbon

falling through the air,

and as my avid gaze travels the valleys and hills of my Goddess,

I feel both graced

and diabolically rapacious.

How I long to pluck those petals,

savoring each one as if it were my last meal.

I will devour the Lady,

consume the flesh in a torrent of nips and bites,

drain the elixir in leisurely, tender sips.

Decadence such as this sets my blood to thunder,

my body to fever

and I move forward,

reaching hungrily,

ravening for the beauty before me.

It is a futile chase, as always.

Every step forward pushes Aurora back,

my Star simply scintillates in silence,

smiling when I collapse in defeat,

kneeling in stardust strewn by my Beloved’s passage.

My hands scoop up the cool, crystal leavings

and rub them into fiery flesh,

seeking to quench the thirsty bonfire at my center.

Like yesterday

– like every day,

I fail utterly.

Aurora has conquered me again and knowing this,

brightens until tears stream from my beauty-blinded eyes

and my Flame is all I can see then fades.

I remain,

locked in slave-like adoration

and begin my daily penance…

Day 26 – Prompt: Elegy

I wrote this 2 years ago, it’s not a true elegy – more like a mix.  The original was quite long, I edited it a bit.

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My Grandmother’s Passing

i. (Arrival)

We land, gather our belongings and walk to the rental car,
laughing and taking comfort in merriment.
Roads I have not seen in years, as familiar as my own face,
I think they are forever bound to my soul.  It strikes me funny,
since I left years before I could drive…
…yet I remember
corners and stores and childhood as if it were last week
and these perfect, slightly dilapidated houses that dot the road.
Some with electric candles in the windows,
a light in the darkness welcoming any who need shelter.

We check-in at the hotel, murmur at its niceness, how close it is to the church…
or would be, if the bridge was not torn down.
We will have to drive a longer route, but I don’t mind –
it brings me glimpses of my parent’s youth and I file these peeks away
for the day I must walk the same path my father is in the next two days.

ii. (Viewing Day)

I wake early, having forgot to close my curtains.
The morning sun illuminates my room in a golden dust. I grasp the window,
pull it open for a kiss of morning air and hear the carillon ring the hour out,
as it will do each hour of every day;
such consistency with Time boggles my mind.

I lose an hour,
staring at greenery and the river mere feet from my room,
until I am brought back to self by the simplest of things; hunger.
So we gather for breakfast,
and I can see my father’s anxiety over the coming day.
We spend time easily, softly, and in a way to distract him as best we can.

The three of us work a crossword,
being silly over making up words, slyly peeking at the clock
until suddenly it is time to go to the funeral home and prepare to be hosts,
a process I find distasteful.
We have instructions to arrive an hour before “showing”
so we may be guided through the layout
and approve picture and flower placement.

We enter and out of the corner of my eye, I see the casket,
bedecked in sprays and open, supposedly displaying my grandmother.
To my eye it is a mannequin, and not for anyone’s lack of skill
but simply because my heart knows she is not there.
I never go closer.

People begin to arrive, mostly my uncle’s friends and family I barely know,
having met them once at ages younger than 10.
Then a woman races through and nearly tackles my mother;
they laugh, cry and drink each other in.

It is the mother of a girl I’ve known since I was 2,
although from age 10 till now (38), I had not seen her.
I reconignize her instantly regardless.
A half hour after the mother leaves,
my childhood friend enters and I am transported back in time,
with pigtails and buck teeth at the moment
she smiles and laughs as she runs to hug me.
She still looks exactly the same to me,
though I know she is not.
I see her curly blonde hair and us giggling
as we play dress shop at my grandmother’s house.
I see her carrying a pink and blue blanket she went nowhere without,
I see so many memories all at once it’s like I am drowning without water.
I hug her fiercely and wish for….I don’t know, I just wish. A lot.

iii. (Funeral Day)

We wake early, for a breakfast full of silence from my father.
My mother, an emotional beast most of the time,
is as steel for this day, for my father.

We dress in somber colors, except my mother has red shoes,
which I love.
She says she is celebrating a life well-lived;
my grandmother passed in her sleep, with loved ones at her side,
two hours after she turned 98.
She spent time in hospitals only twice in her life;
to birth my father and uncle.
That is something I aspire to;
who would not wish such a peaceful passing?
My mother’s red shoes are a focus for me throughout the day.

At Holy Angels,
it is stand, sit, sing, pray, kneel,
over and over again.
There are several readings, songs, incense and wafers.
It is long and over-dramatic and I stare at the angels
done in stained glass. They are beautiful.

We head to the cemetery,
where more pretty words are said before all is done.
At the end, several people take a rose from the spray.
I do not.
I am asked if I want one and refuse gently.
I choose to remember my grandmother through memories
that won’t wilt and two items she gave me years ago.

A rememberance party follows,
at my grandmother’s favorite beer and pizza joint (Marion’s again)
and this is more to my taste; it is lighter and more celebratory
Eventually even this ends
and I feel no shame in admitting relief.
It is an exhausting few days.

We once again fall apart,
each family heading back to “real life”
and I am glad to be home, in my space, with my friends.
I am also glad I went, though I did not go to say good-bye.
She will be with me always, so there is no reason for farewell.

(C) jp 4-26-12

Day 24 – Prompt: Ehhhh, Ignored!

I didn’t even look.
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Daybreak: I am She

She claimed the sun,
clad in sky & shivers,
sparkled in borrowed jewels;
Mother’s finest dew.

She is
made goddess
in these fleeting moments,
coming
forth from darkness
to light.

Hands coax submission
from the downy black of night
to the growing radiance
of coral-pink day.

Arms held wide open,
she is a window, a door,
& is (re)born:
a sapling from the soil.

Day 13 – Prompt: Ghazal

Today’s prompt is to write a ghazal. I’m ignoring it (yes, again!).
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Lovely Amaranth

Lament for me, lovely amaranth,
that you will not adorn my tomb.
Instead, I will be handmaid
to Persephone and don a garland
of somber asphodel,
plucked from the banks of Styx.

From Hades’ realm, I will throw
wide my vision, aching to
gaze upon the living,
weeping that I may not join.
Yet every tear I shed shall
serve to feed the cypress guardians.

No instrument have I, save voice
yet I shall be a lyre,
and keen soft and sad,
a dirge to cause even those
who reside in Tartarus,
to stand in silence,
ignorant of their torment
for only scant, sharp moments.

They shall be swept up
by piercing sadness finally recalled
and a taste of life once more given,
only to awake from reverie
as the last note
wastes away to cold silence,
dead in the air.

And then they shall weep,
for all that has slipped
from their grasp,
and despair for just a moment
of warmth in the sun.

———————————————–

(c) jp 4/13/12

Day 12 – Prompt: Foreign Language

Today’s prompt another I am ignoring Instead I am sharing with you my first ever sestina (I wrote this awhile back).  If you have never attempted a sestina, let me tell you – I found it challenging.

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Sprinkled in Silver

Magic is felt and seen, at night by the rushing river
when all is sprinkled in silver, it is then I pray.
I let go of hard focus and open up my arms, empty
for the moment but soon they hold my dreams.
We dance, accompanied by lunar music, for hours.
each graceful twirl leads to more for me to discover.

Every star is a port of call, new thoughts to discover
and I swim in the constellations, like a celestial river.
Black velvet; the sky is my towel and for long hours
I wrap myself tightly in its countless folds to pray.
It saddens me; I can only touch infinity in my dreams
but I rejoice too, for otherwise the dark would be so empty.

I ride on comets, until they plummet, running on empty
to crash on the earth for some lucky child to discover.
I hope its demise fuels star-struck goals and dreams.
The night trills for me, cosmic arias that feed the wild river
of thoughts in my head, and I kneel down again, to pray,
throwing my heart to the heavens, where it stays for hours.

I just want to know who I am, and as minutes melt to hours,
light and shadow fill my being; answer to my query. Empty
no longer; I weep and laugh, I curse like a sailor and pray
as sweetly as I can, I exult and lament, get lost and then discover
that I am part of everything; from green fields to cold river,
rich laughter to deep, piercing grief, and of course…my dreams.

Revelation dressed in moonlight’s creamy drape, these dreams
I had held so afar, like a deity on pedestal and wooed for hours,
are brought close, not low, into the warmth of love’s river,
to commune with the universe that I am, far from empty,
making each of us more than we were alone and I discover
I prefer them close to my soul, instead of in the sky while I pray.

There may be tigers to be tamed in the light of day, but I pray
that with the warmth of sun and the magic of shooting star dreams
I will find a way. No longer do I seek so hard to discover
meaning, and though some claim the dark fills too many hours,
I just smile, for it is in the shadow of light that we fill our empty
hearts, when we finally dare to dive and swim in our own deep river.

When the full moon rises I pray, and let my light fill the dark hours.
I free my soul letting it drift in dreams, to return to me, no longer empty
but full of starlit visions for me to discover; precious gems in my river.

——————————————

(c) jp 2/2010

Day 10 – Prompt: “Steal” the 1st Line…

…of someone else’s work.  I’m ignoring today’s prompt and reposting an old work that I wrote about 2 years ago when my friend was ‘stolen’ from the world by cancer.  I wrote this roughly a week or so after her passing.  I think it’s called “reply poetry” – when you have two subjects holding a conversation of sorts.

—————————————————————————–

Sorrow:

 

My memories run rampant,

over shared laughs and hen-cacklin’ sessions

that lit the heart in a blast of colors

too vivid to be named.

The stars seems to pulse in darkling light

more than any other night I’ve lived

…yet blurred by this grey river that flows from my eyes.

 

Joy:

 

Embrace the grief but share it with me,

and I shall help shoulder the bitter burden

turning it faintly sweet.

I will place a bubble in your heart, filled with light

and giggles and frozen snapshots of togetherness

and name it treasure, this mélange of bittersweet beauty.

 

Sorrow:

 

All seems to lead me into grief,

the scent of hay arose and lit upon me and I thought of open fields,

endless and waiting for some lucky child to lay upon the ground

staring at clouds, dreaming

and was brought to tears,

thinking no more dreams for her.

 

And what if my mind turns traitor and my memories of her,

now done in bright colors, fades to

ever fainter hues, finally all that is left is dust and ashes

which puff away into  the wind’s ever-traveling hands? 

 

Joy:

 

Understand it cannot, will not be.  

For I am a phoenix and from the ashes

I rise, again and again

and protect your cherished reminisces in

gilden-fire and wings of molten love.

 

You are a chalice of silver and pearls

and I will fill your hollow spot with a sacred infusion

of amber grace, tawny strength and saffron-infused love

and watch them swirl gently together, each bead and drop suffusing your soul

as it sips, restoring that which you have lost.

 

Sorrow:

 

Everything is blossoming, every hue of green is painted by

Nature’s hands.  Petals of pink, white, and lilac float on the breeze,

like a pastel snowstorm and I think how beautiful, how lush, how vibrant

it all is and count myself lucky for a heartbeat before I crash

and remember, she won’t see it and I feel ashamed and guilty

for my brief touch to your hand,

…but even moreso, I am run through

with a lance of sadness and grief, that I cannot share it with her

ever again.

 

Joy:

 

Oh how wrong you are!  You can, you will, and you must

share it with her every fresh spring.  This is your gift to her, so that she

will carry on in you and be remembered.  As you feel the breeze on your cheek,

inhale the delicate lacy scent of dogwood abloom,

and marvel at just how very blue and clear the sky is above

against that explosion of green, you carry her in the bubble I gave you

and from within this, she is witness to it as you are.  As you feel, she is.

And that is the most beautiful gift you have to offer,

that she lives on, in your living.

——————————–

(c) jp 4/2010

Day 9 – Prompt: Be Someone Else

Write as if you were someone else – real or imagined.

——————————————–

Even the Dead Sing

 

Odin be praised,

I have found the here and now, the crux, the roots

and I utter a charm, in search of welcome.

 

All-Father, sip of my devotion

from the many chalices left

strewn upon far away fields.

In glory and song and joyful lust,

we fought, a host of men until

only I was standing. 

 

And then,

I looked for the Tree, the Well, the Door…

 

I wandered far amid the snowy plains

devoid of growth, of life

until I found Your beacon, Your holly tree

with leaves obscenely verdant,     pulsing

among the land shrouded in snow,     silence…

Then I cast my spear skyward,

crying out in ragged, fervent voice a dedication.

 

What god received my thrust, I do not know,

but lo, Alfadr, blood fell from the sky!

Fell in fulsome showers

like roses, like lightning, like gemstones

of ruby, carnelian and garnet spilling from a mighty fist.

 

Twas then I saw the one-eyed raven,

a spot of glossy black

hidden ‘mongst the dark green branches,

its avid eye, red-rimmed and ever-piercing,

judging my soul, found my secret…

 

For I        I…

am a woman,

yes…                  I roar, WOMAN!

 

And I have worshiped you

since, as a mere jente-barn,

I watched my brothers learn the warrior’s dance,

their spears flashed like fishes.

Oh how I longed to caress the bright silver!

 

For many seasons, I have cavorted in battle,

sung amongst slaughter and watched smoke rise,

lightly towards Your hall.      I whisper another charm.

 

                                                             Am I worthy?

 

 I beg you, Open the door to Your hall, Odin

and let me stay with those who have fed You already,

let me bang mead-cups with my brother-warriors

and sing raucous odes to Your honor,

for even the dead sing!

Let me spin tales of gruesome combat, of fell skirmishes

and of argent spears tipped in the finest claret.

 

 My heart, stilled in these frozen lands,

will beat in fearsome joy to be einherjar, at Your side.

And I shall be happy, forever in Your presence.

—————-

(c) jp 4-9-12

(jente-barn loosely means girl-child in Norweigan)

(einherjar – those that have died in battle and are brought to Valhalla by valkyries.)

 

Day 8 – Prompt: Go outside!

Another simple prompt – and an awesome one – go outside and be inspired.  It fit perfectly into my plans as I was going to go on a hike anyway!

Here’s a sample of my day: Check out the rest of my pics on my main blog!

 

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The Alabaster Rose

Where the wild rose grows    alone,

in a field,

under a beryl sky

unmarred  by brume or haze,

housing only dreams

and infinity

-there, just there..

is where I whisper  prayers and hopes,

heard only by the wind

and each petal on the rose,

my connection to divinity.

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(c) jpp 4-8-12