Field With a Forest

We made it through the desert
only to be drowned in a
hot tub.
We crossed the sky-wide tightrope
only to trip walking down the
sidewalk.
Avalanches and earthquakes hardly make us
flinch, yet moments as simple as a stinging
papercut
break us down to fistfuls of tears.
The plain is wide open for this momentus
duel.
Only you don't show and I'm glued in
place as trees begin to grow, rooting themselves to my
feet.
Boulders settle into the place where you
should have stood and now I feel that I should
go.
But I can't for fear of crushing
the soft wild flowers dancing across the
earth.
Ad the age-old roots have chained
me down, vines becoming part of
me.
Here I stand on this no longer empty
field, but amidst a forest, no longer
alone.
For I am now
one of the
trees.


-Suzanne

(Back from the dead, I know. I hope to resurface after my unscheduled time MIA or on hiatus or whatever. The new year's coming and so am I. See you in 2015!)

Carry

Some days you just
flash forward and you realize that,
holy crap, I've got sixty more years of this.
And then you wonder what sixty years feel like, because
whatever small amount you've acquired by this point is basically
laughable.
That's sixty years of taking walks,
sixty years of cold winters,
sixty years of walking into a sketchy Walgreen's and
staring at empty aisles. Completely normal things.
Maybe you'll walk in someday with a kid on you
arm. And then your kid's kid.
Maybe you'll go walking in a park
and have them slung behind you
piggy back.
Carry them like you
carry those sixty years past
on your shoulders.

I can't turn it off.

This lamp is too bright in my room.
It used to be comfortably dim, no
unfounded aggression, just
beautiful lulling complacency.
This lamp is too bright. It slaughters the
mood and imposes hope. I liked it
better when it was just quiet and
lifeless and dim, because
like calls to
like,
does it not?

Maybe she will find it again

(This sort of shares some themes with my post from last week, hope y'all will bear with it)

Years ago, her muse left her...or she left her muse, neither is very clear on how it happened.

But happen it did, and her pages are black and white and dead…

She drags them from their slumber, bringing back what ought to be gone.

She can’t help trying to resurrect the words., the pages of what once was.

So she sits at her desk; she sits on her porch, on a nature trail, in the back of her car, waiting and praying and chanting around the flimsy manuscript dead before its time.

Some days she thinks about her muse, and where it must have gotten to.

Perhaps Fiji; it’s supposed to be nice this time of year….well, any time of year.

The muse is gone, though, and she remains.

How many spells will it take, how many bouts of dark magic?

What will it take to earn her passage to far off island in the sea?



-Kat

Jewels

Autumn is the scarves around necks and the boots on feet.

Autumn is the sapphire sky growing dimmer with each hour.

Autumn is the crunching of leaves and the snapping of twigs.

Autumn is the rosying cheeks and red-tipped ears.

Autumn is the beginning and the beginning of the end of a new year.

Autumn is the cinnamon and apple-picking without reaching too high.

Autumn is the morning diamonds, wet on webs and leaves and grass on the verge of dying.

Autumn is worn book pages under fingers beginning to tire.

Autumn is the warm dusting of colors on tree tops, the ombré from green to gold, orange to red.

Autumn is the jewels in eyes glittering with the rain.

Autumn is the steam from a mug held in chilled hands, not quite ready to yet 

fall 

off.

-Suzanne 

(So sorry this is late! I wrote it Thursday but for some reason it never posted.)

At The End Of The Row

Black white and bare, the photographs; stripped of their significance by the shining floor and lifeless walls.

She walks into the museum late, almost does not get in.

And she knows where she’s headed: to the black white pictures in her long dark dress, black floor white wall room.

In all her uniformity with the palate of the pictures, she bears unspeakable eccentricity.

The people in the photographs are long dead, and she the necromancer.

She only looks, she does not touch; touching is wrong.

At the end of the row, the picture is empty.

Museum closed, the lights flick dark; she takes her place.

Bowing her head in mourning.

All the haunting frozen moments, and she among them waits.

For Richer For Poorer

http://nowheremind.tumblr.com/post/10458542192

They know her too, but not by name; to them, she is only Flower Girl.

The flowers stay beige and still, and they rustle as she runs to the bus stop.

She lives far away from the city; no one wears the long red coats, no one sells flowers out of wicker baskets.

Beige flowers are not for the life of the rust-railed, drab-suited men and women hailing from the glittery buildings.

But every day she waits at the bus stop, basket empty, basket full, and she knows the people.

She knows the woman that comes with her phone attached, whose ringtone prompts reflex, whose eyes glitter with the light of her screen.

She knows the man and his two children he takes to work in the big glass grocery store, because they always come back with two lollipops reward.

She knows the elderly couple that hobbles to the metal bench and falls into it, even when it rains.

In good times and bad, sickness, health, joy and sorrow.

They sit at that bus stop and wait to go home.