Elegy (1996)

Dark Matter

Originally written in 1996.

These days they build
new doors out of balsa,
nearly out of butter, hollowcored, empty;
we are losing the thrill of opening doors.

No longer do we wish or try to push hard.
The clunk of brass latches falling into place is fading from memory.
We are forgetting the comfort that bubbled within us
once resistance was overcome.

We have disembodied ourselves.
Already unable to remain entranced
with the sounds of our lovers for long,
the day may be coming when each of us

will fail to recognize a brother, a sister;
soon, we may no longer know
anything our senses tell us.
The question rings out:

how can we sleep knowing
in the soles of our feet,
in the ledges of our ears,
that we are feeling less each day?

How can we sleep knowing
that all what of we move through daily
without giving it  attention
is…

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The Peonies

Thank you again Tony. Your work never fails to inspire me. 

Dark Matter

Originally written in 1999.

In the year I turned thirty nine
the peonies did not die
quite the same way
as the peonies always had before 

In the year I was thirty-eight
the fragile man I was then
looked at the peonies
in the backyard

The progress of the year 
seemed so fast 
I thought about how quickly
those pink and white heads

would droop and drop their petals
fade and decay
I feared that if the year of thirty-eight 
continued this pace into

my years of forty forty-one forty-two and beyond
every thing I had learned
by putting myself together 
would come undone

But then in the year
I was thirty nine
I learned that in remembering
the scent of peony

the heat of their pink
the regal ice of their white
in all these memories
there was enough of youth to make

my mortality irrelevant
I learned that thirty nine was an opening and not
an end…

View original post 163 more words

Imagination and a pile of junk

“To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk.” – Thomas A. Edison

imagination and a pile of junk

The junk lies all around me

But does it fit in my poem?

There are several stacks of

Unread books, stories to be told

Genealogy charts, and research

From Sweden’s icy tundra

Spilling loosely across my desk

But does it fit in my poem?

A journal from the 1890’s

Confessions of an ancestor

Crossing the American plains

Covered wagon adventures

Will they fit in my poem?

This most unusual plant

A succulent – leaves like tiny chili peppers

Dark green and growing sporadically

It couldn’t possibly

Fit in this poem, could it?

There are postcards from villages

And towns around France

Stamps for posting to Europe

And beyond

Post-it notes, pens, camera, computer cables

Glasses and more – alas, nothing bears promise

Of fitting in this poem

Imagination regrets its failure

Building junk into a poem

 

Bisous,

Léa

It’s in the eyes

“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.”   – Aldous Huxley

 

“Miracles happen everyday, change your perception of what a miracle is and you’ll see them all around you.”   – Jon Bon Jovi

 

“It is above all by the imagination that we achieve perception and compassion and hope.”   – Ursula K. Le Guin

 

“Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little cover-up and decoration. But as time goes by, what is true is revealed, and what is fake fades away.”   – Ismail Haniyeh

It’s in the eyes

I’ve always hated mirrors

They can tell nasty

Lies

How many of us look

As we want to

Individuality

Genetic keystone

Too many faces

Buried in cover-up

But underneath

What is really being

Concealed?

A blemish? Scars?

Or does it go much

Deeper?

One day I had to

Acknowledge the reason

Avoidance

Familial markings

Resemblance

To my abuser

All too real

Cannot be denied

But now I’ve learned to look

Further

Into my eyes

I begin to see the

Sparkle

Of light

That which is

Intrinsic, sets me apart

Splintering the genetic code

Variant, random variable or

In this case deviation?

Roguish, albeit compassionate

Laughter my persistent

Muse

*

Bisous,

Léa

Doucement

“The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark.” 

–       Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

“A good friend is a connection to life-a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world.”   –  Lois Wyse

 

 *

 

Doucement

Gently

I shall carry those

Memories

From childhood

Without question

Or judgment

Locked securely

À mon coeur

As long as necessary

Garde –

Garde-

They rest silently

Protected

By all I have seen

And heard

As you are strong

Enough to consider

You only need ask

I stand ready

To bear witness

*

Bisous,

Léa

La pomme

“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple is connected with that of man.”   –  Henry David Thoreau

“With an apple I will astonish Paris.”   –  Paul Cèzanne

“And there never was an apple, in Adam’s opinion, that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it.”   – Neil Gaiman

 

*** 

La pomme

Being the

Brains in

Le jardin

Eve picked

La pomme

Hunger can

Do that to a

Woman

Being that there

Was no health care

Available

She took care of

Herself

Leaving

Adam

To his violent

Abattage

des oiseaux,

Cerf

And all that was

Wild and free

L’ homme

Blâme

Ève

Pourtant le

Sang est sur

Ses mains

Et la femme

Est un avec

La nature

***

Bisous,

Léa

Salon de thé à Narbonne

“So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all the questions for the time being.”  –  Franz Kafka

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.   –  J.R.R. Tolkien

“Too many people just eat to consume calories. Try dining for a change.”  –  John Walters

 

*** 

 

Salon de thé à Narbonne

The tourists

Have arrived

Les cafés with shade

Draw the largest crowd

Salade Garesh

Poulet au curry

Mango – yaourt (yogurt)

Cucumber sauce

Trois tables

Occupied by the

French

Close by

English and

Dutch

Tongues flutter

Le menu ten euros

Tarte sallée

Ou  Salade Garesh

Verre de vin

Café

You finally comprehend

A shorter lunch

Would be barbaric

Bisous,

Léa