SuziCate's Musings

Archive for February, 2011

The Now

You smile and go

about your day

while no one knows.

Fear puffs you

into a parachute that never lands

because love sends you searching

for answers you can’t understand.

Such a fine line between life and death,

yet here you are…trusting.

Tears reside below your eyes

and dance across your soul.

Pain sits on your stomach,

hard and lumpy,

like a bowl of oatmeal

turned cold.

Heavy and wasted,

you measure yourself out again.

 

My Boy Blue

 

In a hurry, you dart in and out

like the minnows in your fishing bucket

You can never just be,

always have to cast that line

as far as your arm can reach

from the edge of the river bank

You always hook us with laughter

from your sideline of wisecracks

And so you love and you give

with a heart bigger than the sun

Your spirit of adventure,

your quest to live,

dances in your devilish grin

and twinkles through your blues

It’s always been your eyes,

could be their bright color

or that tinge of sadness that lingers,

But always you’ll be my boy blue

Time only allows us but a while

to collect the rocks of memory

I reach into murky waters

and grab all that I find

I toss them with the minnows

darting in and out of my heart,

nibbling away at me

Hold tightly to that line, my brother,

and fight with all you can muster

No matter how swift the water runs,

 it’ll always take you home

Cinders

Smoke stings the brightest eyes
Fire burns the strongest soul
And the rain will never pour

Everything looks beautiful
Viewed through tear-brimmed eyes
And no one ever hears a sound

They sift through flame and ash,
scorched and mangled feathers
And all remains on the ground

It might take an ocean
To cleanse the bitter from their souls,
souls who are unable to soar

Time travels quickly
For those who do not feel,
for those who are not bound

Time is unmoving
For those who cannot heal,
for those who never ask for more

In time, smoke will choke the breath
In time, fire will desire nothing but death
But time will always pound and beat upon the door

Tiny Fingers

Tiny fingers

Fragile as twigs

Soft as feathers

Warm like the rising sun

Tiny fingers that fit inside of mine

Rub my cheek and arm

Tiny fingers I think

Could never cause harm

Tiny fingers

Curl up in sleep

As they twirl my hair

They wave to and fro

In goodbye and hello

They patty cake and roll

And often grab more than they can hold

They wipe away childish tears

Can’t quite hold back all their fears

Tiny fingers

Hold tight to kites and ice cream cones

And endlessly tug and pull at my heart

Tiny fingers smear paint across the page

They tighten and grip in a fit of rage

Tiny fingers that pinch and grab

And snap and clap to song

Tiny finger that race hot wheels

Through the sandbox all day long

Tiny fingers learn so much

Through the years and all they touch

Tiny fingers, all dimpled and pudgy

Oh, how I remember those tiny fingers

That somehow grew into the man you’ve become

Portrait Of Grandmothers Past

This is my first attempt at a sestina poem. With the subject I chose, I found it very difficult to accomplish the inclusion of each of these words in a designated order in each stanza. Maybe next time, I should chose a simple subject.

Big Mama was independent, her spirit soared like the wood stove smoke
All she had, whether sewn or grown, was hers with the work of her own hands
I remember her sitting on the porch fanning herself and swatting flies
She’d wipe her sweat with a wash rag and wring out the water
The faux pearl flowered pin bobbed upon her ample, drooping chest
while her words of “Wild Irish Rose” in my heart still echoes

Granny Sally rocked into the dark to the beat of Whippoorwill echoes
She weaved her words of family lore between rings of tobacco smoke
She always had children at her ankles and one sleeping against her chest
soothing their skinned knees and aching hearts with her leathered hands
and washing away the soil and pain of each day with soap and water
looking at birds in the sky, she never knew it would become a place man flies

Granny Annie would head out with her horse in which ever way the crow flies
through the mountains and over the creeks she followed her peoples echoes
delivering babies and setting bones in return of a chicken or a cup of cold water
She was quick and stubborn, known to storm off in a temper of rising smoke
but she had a gift, she carried miracles within the bones of her aging hands
In a land of poverty, she was rich as she courted courage within her chest

Lizzie entered marriage full of a young bride’s love without a hope chest
and young she stayed, never knowing the quick movement in which time flies
Through her many descendants, her melody of selfless, ageless love still echoes
as one can still witness the love in her life and the work of her youthful hands
She held her husband and children close as death blew her dreams up in smoke
Her memory was as necessary to each of them as daily intake of food and water

There was the other Grandmother Annie who carried the invisible jug of water
from collected tears of losing so many she loved, the pain held within her chest,
pain raging and unpredictable as wildfire that left her standing in a cloud of smoke
One never complains when the busy needs of life and children around her flies
Through every tribulation she persevered; her strength through the years echoes
Life gave her lemons and she made sweet lemon aid with those loving hands

Ada smiled as she tended her beloved marigolds with patient, gentle hands
She dug up the dirt, spread out her seeds, fertilized, and sprinkled the water
The golden petals of beauty warmed her heart just as a ray of sunshine echoes
she prided the orange, yellow, and crimson hues, nearly bursting her swelling chest
she cut the family’s hair, wiping the day on her apron realizing how each day flies
though she loved deeply, she merely existed beneath those mountains of smoke

With no great accomplishments I realize I am all mirrors and smoke when I scrutinize the work of my own hands
Each one has gone on and my own time flies, so I look for pieces of them in me as I reflect upon the trickling water
I ponder the family history with the rise and fall of my chest, and my life stretches before me; it beats and echoes

****

Sestina Formula

Often dealing with memory

Six stanzas of six lines each, completed with a seventh stanza that has three lines

Six line stanza is called a sestet

The three  line is called an envoy or tercet

Lines can be any length, with no rhyme involved

The form is that the final word of each line is repeated throughout the poem in a specific pattern

Formula of ending line word

Stanza 1: ABCDEF

Stanza 2:  FAEBDC

Stanza 3:  CFDABE

Stanza 4:  ECFBAD

Stanza 5:  DEACFB

Stanza 6:  BDFECA

Stanza 7:  ABCDEF  (this last stanza is only three lines instead of six; each line has two end words per line. The first word is in the middle and the second is the final word of the line.  While any order of end words is acceptable in the final tercet, this is the traditional order.

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