On these cold days

A fairweather fairy

I slip between autumn-bare branches

shimmy down the worn oak trunk

to find warmth in Mother’s earth.

Under rotting leaves, musty fragrances welcome me

to shelter from Jack’s frost,

give me a place to sleep and dream.

I count the days beyond Winter’s Solstice

instead of sheep,

find peace cradled in her arms.

~ Siobhan1/4/22

 

from a line I heard, somewhere

First and Last

Just as you were the first in other ways
- the beginning (and end) I didn't want,
a never-quite-quenched thirst I couldn't slake - 
I know you'll be my last of many things;
perhaps the last kiss on New Year's midnight
or the final whispered goodbye at dawn.
There's a chance you could finish my summer
leave me to wander in autumn alone. 
The last person I want to see again
everywhere but in my dreams - day and night.

You initiated - and I followed.

Maybe you and I were our first and last
chances - complementary - balanced
out of synch together - and now apart.


Siobhan
09/10/2021

 

Inside Beside Myself

Moments wander along and confront me 
when I least expect it, tangling up
memories and dreams – blended together – 
until I forget which is which, or when.

You stopped by yesterday night, surprised me
with your blue eyes and smile – I smiled back
wishing for a hug to ease the empty
knowing you were there but not really here.

You’re not my only visitor lately;
unexpected faces appear before
I can stop them; pushing their way inside
until I realize I want them to.

Inside I am beside myself, outside
I am beside you and yet still alone


Siobhan
09/02/2021

 

Out Here

Winter has stuck out her tongue, lapping up

summer nights and turning them to autumn

Green has burned into a blaze of color

dried and crackling around the edges

Sidewalks are covered beneath

bags of debris raked from browning lawns – and

city streets stretch out grey, waiting for potholes,

salt and grime and snowplows.

Out here – where I can see the sky, I stare

at emptied cornfields and dying gardens

visible beneath the moon, not blocked by buildings

night becomes a soft blanket – blue

black instead of washed out grey;

unmasked, stars emerge – cold pin pricks of light

become an elaborate game of connect the dots

Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Minor

both dippers and Orion; pictures filling in by imagination

Out here I can feel the subtle shift of seasons, swallowed

inside the city by lights and noise and the rush of people

Out here I can find peace, wrapped around me like the arms of my lover –

Out here I find I can just – be

Siobhan

10/21/2015

another one from the past

 

That Place

No longer body-shy

she strips for him

no make-up

no nylons

scrubbed free from disguise

shows herself bare

and he accepts her at face – and body – value

hands, clean yet un-manicured,

touch her with feather lightness,

strong enough to stir passion

without fear

his own held at bay

as he-she explores

this new place

Age has been kind

graceful in its caress

too far past youth to care

about the frivolous

too far from old age to give up

they have found

that place

we all look for within

another’s arms

~

….from years ago, found today – Siobhan

 

For my father

How Does Time Work?

And then one day the mountain is crumbling
at the edges, he rests, mind racing down
paths we can’t follow – a voice that echoed
becomes a whisper then a mumbles of
confused words – move from picking strawberries
to a request to get out the vote.
He calls for siblings and children wanting
food – wanting out – asks how did I get here
where was I before here and before that.
His eyes stare beyond me – they are searching
sees his mother, then asks his daughter
‘how does time work ‘how do trees know the time’
Eyes now closed, lips moving in prayer ease pain
realize a life well-lived… this mountain
A man – my father – my hero now gone
leaving me to ask myself
– how does time work?

Siobhan
11/11/2020

 

No it didn’t

Love Did Not Fade

Her eyes did not wander
no kisses were shared
on another’s lips
love did not fade

yet

heart-sore
mind-tired
she walked away
from mistrust
jealousy
and pain

yet

still

love did not fade

Lost in the words of a song –
a bitter boy
clings to the hands
of time
and the widow     separated
from the bride
by years of experience;
remembers
love does not fade
it all becomes part of his game

yet

even when she is not the one
he is thinking of
love does not fade

it remains

hidden, locked away
the passion of six years
bittersweet, held tight

cherished
surrounded by wishes and desire

no it didn’t
does not
did not
fade

~ Siobhan
6/13/15

 

Working it out

Doing Laundry

Another night, stretched out
in emptiness. My fingers play
with memories scattered across the cool pillow
where you rested.
Sheets washed with hope
of rinsing away the lingering scent of you
– of us –
sex
an intimate reminder of what was
no longer
clings to the fabric.

Siobhan
4/4/15
revised/reworked 6/12/15

 

In Memory of Hugh Moore (September 21, 1947 – March 10, 2015)

A Spoonful of Wonder

Fables and fantasy his forte, art
the heart of his soul,
he flew over, around, and through our lives –
bigger than life himself.
A simple tune to stir a smile,
a ditty to elicit a chuckle;
he loved the odd, strange, and the fantastic.

With his parry and thrust of wordly wit,
he countered my poetry with his own.
Themed, random, passionate or platonic,
round for round early Saturday mornings
canto and verse road the air waves.

Between a bite of cherry pie or spoon
of lemon tart, he welcomed us to step
“Just across the hall from reality”
and ours will not be the same – now…
~

Siobhan
3/12/15

I will miss you, friend, and yet hold you in a smile of memory, Hugh. Thank you for sharing this space and time with us.

 

In Memory of Ken Sibley (August 8, 1923 – March 25, 2015)

Buckeye

Scattered across the credenza, their shells
smooth and hard reflect pictures artfully
arranged side-by-side. No image captured
in photograph is necessary to
remember him; these buckeyes elicit
images of his smile, the rasp of voice,
and affectionate squeeze of his warm hand.

I cannot hear a Langston Hughes poem
without hearing his interpretation;
his voice fading in and out as he moved
close to then away from the microphone.

Passionate about trees and our freedom,
liberal in his heart and mind, he found friends
wherever he ventured. Buckeye in hand.

~ Siobhan
3/25/15
For Ken Sibley – our own Lorax