Mother2rah’s Weblog

 I Picture Crows

Stark against the winter sky, branches sway

a stiff breeze blows up to rattle last leaves,

those faithful few, clinging to emptiness,

shift in the fading light of shortened days.

Shadows play tricks on the movement within

their outstretched arms.  Unbalanced images

flutter past my field of vision, hiding

truth in darkness, capturing my mind’s eye.

I picture crows, each row of autumn leaves

rustled up against one another, not

yet cold-anticipating the weather

ready, even if hesitant, to go

Then - as the last piece of sunlight dips down

to the edge of the world, they, too, take flight.

Siobhan

Perfect Ingredient

Need rises, urges

me into motion,

engulfs each sense, pushes

for action. I search

my mind

the perfect ingredient

to satisfy this craving,

to complement this want.

Is it the scent of cinnamon?

the earthy musk of fresh soil

or sea salt air?

Each passes across

closed eyelids-

I breathe deeply

calm the inner turmoil,

desire unquenchable.

I picture olive oil drizzle

basted over bare breasts-thighs

imagine the golden glaze

meeting lips

parted for the delicacy.

My mouth waters for

smoky sweet

rich as roasted garlic

spread fresh-hot across

the palate, soothed with wine

splashed on the waiting

tongue tip, suckled

to ease the pain of want,

satisfied

by the perfect ingredient.

I search.

Siobhan

10-20-07

The book, Lost Survivor, by Thomas R. Jones, Sr., is a magnificent story of survival in the midst of the Vietnam War.  Well written and insightful, it is a book that will help you understand what happened then…and what is happening today in Iraq.  War is never what anyone expects - whether you are here at home waiting for the return of loved ones, or the body in the middle of the conflict (what a light word for killing and being killed!), or whether you are the politician wondering if your future depends on the next vote you cast for or against it.  The following poem was written after I read the book.  I have often heard it said that one of the best compliments one artist can give another is to find inspiration in their work; something that moves you to create your own piece of art as a reflection.  That is what happened here.  I hope you enjoy the poem and will go out to buy the book.  It is a piece of history we should all read about.

To Survive in Your World

Color drains from dreams, disappears, grey scale

shadows mix, remind me of life before

this place when the tick-tock click of momma’s

clock soothed me to sleep between whispers sweet

from my lover’s lips, and the world was real.

Violent scars on the edge of fantasy

askew from your memories of me, and you

cannot enter the world I’ve lived-would not

want the me I became-I cannot be

the one you loved, that’s once upon a time

when I wasn’t lost, before life became

kill or be killed-a place I could not see

color outside yellow fear-jungle green.

I lost myself to survive in your world.

Siobhan

10/25/05

Learn to Walk Again

Traces of previous passion steam up

the windows in this room, cool to the touch,

warming the air between long lost lovers.

Time has separated souls once as one.

Proximity, never an issue, now

lends itself to re-kindling desire.

One hand reaches, the other turns away

mis-read steps generate a halting dance;

twisting and bending, each tries the other

lock-step stumble before they gain their ground

find how to move in synchronicity

once as one becomes two then one again.

Their need to fit desire in this place

leaves them wanting to learn to walk again.

Siobhan

10-17-07

Upon the Occasion of Your Wedding

It’s not about today or tomorrow,

so much as tomorrow and today. True

marriage is a long-term project; if you

view it short-term, it won’t last. You can’t borrow

grace from yesterday, nor live sorrow

of what you sacrificed. Hold faith and do

what benefits all involved. Oh too few

realize this: to will is to do so!

True faith is not so much never-failing

as it is ever-renewing. We love

not for what is, but for what can be so;

we love despite err, forgiveness aiding

to rise to heights’ potentials, and thereof

forgetting but to build . . . Love’s made to grow.

                        David M Pitchford

                        100607 for Becky and Shane

This poem was written by David Pitchford (www.bitterhermit.wordpress.com) as a companion piece to my previously posted poem, This Piece of Time.

 This Piece of Time

This piece of time belongs to each of you

separate beings who have chosen to join

as one-embracing your lives completely.

Open to the new experiences

being together creates-realize

those dreams held fast within your heart will be

shared, nurtured, and fulfilled in your new world

and there are places yet to imagine.

On your travels, remember these wise words

“give without remembering, take without

forgetting” and love life’s gift of laughter.

Have faith in the existence of your love

in the reality of pain and joy

-understand that this is your beginning.

Siobhan

October 6, 2007

For Becky and Shane

New Addiction

Odd how quickly we develop the taste,

when forbidden pleasures tempt the palate.

One simple kiss, the delicate flutter

lips on lips, nape of neck and down shoulders

exposed flesh softens, melts beneath hot breath

unwinding all willpower; loosening

inhibitions to slake a thirst-desire

blossoming inside, pulse point to pulse point.

The craving magnifies in your absence.

No mortal need, this infatuation;

it is a taunting passion, once dormant

re-kindled by touch, delicate, subtle.

It never went away-was always there

sleeping within, mis-placed, new found - again.

10/09/07

 Perfection is a Myth

How dare you damn me!

Label me perfect?!

Would you strip me

of the scars and bruises life has dealt

blow-by-blow

upon my body?

I’ll never be air-brushed beauty,

too much of my life has been lived

in the real world,

a harsh environment-survival of the fittest.

These wounds from battles won

and lost

carve the path of life

deep into my flesh-

stroke your fingertips along these lines from beginning to end,

find the secrets I have hidden.

I’ll whisper in your ear

the stories I tell myself

so you can appreciate

just how im-perfect I am.

Perfection is a myth

sold to men-and women

who want life to be more than it is

or needs to be.

Conceptualize It

conceptualize making love, picture

the process of two bodies colliding,

raw animal hunger meshes passion

with innocence, the letting go of fear

while holding tightly to apprehension-

a mix of messages passing from one

set of synapses to the other, each

wishing for the words to express the storm

that is this thing happening between them

with them, yet also completely apart

create a copy of desire, real

enough to touch, taste, smell, even to hear

describe the sound of need, want, or yearning

and feel what I experience with you

Siobhan

10-02-07

 Control

I can feel the storm as it approaches,

heat, built up from the day, edges around

the cold front I feel from you. It’s building

into an explosion I can’t contain.

When did I lose control of this piece-me-

the core of my being enslaved to touch,

the sensation of contact - flesh on flesh

reaching inside melding with intimate

precision to those parts of me I hide

from the everyday world-they’re mine alone.

Touch, capture, caress each part, make me yours

beguile the center of me-I am

unable-unwilling-to release all

yet for your favor, gladly surrender.