The second Paris poem - from 2005

City of Lights

You never get back from Paris – they say –

stepping off the Champs d‘Elysee

onto gravel and asphalt

surrounded by corn fields

and grain bins masquerading

in the mind as the Eiffel Tower

you enter the antithesis of fantasy.

 

Sounds and scents – when seen from behind

closed eyes – push themselves

into café clatter and fresh croissants

aromas of memory over power

the French fried stale of rubberized eggs

lukewarm on limp toast

and the weak water of instant coffee.

 

Use your dreams

recapture all the color and magic left behind

in the City of Lights

as you trudge through the darkness

toward hope.

 

 

Siobhan

 

Our Own Personal Kraken

Tread Water

When was life calm? Not before we escaped
from everyone around us, their brooding
glances - jealousy ill-hidden in eyes
wild with want and shame and lust for our life.
I wish I could speak to them, let them know
we, too, have our storms unabated, fear
that dances in the pit of our stomachs
hoping to overcome this joy we find
wrapped in the tenuous embrace of love.
Our own Kraken follows us in shadows,
waits to sacrifice us against the rocks -
and we can be swept away in high tide
just as easily as they, but we swim
and tread water, make landfall, and escape.

 

 

On a rainy morning…

Fragile Connections

 

Blue veins criss-cross across, sketch life’s pattern

through me – in and out of heart muscle, skim

the smooth surface, detour areola,

outline nipple, as they accentuate

the fullness of my breasts. Follow their path.

 

With kisses, plot their course from beginning

to end.  Find safe passage to my deepest

desires. With the tips of your fingers,

find their source and explore the depths of me

mapped out for your adventure; a journey

over the soft hills and down the valley–

an entrance in to the cradle of life.

 

Relish this fragile connection between

we two, both travelers, both familiar

with the treasure held within this body.

 

 

Alone in the Garden

She searches
for flowers
among the thistles - tired
of being stung
again and again.
She remembers
where she left them,
doesn’t know why
no one else recalls
her care and tenderness
in the planting,
how she nurtured the seeds
cherished the seedlings
as they grew tall
spreading across their world wide.

She stops
muttering to herself
gazes with watery eyes
at the beds before her,
wanders around
pulls weeds by the handful
from the border
of the garden.

Tears mingle
with allergies -
she knows
it isn’t hers
anymore.

 

 

Waking and Sleeping

In dreams, you slide alongside, accepting

me as I am, with all my little faults

then when I wake, you’re still there, still smiling,

telling me I am awesome in your eyes.

 

I would like to understand what you see,

know that I need to accept what I can,

and reach out to you for what I cannot;

you’re a mirror for me – love’s reflection.

 

Partner, cohort, my champion in life

I seek to please – fall short, get up again

and reaffirm this desire buried

deep within – and it goes on forever.

 

I would be lost without your appearance

in my dreams – both the waking and sleeping.

 

Siobhan

04/09/08

 

When Art and Man Collide

White Marble Woman 

This sculpture, white marble, naked female

form, is almost too bold – a message stark

against the stuffed-shirts and throttling ties.

 

She speaks in whispers, tickles their inner

ear with sweet nothings to tempt every one

of them from duty – not a betrayal

 

rather an opportunity to live

inside the moment, instead of clinging

to the past – or praying for the future.

 

They glance caresses her way, desire

clear in each blink and blush, passion withheld

from this unknown angel, champagne dazzle.

 

Her artful expression of a life lived

allows their fantasies one quick release.

 

Inspired by Ali’s Homeless Widow

In the Evening of Life

 

You watch me from your clean white world, afraid

I’ll mess with the order of everything.

I can read your thoughts, see inside your eyes,

pictures of my past floating through your mind.

 

You speculate – was I once beautiful?

Did love once penetrate this thickened skin?

Sweet lips brush across this matted grey brow?

Can you believe in my passion, with one

brief glance at my life from within your own?

 

Believe in love, I was there once – yet know

there is no point to being kissed – no more

reason to wait for the night to whisper

down around my shoulders – love no longer

lays down beside me in the still darkness.

 

I am in the evening of life – and you

have days beyond these nights – love yet to come.

 

And 3

I am

I am naked-
a book without fancy cover,
a gift with no tag or bow.

Examine every inch-
find those places I am worn,
caress me with new sensation.

Realize my story-
is not new or strange,
is fantasy fiction-and fact.

Read between my lines-
explore the details in depth,
search for my meaning, inside.

I am stripped clean-
no hidden agendas,
no secreted purpose, exposed.

Love me-
without condition,
boldly, without reserve.

Want me-
unembarrassed by desire,
without guilt.

I am bare-
brazen in body and mind,
unashamed.

Understand-
this life is,
and I am.

Siobhan
04/02/08

 

Poem #2 for April

Against a Blank Wall

 

Shifts in light distort the image I have

silhouettes against a blank wall, one? two?

a waltz of figures dances past, changing

between scenes. I am confused by the turn

of faces toward then aside, embarrassed

perhaps by my blatant desire, they

glance up before laughing themselves away

afraid to recognize their own in me.

 

A room full of mirrors casts me back toward

that place in history where I lost all

in evolution. I want to shatter

all the false illusions surrounding us

and reveal those piece of me missing

for so long I’d almost forgotten them.

 

Poem #1 for April

Against Soft Skin

 

In contrast to the clouds, I see clearly

where want and need criss-cross with desire.

They are greyed and hang low, drift aimlessly

while I look up and out at the future

intrigued by possibilities, drawn in

and thrown out across existence, feeling

the smallest pin-prick against skin so soft

it melts at the touch, pooling around me

cradling this flesh, caressing this heart

absent need and full of want, overflowing.

 

I, too, storm and rant, strike thunder, lightning

at the feet of men, break open the rain

my tears of joy – sorrow – pain and of lust;

I am the same as the clouds, blind to love.

Siobhan

04/01/08