On an autumn afternoon

Between Memory and a Promise

I get angry at the ease with which you
breeze through life – know it is not all it seems,
pain and pathos exist; yet, you’re carefree…
whether by choice or design is open
for debate by those who wish to question.
As for me, I sit back and watch it all.

Music from the past pushes me backward,
music from today, coaxes me forward.
I sit between memory and a promise,
momentarily uncertain. No vows
hold me any longer, except those
inside me – newly born to myself.
I can be true to me alone, until
I’ve healed from wounds still too fresh to ignore.

Siobhan
11-08-09

 

Midnight pomegranate

Unscented

Between her shoulder blades, in the middle
of her back, is that place she cannot reach.
It remains unscented, a memory
of rituals that brought life to mornings.
Soft hands glide down her freshly washed body;
capture the dampness within the subtle
fragrance; midnight pomegranate will cling
through the day, and elicit thoughts of years
when his touches awakened her senses
with scent massaged slowly across her back.
Up shapely calves, dipping behind her knees,
with each stroke, she recalls the feel of him.
Slender fingers move slowly, unable
to reach out and caress her scented heart.

Siobhan
10-24-09

 

Seasonal shift

Mystery and Silence

 
It is darker than yesterday, the sun
two minutes behind schedule and
unable to break through the haze. We walked
beneath grey clouds promising no notice
in deciding to rain or blow away.
The blaze of color skittering about
ditches and across lawns has turned to rust
and sienna, mud-brown damp and clinging
to pant cuffs; the sparkle simply raindrops
mixed with dew glinting in the light cast by
street lamps yet to go out. Our own shadows
dance alongside us, barely visible.
 
Such a morning holds mystery and silence,
as if taunting me to wake within it.
 

Siobhan
10-22-09

 

In the end finding the lifeline

Drunk on Each Other
 
Times I find myself clinging to a life
no longer mine, I end up quietly
crying in the corner of a couch, curled
up, not sure how I reached this point – alone.

My heart hasn’t turned to stone, though I wish
it would when, awake in darkness, I reach
out to touch, find emptiness where I want
to find solid ground, a lifeline. I need
 
to hold memories at bay. Thinking gives
them life, allows them room to breathe inside me.
I can’t swim through all the tears; again hope
things will change back to what I knew before –
 
more so than any, drunk on each other –
the two of us were in those brief moments.

 
Siobhan
10-19-09

 

Unseen for the better part of a year…

Rhythm of a Year

A staccato beat pounds inside her head.
Unfamiliar words play to a strange tune
only she hears, she can tell from empty,
blank stares aimed in her direction – faces
she knows understand … almost … everything.

Faltering notes smooth out with distractions,
mellow to soft jazz behind tired eyes.
Others can sense a shift in the music,
the way her body moves and sways in time
to private thoughts, images they can’t see.

Quiet mystery hides her smile again
(unseen for the better part of a year).
Tempos untried excite and tempt her back
into the rhythm of her desires.

Siobhan
10-17-09

 

In the rhythm of a year

Stitching Time

It has been a year since the tear began.
An unraveling at first; the picking
apart of a seam that no one noticed.
Discomfort, uncertain anxiety,
frayed the edges of a relationship.

Unconscious – the rift, the elusive shift
in balance away from the steadiness,
the rhythm of years past – didn’t they see
it coming, did they each ignore the signs?
as if dismissing pain would heal the heart?

How long does it take to heal the injured?
Is it to be measured in years – or less?
Learned behaviors construct a shield of strength –
stitching time together to repair love.

Siobhan
09-03-09

 

Fevered Interest

An Invitation

Morning light catches droplets of water,
throws rainbows across the room. He watches
her silhouette through frosted shower glass.

She moves beneath the hot spray with such grace
the everyday motions of lather – rinse –
and repeat become a sensuous dance.

Moist air meets cool, beads the mist on mirrors
as she moves with feline poise from shower
to sink, wearing nothing beyond her skin.

Fevered interest heightens his senses, raw
desire is visible in his gaze,
passion eliminates space between them.

His fingers compose an invitation
as they move along her bare arms, still damp.

Siobhan
10-15-09

 

Shifting Dreams

A Woman

The floor tilts beneath her feet; she is un-
balanced by life – past and future collide
in morning light, rub against each other
in the darkness as she sleeps. Her dreams change
shape, focused on her once-upon-a-time
once upon a time, she feels freer now.

A year of see-saw emotions comes back
around, one day a sucker punch, one day
a soft caress. She welcomes each memory,
a reminder that she can be both strong
and gentle, passionate and adoring –
kisses still soft, open-mouthed offering
of warmth and a returning desire,
she is completely herself – a woman.

Siobhan
10-14-09

 

She heals … again

Naked Canvas
 
Just when she thinks she’s picked up all pieces
of her broken heart, a misstep across
the kitchen floor finds one more shard ready,
willing, and able to pierce the soft flesh.
 
She questions, cries. Alone for the first time,
uncertainty lurks in every corner.
Each groan of rafters, creak of the floor boards
becomes a ghost walking through and stopping.
 
With each drop of blood on cracked tile, she feels
his promises, elusive as the wind,
come back and disappear just as they did
before, when he shattered both love and trust.
 
He watches from outside the circle of
her warmth, offers solace, comfort, passion
– not for her, not now – as she stumbles on
the memories scattered through their house – once home.
 
She pulls pictures from frames, throws paint on walls
to cover images of love-making
cast there by candles lit, now long gone out,
passion and desire – following suit.

With each stroke of color, she heals again,
a naked canvas, new life, waiting for her.

 
Siobhan
09/29/09

 

Foggy Morning

A Feckless Fantasy – Sleep

Fog captures the light through windows before
it can beckon her out in to the mist.
It shrouds her eyes in dew-kissed spider webs,
and muffles her voice with the rain wet leaves.
 
Rough hewn dreams offer escape into sleep;
the onyx abyss  where a past lover
rues nights he left and a future partner
scribbles missives on a note card, crafting
verse without platitudes – for her alone.
 
Pushed from repose by her companion’s zeal
and his desire to wander the streets,
she reaches out for wakefulness, clutches
at the thin tufts offered by the hour.
Her own boorish want to remain under
cover mirrored by the listless grey sky.

Sleep becomes a feckless fantasy – lost.

Siobhan
09/25/09