and I really feel like it's going to work.
I prefer the days when I want to say, "screw you, realists!" to the days when I am the realist.
there are signs everywhere. The one at the top of my list is that though we're both going places, neither of us is going anywhere.
and for now, I will steep in that optimistic certainty.
screw you, realists!
:)
the groovers and the shakers
drive dusty convertibles,
miss exit after exit.
they travel instead,
godspeeding through the night,
mocking motel vacancies
mocking the resting
grooving and shaking all the while.
the groovers and the shakers belong
near an eight track library
near a smoky bar’s DJ
near their partners’ twisting hips.
the groovers and the shakers move
behind the wheels of their dusty convertibles,
steering with knees,
clapping with hands.
music the magic
heartline the highway
arteries amplify blood-steeped basslines.
the sun reclaims the moon’s former reign
and turns the volume down.
the groovers and the shakers wait, bated,
til dusk permits.
and when the reds oranges pinks purples blues
relinquish their Kodak moments to the stars,
relinquish their light to the black,
the groovers and the shakers open their eyes,
unpack tambourines,
don headbands,
and lace boots,
grooving and shaking all the while.
Writer's block just made my list of most crippling sensations.
The other two are heartbreak and distance from God.
I suppose I am thankful that I only have three. Pray that I reach out to somebody on the days I encounter all three.
"you put the verb in reverberate,"
she said.
"you bounce within me like a jarred firefly,
trapped but still lit.
blinking and communicating."
"I want to fly,"
he said.
"I want to smell the sun
and drink the sky.
drown in the wind
and whisper to the stars."
"you're quite the Icarus,"
she said.
"promise me, love, that you will cool before you burn.
hit the water before you swallow the sun.
I promise you, love, to dodge the dripping wax and cloaking feathers.
to catch you."
"don't you see?"
he said.
"you need only be caught.
for you are my sun
my sky
my wind
and my star.
my feathers will cloak you alone.
it is then you will know I am home.
it is then I will know I am home."
V: I can recall the time... the very hour... of the very day... when I knew words would be my life's work.
***
flashback: Vivian Bearing [V], age 5, reading to her father [F] as he reads the newspaper.
V: I like that one best.
F: Read another.
V: I think I'll read..."The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies." It has little bunnies on the front. "The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies." By Beatrix Potter.
'It is said that the effect...
of eating too much lettuce...
is...'
What is this word?
F: Sound it out.
V: So-por-i-fic. What does that mean?
F: Soporific? Causing sleep.
V: Causing sleep.
F: Makes you sleepy.
V: 'So-por-i-fic' means 'makes you sleepy.'
F: That's right. Now, use it in a sentence. What has a soporific effect on you?
V: What has a soporific effect on me?
F: What makes you sleepy?
V: Nothing.
F: [chuckles] That's right.
V: What about you?
F: What has a soporific effect on me? Let me think. Boring conversation, I suppose, after dinner.
V: Me too. Boring conversation.
F: Good, excellent. Carry on.
V: 'It is said that the effect
of eating too much lettuce...
is soporific.'
The bunnies in the picture are sleeping! They're sleeping like you said, because of sop-or-i-fic!
***
V: The illustration bore out the meaning of the word... just as he had explained it.
At the time it seemed like magic.
how unsure it is,
the period of time
it will take
to make sure
you are sure.
slowly pulling away from what makes me the happiest is starting to [that's a lie. it never didn't] feel like the kind of torture that relies on the relationship between pain and insanity.
...once your shirt starts smelling like me, I'll give it back. I'll have no use for it anymore.
Across the room I saw the woman’s face,
her smiling kind and smooth complexion fair.
The matted frame, a throne for searching eyes;
for even from the wall her spirit poured
so effervescent that I wondered where
the smile and life behind the glass has led.
Her folded hands and hair as black as lead
that framed within a frame her striking face
resembled someone’s face I’d seen, but where?
Like walking through a fun house at the fair,
familiar feature twisted pore by pore,
distorted mem’ries loosely veiled my eyes.
I tried to see the world through frozen eyes—
the ones to which my wand’ring eyes had led—
and saw her travels; maps she’d often pore
deciding on adventures left to face.
The hackneyed saying “Life is never fair”
did not apply; she could go anywhere.
Upon her sleeve a wounded heart she’d wear
for broken love had hurt, not changed her eyes.
But oceans span more distance than seems fair;
regret remains an anchor dense as lead.
Perhaps a journey far from Mister’s face
would teach her life and lessons far from poor.
In Rome, the holy water bathed her pores
And in Madrid she’d ask them “Dónde?”—“Where?”
In Giza, sand she blames for Sphinx’s face
And Paris begs she question Lisa’s eyes.
In Delhi, Ghandi, wise and peaceful, led,
revealing that the love she seeks is fair.
These visions of a woman young and fair
resounded, clean and pure like showers pour.
My mind—a pack in which confusion led—
resolved to scrutinize the woman’s ware.
The glasses, red and thin around her eyes
perplexed me—frames the same sit on my face.
As wrinkled soul and face compared our eyes,
a triumph led to cognizance unfair:
I realize now her every pore I wear.
***
A sestina is a poetry form that requires six sestets in iambic pentameter. The last word of each line in the first sestet determines the words that will end the lines, in a specific and different order, in the following sestets. Sestinas conclude with a tercet that includes two ending words per line.
They are very difficult to write successfully; this is the result of many hours. Let me know what you think! :)
