Tuesday, April 24, 2012

A Mother's Armor

flawed conscience, negligence of intent
she has resolved acceptance of the imperfect
footsteps she has there left upon this dying planet

I see her there,
in that looking glass,
bending at the waist
drying freshly washed curves
like sun on stone after the rain
memorials etched there
by the ravages of life
this is not my body
she whispers as she traces
waterlines down her calf
with a terry cloth eraser
her hips,
soft, supple
flowing resonance
vessel of life,
see not this snapshot
and with it define yourself
marks in flesh as earth marred
by the raging waters of time
should the evidences of a life
lived be so unremarkable?
breasts once firm 
grow and release
liquid gold and with it she thrives
hips, nearly as round
as when cradled within
a babe yet born
skin, once clear and smooth
scarred, stretched, neglected
there are more important things

a mother’s armor
evidence of birth and of life
imperfect and altered


Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Waxing Moon

Moon over the Gulf of Mexico. 

crescent blue arching
sinewy curving of flesh
wanting your fullness

For Open Link Night I've selected a Haiku. Written while on a secluded beach, on the gulf of Mexico. Link up and join in. www.dversepoets.com

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Halo Effect

He folded his body nearly in half.
A tall gangly frame of a man with kind eyes.
She sat with auburn tangles, unbrushed today.
Church had been a blur, everything has and I cling to a moment of rest and observation, a moment of sanity pressing myself into the red theater seats.

He offered a few minutes of individual instruction after rehearsal.

My thoughts drift back to the house, in shambles with leaks and brokenness, the half reconstructed porch, washing dishes campstyle, tossing water off it, unintentionally feeding the overgrown weeds demanding attention.

But in this small theater music is played, broken and whining, tempo subsiding. Strings pressed between flesh and wooden necks arching over children’s shoulders. The cello seems to swallow her up, recent growth has left her with long arms and legs, the progress of life growing my child into a woman far too soon. But she reaches well around the belly of it now.

“When you slide the bow like this you can see the string move in circle that kind of looks like a halo,” he played some more, “do you see?” The instrument in the hands of the kind of expert that hours of practice, talent and calluses produce, he is a master of his art.

When someone loves something they can’t help sharing it with others hoping to impart some of what they find in it, may it be peace, or joy, pleasure or a sense of accomplishment. They have loved something well and he does, and this he shares. His heart poured out on strings to teach each child, and right now, in this moment, it’s my child he teaches and inspiration settles into the gray spaces.

She nods first no, watches as he plays, then yes.

“That’s how you know, that’s when the note is just right,” he says and smiles up at her.

She nods again, pushes glasses back onto her face and smiles the one that says, I think I know what you’re talking about. He gives her the bow and watches. She bites her bottom lip and tries again.

A moment of clarity and all disappears, the broken sink, the porch in shambles, the warped cabinets that needs to be torn out now and the quick coming of graduation for the eldest of my children. I close my eyes and I see Him, with the anticipation of a halo moment when I make an attempt to imitate my master. Just one note, one moment of trusting Him. I press my fingers to bone and make an attempt, at patience, at faith, just once... and my heart plays a note, a note that reverberates my soul, the kind of note with a halo.

Linking up for Imperfect Prose... I like the feel of this place. Join me, won't you? www.canvaschild.com

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Every Simple Word

falling from lips like rain from the windowsill
the reverberation of sound
solitary syllables in syncopation

it is the hiss of the yes
the purr that more provokes
goodness like wine on skin

there is a rhythm to it now
a volleying of thought and sound
connotations creating sentences

etched on skin, in the marrow
bones aching to move
union of the tangible and intangibility

we are flowing now
the left and right of hip and sole
turning tables and tonality

every simple word
an exhilaration of the tempo
lean in, let go

until all sound ceases
no thought, only breath
silence rains down

collision of liquid
from earth and sky
utterance of an inaudible yes

shall we try the tango next time?

This poem submitted for Open Link Night @dVerse poet's pub. Link up and contribute one of your own and share the wealth of poetic musings and encouraging feedback. www.dversepoets.com

Monday, April 9, 2012

Auburn Braided Locks

My girls. 

auburn hair with your locks falling down
mother’s fingers, braided crown
how might I make you stay
pale blue eyes have gone astray

auburn hair with your crimson curls
fingers wrapping in a twirl
why must you grow away
brown eyed girl has gone to play

many seek your beauty in a bottle
pour their gold into the hands of tendril artisans
who promise to rival you
though they never can

auburnbraided one so fair
would you dare
trade your locks of copper hair
for momentary wares

you glanced at me momentarily
and back I go
birth of day and light
 crawled your way into my heart that night

slipping through fingers
fumbling with petals unable to linger
softly into the night
would I subdue your flight?

freshly washed, brushed and braided
fold yourself again and again
into my evershrinking arms
press flesh between tiny fingers

brown eyed with wide smile
why must you grow away
blue eyes have walked a mile
how might I make you stay

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Take and Eat

bread, earthen and broken flesh
blood-water, crimson drink
a moment of remembrance
prophetic practice of grace

take and eat your piece of me
take and drink the last of my being
take from me the robes of righteousness
not one can take my life from me

deny me, my brother
forget me, slumbering friend
mother spare your tears
I make all things new

father of the forsaken
why demand this sacrifice
cradle life demand it not of me
if another way there still may be

paths have forks
and travelers choices
this night I make mine
thy will be done

Children of the Night

they are the children of the night
creeping up spines as stairwells puckish like
to weave a mystery whilst their victims
lie in wait

they are the goblins of a moon king
hiding behind the sheetrock tempting
words from restless mouths
while they lie in wait

they are the monstrous
doubts and fears of humanity
stirring beneath the dust ruffled complacency
while their prey lie in wait

they are the blissful remembrances
of lovers tender kisses manifest
as imprints on the psyche,
while their paramour lie in wait

they are the prophetic mark
of spirit on subconscious mind
born of communion between human and divine
while their messenger lays in wait

they are the sweet things
of a child’s mental medication
the cookies, milk and teddy bears
that cradle their kind and lie in wait

they are the children of the night,
of fragrance and starlight
of moonbeams and stories told
while dreamers lie in wait

Soldiering on, this is post #4, minutes past midnight. Nevertheless a poem for the day, and appropriately so, the night as well. If you too are joining me on this journey for #NaPoWriMo I commend you and welcome your comments. If any response you make, my response you will receive. Community conversations and for us all encouragement will be found. Write on friends, thank you for your time dear readers. ~ Apryl 

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Begin Again

heart man
soul woman
endless awakenings
resurrected hopes
death becomes the boundary
and suppression the only way
to keep him from coming

or so you try
the strength of my wonderings
through parched lands
water waits beneath the surface
selfless union of
body and soul
I miss you

fragrant curiosities of night
languid motion of wild eyes
as sun from east to west
the star’s inability to pierce
atmospheric, resonant light
time alone will tell
the eternities you have taken

hunger for warmth
though he burns me
neglectful care, invisible
thoughtful joining
of bodies and of lives
begins again with
with the elemental motions

of your arm
thumb across my lips
quench the scorched
begin again my love
man was not made
for solitude

This is Day 3 of #NaPoWriMo and I'm submitting this poem for Open Link Night at DVerse Poet's Pub

Monday, April 2, 2012

Birthday Box

collecting my annual set of fingerprints
emergence of brown, tattered, simulated warmth
dead bead eyes sewn tight
with the remembrance of how I loved her

the intolerable purple ribbon
opens the tourniquet bound ‘round my heart
all at once I have given myself permission to miss her
the Teddy Bear with her voice box trembling

my name, an I love you, a Happy Birthday
and transmuted the fur into flesh has become
taste the chocolate chip applesauce cake
as the rose sent of her presence intoxicates

the lull of quiet, the inanimate item
soberly shoved back into it’s box
violet ribbon of remembrance bound tight
and pushed back into the closet

and I bury my grandmother all over again

This poem is for day 2 of National Poetry Month... I'm aiming for the 30 in 30. I appreciate your time spent reading these words, inspired by my Grandmother. You know you've loved deeply when an absence is deeply felt. I love you Grandma! 

I Loved You Once

I loved you once, and you loved me
with maddening intensity
through your eyes I learned to see
I loved you once, and you loved me
if only I were courageous, yours I’d still be
though her charms are sweet and witty
I loved you once, and you loved me
with maddening intensity

A Triolet posted for #NaPoWriMo. My first of 30 poems that I will post, one for every day in the month of April. I'm looking forward to reading and sharing this poetic plethora of prolific verse with the community of poets who have accepted the challenge to join fellow journeymen as we march across days and pages, write on dear ones.