I never was in so much trouble as that time I vanished down the tracks, losing sight of the afternoon, small shoes balanced on the ties, walking into evening between the rails even at that age I could name goldenrod and dog rose, Queen Anne's lace and sumac - could pick out moths from butterflies … Continue reading the traveler, starting young
startled stranger, you may be wondering how it is that quite suddenly what very much appears to be nothing other than a slightly misshapen pumpkin (yes, take a gentle whiff) pancake has turned up, or rather fallen, onto the stiff blue wool shoulder of your winter coat it's just that the crows were hungry and … Continue reading extra cinnamon
the good days Freude, are those days that schoener Goetterfunken in spite of the noise Tochter aus Elysium, the naggings wir betreten the sagging weight feuertrunken, of worry, responsibility Himmlische, the ignorance dein Heiligtum. and uncarefulness deine Zauber of others binden wieder the sometimes blatant was der Mode disregard, disrepair Schwert geteilt of how the … Continue reading Joy (repost)
almost like night, eyes closed, outside, crusted snow protests beneath some dog's feet I admit it's possible the sun hasn't reached me yet © Sarah Whiteley
How introverted poet/artists protest...
I’m just learning this morning of Cynthia’s passing. She was immensely talented and I’m so grateful for her support over the years. She was kind, and lovely, and I will miss her little corner of the ‘net most terribly.
Rest well, dear Cynthia!
The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.
I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.
In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.
It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.
“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”
.
.
THE MUSE
the crows come again, perch within the remnants of summer - turned to rust and rue; they've come again with their own narrative, their inscrutable truths - strike their own lines against November's sky, while we try blindly (futile) to navigate stolen darknesses; fixed, and non-migratory - roosting in huddled groups for the long and … Continue reading the winter roost
I am a bewilderment of limbs - a profusion of uncomfortable truths - and as a result, am ungainly beside you all twisted fingers and benumbed tongue but lit up inside by fireflies © Sarah Whiteley A repost from July 2013. MJH - one of the first pieces I ever wrote about you, and you … Continue reading attraction (repost)
thinking of those days behind the wheel, cat stretched across the dash, exemption stretched out along straight, gray highways trying now not to swallow that hook, though lately it seems the city hates me, shoves me toward her swilled-to-the-gill gutters back then, there was the bag kept in the back and it didn't matter that … Continue reading *
the waiting creeps up from feet, passes hips, submerges wrists in slippery uncertainty naturally, the ear strains to catch the subtle shift of air that marks departure no one ever sings through the smoke of staying - love and smoke both only ever go sometimes you get so caught up in the leaving, all kisses … Continue reading the waiting
