Literature Lost

Sometimes I feel the beginnings of a poem forming,

its baby bird beak pecking at the shell of my skull and

I ignore it.

Sometimes I see the shape of an interesting concept or

a perfectly phrased metaphor forms suggestively –

a succulent slice of savory language, or

a clever narrative might orchestrate itself artfully or

an untried avant garde style of self-expression will

flirt effectively with my puzzle – loving mind and

I will delight in the idea but

allow it to evaporate from my consciousness.

Sometimes the person inspired

wants only to be rooted in the present,

to simply live and experience aliveness

solely through the immediate input

of every one of the fleshy senses.

Many poems and stories

have gone undocumented

in favor of me taking the time

to smell my husband’s skin.

H. Dare

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Ripe With Love

Brake lights filter through

a mist wet windshield

turning the world into

a pointillism painting.

Verbally abstinent, we ride

in the metal womb of my sedan.

His hand rests on my middle age thigh,

a gesture more tender than sexual.

We are growing older. And closer.

Our bodies tandem,

 our minds isolated,

the radio imports unfamiliar symphonies;

instruments choreographing a sound ballet.

I am content.

I could not fabricate

peace of this kind without him.

This extraordinary ordinary

we broke ourselves apart

to build our selves together.

What satisfaction I found

once finally willing

to work beyond passion

towards compassion.

This mental climax of comfort

is deeper, more redeeming

than any religion.

I am ripe with love.

South, then east,

now descending on 56,

homeward, spraying slick on sheer cliffs,

tagging roadside rocks

with our anonymous signature in tire spit,

indecipherable from the others

but as holy to me

as the heat from his palm.

Let the whole world know it

or none but us.

We were here,

silent,

ripe with love.

H. Dare

1

Hide Me

Hide me in the woods my love.

Tuck me among the trees.

Swaddle me in sticks and ferns.

Batten me with breeze.

Hide me in the woods my dear,

Deep, where no one knows,

Where clocks are angled shadows,

Where no human ever goes.

Hide me in the woods my sweet.

Wrap me in the firs.

Lash me with the briers there.

Fill my hair with burs.

Poison me with ivy.

Drown me in the brook.

Let me give back all I have

For all we ever took.

Hide me in the woods darling and

Don’t come back to look.

H.Dare

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INTERIM

Days lay down,

disconnected                           from                       one                    another,

shuffled cards.

No storyline or heroine

here in February.

All meaning less and less.

Don’t know if it’s accumulation –

heavy five month pile –

dense, diminished days, diluted

light, warmth,

leached from my marrow

in time with the sky.

I’m

parchment dry,

brittle paper doll,

bloodless because sunless

shriveled spirit,

desiccated sorrow,

Pinch me – I’ll crumble like ash

at last

mental agility evaporates,

no thing matters.

Two weeks passed plodding,

I trudge through existing,

hungover from darkness,

dehydrated, de-luminated,

mind on its withered limbs limps

this marathon interim,

28 days

between snow and spring.

H. Dare

tired-runner

 

 

One Path to Therapy…

She travels to the cupboard and finds no pills to spare.

Upstairs then she would wander and find there naught but stair.

So into then the kitchen for an herbal remedy,

But there again, no tincture that could ever comfort she.

To the apothecary, to the druggist she marched fast.

Could they perhaps procure for her the cure she sought at last?

Oh no! The store was closed and Oh calamity felt near,

For fight the storm she could not do that grew between each ear.

The therapists, she’d heard said, for a dollar or an alm,

Could aid her better in this than what she took from her palm.

Now she is there driven for her mounting mental ills,

As all to be found anywhere are spent bottles of pills.

HS 12.23.2016

Surviving Now

How do we bear it?

The loss of each year and

the weight of those coming?

The tragedy of knowing and

the tight-lipped unknown?

How fragile the peace we hold

moment to moment.

Fence well about it,

this survivable now.

Here in that stronghold,

our breath for a blanket,

is comfort eternal,

the past and the future

held in place and at bay.

One can endure

a most perilous present

if life lived

and not yet lived

are not in the way.

HS 12.22.2016

Mud Puddles

How am I not to write of you?
Or this?
This mess?
I’m standing in your mud puddle again.
You’ve been stomping in it
My whole life.
You raised me here and
Splattered my white dress.
I never got out those stains.
I outgrew the frock
But I never could discard it.
I tore it up and used it in a quilt
With other outgrown things
And hung it inside on my wall
To remind myself that ruination
Can be remade into beauty.
I will take it down
When I come in from your storm.
If you come inside too
I will use it
Maybe to wrap you in
And certainly
To wipe your dirt
Off my feet.

HS 12.5.2016

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