the T of tree
Forest of Desolation
the T of tree
Poetry
La Marseillaise
My dead fathered wandered from his bed
complaining of the cold.
His bed, too empty,
needed my mother for warmth.
I told him, then, return to your bed,
warm it ready for her.
My mother had fallen down.
I lifted her, naked, onto the marriage bed
and ran through the dark night house
seeking her fresh cotton gown.
Children ran through the corridors,
laughing, hiding and seeking,
when they should have been sleeping,
but I let them play
When the blackbird sang in the morning
we went out to feed the horses,
the beautiful, lovely horses,
their warm breath steamed in the air
as the night watchman strolled away.
The courtyards smelled of new-mown hay
in this city of ancient archways.
The theatre people were waking up
and lighting breakfast fires.
In the hall, behind closed doors,
the band tuned up to play.
They played La Marseillaise.
I walked through the city that morning.
I smiled to myself, at the gift of imagination,
and the comfort it always brings,
as the starlings deafened my ears.
a micropoem with a double meaning
now that i found myself
everyone else has gone
Landay
Shangri-Lah (landay couplet)
you are out of reach, away so far,
i set out, on a hopeless journey, to Shangri-Lah
*******
Landay
A form of folk poetry from Afghanistan. Meant to be recited or sung aloud, and frequently anonymous, the form is a couplet comprised of 22 syllables. The first line has 9 syllables and the second line 13 syllables. Landays end on “ma” sounds and rhymes and treat themes such as love, grief, homeland, war, and separation.
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(This one is not anonymous – I wrote it)
masked by towels
she neatly folds
the his and hers towels,
a wedding gift
embroidered with flowers,
hung
in the steam of the shower,
steam that obscures the mirror,
dripping with infidelities
no washing will ever erase
presenting a mask to their guests,
but most of all
to themselves
Never Lost
Does the path through the woods feel my feet?
Does it care I am there, not lost?
I never sat down beside it and asked it
that question.
I only know it’s there,
seeming to beckon to me
through the trees
when I stray.
Whether the path notices me
or not,
I am still walking along it,
thankful,
I will never be
lost in the dark.
The Masquerade
she is dressed like an angel
she is so perfect
he thinks
she may sprout wings
flying away in a moment
a heart is embroidered on the cuff
of his well-worn sleeve
it’s enough that she sees it
examines the finely made stitches
and smiles
he sees her eyes
clear, gentle, kind
as she flutters her swan feathered fan
across her lovely face,
a beating wing
allowing a glimpse of her mind
he wears a masque
his eyes, not well hidden,
bewitch her, and keep her there
the music is enchanting
they dance in a dream
tentative touching
they begin to open their hearts
in this harmonious dance
all is agreement
that this trance is worth keeping
preserving, defending, completing
even for life
in the morning
the music has stopped
the masques are removed
he bows, revealing his face,
he sees all that shows
beneath her smile
she curtsies with grace
they move away slowly
one unwilling step at a time
But it was only a bubble – pop!
This day was supposed to be special
I foolishly saw it that way
I didn’t expect it to be special
for anyone else but me
that’s selfish perhaps
but it could have been nice
every day could be special
every day could be nice
if we all thought twice
before we burst others bubbles
with a blunt device
It was only a bubble
– pop!
Frozen.
Now here before me I see
the uncrossable bridge,
a drawbridge raised beyond.
It’s made of ice.
On the other side,
holding on to imagined hurt,
clinging to thoughts,
counting,
saying nothing to me,
quivering in rage or sadness,
confused perhaps,
a victim to perception sits
in visions I cannot change.
I cannot know what she thinks.
She won’t allow me across.
I watch as I stand.
I can’t reach out,
hold
or help.
Locked out.
This is often the worst,
the worst of the worst of all.
Misunderstanding
breathes in the silence
between us,
in unspoken words
through closed doors,
no air.
This is injustice.
Heartless.
A vacuum.
A chasm.
A void.
Unwise.
Silence, a solid structure
of ancient deeply grained timbers,
sealed and barred,
a simple torture device
that stands on immovable stone.
Left with a hard decision to make,
for myself and how I feel,
the choice between anger
or sadness or nothing,
nothing at all.
I could ignore it again.
In nothingness
there’s no pain.
On days like this
I would willingly give up
on words
or thinking at all.
I can’t help myself either.
I am frozen,
emptily sad.
A Minstrels Art
To the tune of Midnight, performed by Loreena Vacano on Archlute
fortune favours those who strive
in darkness still to see the light
always keeping hope alive
as they journey on the path
though our troubles bring us pain
causing hurt and leaving scars
in time our hearts will heal again
when love is there to make us wise
not in judgement, nor in strife
will we find our perfect dance
with heartstrings tuned we play our song
bringing notes both sweet and strong
that reverberate in harmony to life
all is lovely, all is joy
as we turn and slowly spin
in life’s repeating endless dance
threading out and turning in
spinning dreams and mending all your hearts
The Dreaming Path 