The Making Of A History

 

Vacation Culebra

I can remember a warm hand
pressing on my belly
fingers like predictions
reaching
winding their way
forming into my future

I was still un-written
a white page
waiting for its epic poem
to adorn
with rainbow watercolor skies
swelling blue oil seas
fertile green forests
plump with fruit
pixie dust and dreams
of lips being kissed ruby red
sealed with white satin promises

Different authors penned my narrative
each hand bore its distinctive cursive blue and black liquid letters
an inked history
filled my book
some pages tore
shred
I let them fly into the wind

Others I folded
tucked away
an account
a tapestry of tangled kisses
broken hearts
miscarriages of desire
lost souls
ripening on the vine
falling to the earth
passion love hate anger joy sadness loss
chapters in my book

My life
reveals itself
in the warm curve
of my hip
the soft give of my tummy
the arch of my lower back
against my lover’s hand
as he presses into
my core

Our Vacation in Culebra

 

 

The Artist’s Wake

I wrote a poem
about a mermaid
framed in wood
her tail shimmering
arcing her forward in
swirls and swishes
of oiled water
in a liquid world

I look at her
hanging on my office wall
while I type an email
answer the phone
cancel a check
pay a bill
I wonder about her creator
I wonder where she swims
I wonder who she breast strokes, butterflies and crawls away from
I wonder what waits
floating
buoyant beacon
lighting her course

What wish
bobs on the surface
to be transformed
from a dream

For what requiem
has she scattered
ashes and rose petals
what pieces of herself
dust the canvas

The memory of a lover’s touch
in the shadow of a milky breast
the soft kiss of a first born daughter
in the auburn curl of fairy hair
the salty betrayal of a husband’s indifference
in the siren’s enchanted ethereal train

What soul
sits watching on the shore
as dreams liquefy
in the wake
and the Mermaid swims

 

 

 

August 16, 2012