Leather Back

You come back
checking to see
if something new
is hiding here
for you.

It is.

A little gift,
more leather for the elves,
more makes more,
and so they create.

This poem of thanks
I create for you,
all you,
who come to check
for something new.

It is my little gift,
more raw hide for my readers,
more read more,
my life story beaten down
makes beauty,
and so I create.

Come back.
When you walk in my shoes
it removes the nail
from my heel.

Thank you.

There has to be a time
when breaths will slip again
unnoticed
into a day of laughter,
but today I feel
every one.

I hold a thread
so thin
it is hard to imagine
that it can sew anything
together.

My needle goes in
and out
and in again,
my rhythmic movements
the only thing
I cling to.

If I close my eyes
I can see you
dancing barefoot
and all I want
is to kick off my shoes,
but pins are on my floor.

I will keep on stitching,
in and out
and in again,
my rhythmic movements
the only thing
I cling to.

Beyond Diversity

The silence in the room
was the loudest noise,
each so afraid
to say the wrong thing.

They said nothing.

That said everything.

A Better Use for Our Sticks

My home is shut
to the approaching storm,
boarded up tight,
as you peek in.

I am only beginning
to see myself
through the window
you open.

Prop the window open.
I may not have the strength
to keep it up
alone.

If change
is allowed to blow in,
I must feel
the stinging debris
that hits me.

Help me
stand against the storm
with you.

Nobody Heard You Say That

Grandma says
that sun makes me sneeze
as particles rise
in the heat.

My head turns to the sound
that I thought I heard,
that wisp of a word
in the air.

Grandma says
that I should let it go
as words can never
hurt me.

Your eyes look to the dust
that floats in the light
as it settles
on me.

I am dirty
again
as you have brushed me
off.

(The following poems were written earlier,
but have new meaning when applied to the topic of diversity.)

Behind the Hidden Wall

Behind the hidden wall
a face stares back at me.

We strain as if to look
but neither one can see.

We stained the wall with tears
the hearts on both sides wept.

Our past is bound and tied
in memories still kept.

Our memories will help
to keep us close beside.

We cling to our desire
to reach the other side.

We wait the time away
till face to face we see.

Behind the hidden wall
a face stares back at me.

No More Than You

It is true I have suffered
but so have you
and we cry together
our common tears.

My tears with no more pain
than yours
fall onto the page
as I spill them out.

They land in drops
like Braille to be felt
by you who can’t see
past your own agony.

So I force you to look
at the page where I shout
and in your kindness
you reach out to me.

And in that moment
when you reached for me,
you stopped your crying
and began healing yourself.

If You Want to Scare Me

Cover my windshield
with mist,
rain that morphs
into torrents,
torrents that flood
into fear,
fear that reminds me
of bloody sockets
where eyes
were lunch
for Hitchcock birds.

Leave me to grope
with my arms out straight,
bump into the chair
in the dark.

Darken my room,
cover my cage,
don’t let me see
the crimson water
streaming out of your
eyes tonight.

Your eyes are left
with empty promises.
Don’t let me see
tonight.

Photo by Patricia A. Hawkenson

In the Radiance of Dawn

The fallen leaves
are gauzing thin
as they lay decaying
on the forest floor
and the frost that formed
crystal by crystal
slowly in the night
with the morning
sparkles to become
the jewels of fairies.

She is fluttering
her feminine silhouette
flirtatious against the grass
so distorted
that your eyelashes
can not catch her
but only a gleaming hint
of gossamer wings
delicate and ethereal
is reflecting in the morning’s
slanting sun.

You are tempted
into probing under a leaf
with a broken twig
seeking her soft footprints
but they make no mark
on the fragile leaves
or in the softened grass
and her clandestine space
is too elusive
for your eyes.

She is hiding
veiled and disguised
carefully concealed
and you can only see
the glittering cobwebs
formed by a hungry spider
into a intricate misted mesh
catching careless flies
and morning dew.

She is fooling you
once again obscure
and her transparent laughter
like the soft spoken sound
of a faraway subtle pan-flute
is floating with your
sheer wonderings
in the waking light.

Guest Poet

CEBailey, from the Peevish Penman, writes Odes to macaroni and cheese, her spam folder, people who don’t read her Odes, and other highly significant subjects.  An Oregonian with a degree in Philosophy, she spends most of her time writing, traveling, and parenting her teenage son.

Ode to Nescafe

Yours, a scent saturating the mind
While dreams cling yet like webs
Allure of aroma, never ebbs
Coaxing all unto a world unkind
Those in shambles, drawn down the hall
Humbled by your whistling call
Condensation envelops a kettle now
Hands on handle, we pour, we bow
To cusp the cup, our only thought
The powder dark, from cupboard brought
And spooned does find it’s hollow home
More fecund than farmer’s loam

Gaze on black water, source of life
Wisps of steam that feed the soul
Graze the palette and make us whole
But do not burn! Avoid such strife!
Now, as a lover, with whisper blown
And shivers on the surface shown
Then in consumption two are one
Our morning ritual slowly done
Rhythmic sips from the curved rim
And with each motion, life less grim
Handle handles, fingers and thumb
Consciousness to us does come.

Awake! Alert! Alive once more
Oh, this is what we’re living for
A pungent taste, an aroma keen
This is what “to be” must mean
And an empty cup
Can be filled up
All the world a light with sun
From brown beans of lands unknown
And when the liquid’s gone and done
Inside a raging ember’s grown
Permeates to finger’s tips
Oh, joy encountered everday
The jitters brought by little sips
Our passions roused in everyway
Nescafe, to drink, to love
Source of life from those above

Read more of Carrie’s writings at:  www.peevishpenman.com

I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.

We weren’t gone long,
but the creek
is not the same.

Autumn
laid a healing
gauze of glass
from shore to shore.

Stick in hand,
I break the ice
letting the water
flow cold and fast.

Day after day
the creek and I
battle,
but the edge
where I stand
grows firm.

I should have laid down
my anger.
My stick,
now broken,
is tossed upon the snow.

Come spring,
two pieces thaw

drifting

away.

Long gone.

Her mother told her
it will better in the morning.

Go to sleep, little one.

Comforted, she sleeps.

Morning was not sunnier,
her pain spilling awake
with runny eggs.

He had his fill
of both women,
wife and mother-in law,
cornering him
again.

Go to hell, both of you!

Washing his hands of the matter
he left her to sop up
with a triangle of dry toast.

Vindicated, he walks.