no. 100

i have star eyes

no pupils, just a cosmos under each fluttering lid

exegesis of existence in multiple attempts

at last, perhaps perfected, so do as you’re bid

keep your heart sequestered behind that fence

but hold fast your gaze, rivet it on mine

i’ll show you all, including things divine

 

i have star eyes

but please don’t paint me hopeful or naive

galaxies that spin within are ancient, gnarled

strange dreaded wisdom plagues without reprieve

the web of knowledge woven, fibers marled

so learn from me and take what i impart

and use it, build up walls around your heart

 

i have star eyes

their beauty no doubt fools you every time

the twinkle deep inside is just a sun snuffed out

a system swallowed when still in its prime

no worry, from its death another will soon sprout

be wary, these star eyes are dangerous and wild

protect your heart so tender, sweet and mild

(written 29 may 2018)

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no. 99

why must we write about sunsets?

i have seen a multitude of sunsets

but none so beautiful as the one which i attempted and failed to capture

i wanted to hold it hostage

just a moment more before the blinding orange orb

melted into the black shroud of deciduous trees

hastily i grabbed all manner of artistic implements

graphite, ink pencils, crayons

they all betrayed me, or was it simply that

my brain-directed hands were not deft enough

to record my eyes’ pained delight?

within minutes those traitorous tools were useless

and now i realize that memory may prove

a far more powerful device despite its fragility

for i have used it to record that sunset

i can conjure it up behind black-walled lids

molten light dripping slowly

blue and surprising palest peach above

then a hint of yellow to red-orange

to orange-pink playing peek-a-boo through

the frilled leaves waving

goodnight

(written 28 may 2018)

one hundred, of sorts

dearest readers,

i’m closing-in on no. 100, although it’s not my 100th post, nor is it my 100th poem on this blog.  but in my catalog of poetry, i’ve categorized mundane musings separately from my other poetry.  so really, i guess it’s 100 poems PLUS thirty-six mundane musings, PLUS a couple of poems classified as ‘conversations’.  and of course, my short fiction.  all in the span of about six months!

i can’t tell you all what an accomplishment this is for me.  and yes, i’m brazenly tooting my own horn here.  since i started this blog last december, i’ve been posting a piece of writing almost every day, with the exception of two short hiatuses.  writing a piece of my heart daily is something i’ve never been able to do before–journals, diaries, creative writing–they all fell to the wayside after a few days or weeks when i got too busy or didn’t feel the impetus to pick up a writing implement or sit at the computer.

thank you all for staying with me here.  i know i’ve made a few thank-you posts here already, but i must take a moment again to revel in the thought that all of you out there have helped to make me accountable to my writing goal.  and this goal was simply to find the confidence and strength to share pieces of myself without embarrassment or worry.

cheers!

mariahv (hupsutupsu)

mundane musing the thirty-sixth

my skin

 

is not something to be eaten or drunk

like cocoa or café au lait.

it is not like the brown bark or nuts of a tree.

my hair is not woolly, not frizzy,

not nappy-like-less-than-good.

 

sure, you may call her

peaches and cream,

his hair is carroty,

or strawberry blonde, or corn silk,

possessed of apple-red cheeks.

 

not me.

you may address me in a manner

unfit for consumption

but full of reverence.

(written 13 april 2016)

no. 98

Return

The return is always quickest.  I remember this from childhood days spent on long-distance road trips

Sun-bleached asphalt and faded reflective paint unfurling behind and ahead under new tires

The smell of freshly washed and vacuumed automobile all tuned up just for the journey

Gazing out of the windows

Observing as clean and shiny and fresh slowly transmogrified into bug-spattered and dusty and musty

The hours seemed to drag on so I’d sleep, head cocked to the side and mouth wide open

The destination just one more hour away no matter what time it was

Bolting for the rest-stop

The arrival was unimportant.  What we did once there has dissolved in the soup of time

We must have enjoyed ourselves because I never anticipated the return

I just wished for the freedom of the unknown for just a while longer, long enough to tire of it

Repacking the car

The return is always quickest.  It’s just a trick of the mind, really, the familiarity of the road

The forest-lined highways seemed to greet us genially, like they knew we’d been there before

Are all journeys like this, I wonder, now that I look backward in time

Saying hello to home

The arrival was unimportant.  No fanfare, just fact; the daily grind would resume tomorrow

Clothes dumped unceremoniously into the washer as we searched for things left behind

But somewhere there, perhaps in the comfort of my own bed, I was glad of the return.

(written 23 may 2018)

no. 97

the question of the white elephant

i believe

the conundrum of artistry is this:

am i an artist if i surreptitiously create

or

do i become one in the display?

i am secretive,

clasping my treasure

jealously with the iron fingers

of embarrassment.

to share or not?

can one be an artist

if the art is never gifted?

perhaps mine will be

the white elephant?

(written 28 april 2017)

 

no. 96

sometimes

sometimes, in my quietest of moments

when i’m making the porridge

or cleaning the fridge

that’s when everything makes sense;

thoughts come together, an amalgamation

life is more than forward processions

joy runneth over in simple decisions

breath finds center, no suffocation;

floating, only tethered to the ground by my shoes

the sights and sounds of the everyday

i take them in and give them stay

in my home of a heart, right next to my blues

 

sometimes, in silent spaces filled with thought

when i inhale the perfume of a full-blown lilac

the sun bright sky a dome of blue shellac

existence wraps around me, a comfortable knot;

everything makes sense, no tragedy

essence of peace distilled in a precious drop

it will water seeds of happiness, the only crop

worth the pursuit of life’s husbandry;

in the cultivation of such momentary bliss

i quietly observe tendrils’ stretch towards suns’ rays

shriveled leaves of hopes long left to perish

alongside sturdy stems of achievements cherished

 

sometimes, immersed in moving meditation

when wandering limbs complete daily rituals

or the spirit requires soul-nourishing victuals

that’s the time of silent celebration;

everything is found in a single breath

all’s abuzz, the body tingling,

goose-flesh rises and blood is singing

at once joy and sadness, life and death;

the duality of these sometimes that i find

has an overwhelming and liberating effect

i will not hide from it, i will not decathect

i will attend it, grow it strong within my mind

(written 25 may 2018)