Fermented

Homogeneous, the soul is not,
Contaminants may surface
After being stirred
What has not been dealt with
Sinks to the bottom of the abyss
Waiting to ferment once again.
Facing a mass being more insurmountable
Than a slurry of rubble
Better to spread the hurt,
Break it into palatable remnants,
Boil them down, let the volatiles escape
Leave the gravities in the remains of the mind
And own them in every part of your being

Response to "Gravity"

I'm so excited! 

I wrote on a Psychology Today web article comment thread that was discussing grief and humor.  Read the article here.  http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/beautiful-grief/201107/twinkle-mirth-in-mourning  I shared my "Gravity" poem with author Cheryl Eckl, author of "A Beautiful Death: Facing the Future with Peace" and here is a link to my original poem and her comments:

http://braincloudmusings.blogspot.com/2011/07/gravity.html
(Background info - I lost my husband in April 2008 suddenly.  I am an engineer and new to poetry to help me process grief, but never considered myself any good at writing.  I was mentioning to her that maybe I should journal too.)

Your poem is exquisite.

"Her left hand weighs heavy with absent gold rings..."

So very powerful. I still look at my left hand or feel the absence of the gold ring I finally realized had to go...  I am convinced that the natural impetus to grieve and the natural urge to create are sister emotions that carry us through to whatever new normal eventually emerges from the process. For me, writing has been and remains my life-line.

You inspire me to become more poetic. I've needed to journal to gain more clarity. The engineers I know are very clear people already. To me, your poetry reflects a beautiful depth.

There are no "shoulds" in grief or creativity. Follow your heart in whatever mode it chooses at the moment. The key, as I have come to understand it, is to continue in the flow of expression because it is in that ongoing movement that we find healing.

Christmas morning

Java dreams wake me
Sparkly lights, mountains of gifts
Spell Christmas morning!

Corvallis

Grey skies misting down
On green mossy branches and
Kin forlorn and blue

Twisted

A hawk is perched on a twisted branch of winter’s tree
Peering into the eyes of what lies beyond
The sky crying atop surface objects, while an inner deeper
Thirst goes unacknowledged
Quenched for the moment, lying
Dormant and brooding
As a cello, singing my heart’s song

Savoir-Faire

The self-absorbed masses zipping by on bikes, on foot,
And in crowded rooms buzzing about nothing
My flesh is present; my mind hiding deep in dank catacombs
As a phantom puppeteer pulls my strings

Maneuvering in social circles as giraffe’s first steps
On knobby kneed stick legs willing them to balance
Fighting against gravity to stand tall
Urging every ounce of gumption to move forward

The underground labyrinth my safe haven,
Molasses speech dulled by the journey to the surface
My once polished persona suffers, though the soul cares not;
Only working to protect my pearl immersed within

Longing to belong, but will no longer melt myself
To fill and fit the mold, as Savoir-Faire girls do
Time passes, injunctively cave dwelling for now
A moratorium of me

Arborration

Satin, lace, and countless embraces fading as the seasons do
Mystical fog billows and envelopes, shrouding what’s light
Shadows cast, muddying everything in its path
Discernable not are the undulations and palette of her leaves
Roots fighting to sprawl wide beneath the earth
A patina encroaches upon the bark of yesterday
Yet she stands tall,
Biding her place, hoping again to be tickled by the sun