City Lights

The stars are so pretty right now. I can hardly see them through the city lights, but there they are: sparkling like bits of glitter on midnight-black construction paper.

Remember when life was simpler? When all we had to do was look up, make a wish, and somehow we knew – we believed – it would come true?

I’ve been sitting on a bench at this bus stop, doing a little stargazing, and it occurred to me: What if I just hopped on the next bus? Just…went, no matter where it was going? I know this isn’t “allowed.” It can’t be because, for heaven’s sake, it’s a weeknight and I have responsibilities.

But what if I did it, anyway? What would happen? Would it disrupt the space-time continuum? Would the world as we know it come to an end?

I doubt it. In fact, I’m pretty sure civilization would carry on, regardless of what I did or didn’t do tonight; and, ya’ know, I really am tempted to find out the hard way where this next bus leads…

My Joyful Woe

Skies of glass
Of dewdrop stains
A satin sash and
Window panes
Your ghost is hollow
Haunting past
It longs to haunt me
Make it last
Make it whisper
Call my name
Blessed be
The blessed saved
Joyful woe
I revel there
I revel yonder
Spirit bare

Written June 28, 2013
as I reached a crossroads in my life

bright trail
Skies of Glass

Summer Ends

It’s not really the end of the summer (thankfully!), but I’m sharing this poem because I wrote it around he the same time as the writerly musing I just posted on Monday.

I wrote these two pieces at the very end of a wonderful summer, as the days grew shorter and cool weather approached, but I’m posting them now (in the spring of 2020) because it seemed appropriate in light of the COVID pandemic.

Because all seasons, no matter how good or bad, do come to an end.


Lovers, brothers
Movers, shakers
Authors, singers
Movie-makers
Crissing, crossing
Even lines
Waters breach
The sands of time
Hope is lost
Lost is found
Seasons shake
The shaky ground
Calming tides
That come again
People change
And summer ends

butterfly

written August 28, 2012
as the seasons of life (and of my life)
began to shift

I Taste Spring

I miss traveling. I miss the rush of the airport, the excitement of getting my passport stamped, of exploring new places and reacquainting myself with old haunts.

Most of all, I miss the beautiful, wonderful people in those countries. I miss them a lot.

When I came across this writerly musing of mine, I decided to share it. Because even though I wrote it while standing on the cusp of autumn, and even though it’s about one specific country I longed to see again (Croatia), it was inspired by my heart to travel during a time, a season, when I simply couldn’t. Just like now.

I taste spring.

Weird, isn’t it? Being that fall is right around the corner? Maybe it’s the humidity, kissing my skin as a cool breeze rustles my hair. Maybe it’s this milky-looking sky with its soft gray clouds that whisper promises of rain to come.

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just want it to be spring so badly that my imagination has overloaded my senses and tricked me into believing I’m in a different season. Because that’s what I want more than anything: for it to be May, for my bag to be packed, and for my heart to be pounding to the roar of a jet engine.

My tongue is thick with the sweet tang of travel. I long for the anticipation of departure…and arrival. I crave the rush I’ll get when I behold the Adriatic Sea with my own eyes, rather than through a computer screen. I ache to experience – to feel – the buzz of Diocletian’s Palace while I dance to the melody of Slavic voices around me.

I taste spring. I’m hungry for it, and it’s not coming fast enough.

Bric-a-Brac

At midnight
A flower blooms
Petals lifting
To the moon
Like a bird
Who sings her song
Sweetly, swiftly
For too long
Too long for
She’s out of breath
A kiss held on
‘Til her love’s spent
She is me
And me is I
And my eye sees me
Left behind
A heart not found
In fiction’s fact
Encased in glass
Like bric-à-brac

-Written July 3, 2012
as my life began to transition
from one season to the next

The sun must go down and the night prevail (for a time) before a new day dawns.