Elisa’s blog

Hello friends. I wanted to post a note. I am moving. I am changing up some things and refocusing and revamping and therefore I am moving my blog, actually I am doing more than that, but that said, I am going over to blogger.

For now I am going to make this friend only and once I have everything in place, I am will post the URL.

Hope this message finds you all well.

On the label of the amber glass bottle,

It says in bold graphic type face:

“Real, genuine, Chicago’s World Fair style,

Imitation bourbon vanilla extract.”

 

A fact which seemed both

Startling and somehow reassuringly

Old-fashioned, in the way that

Walking up hill both ways to school seemed

Both possible and utter nonsense,

 

Or as strange as the actors

In black and white movies,

Wearing brightly colored clothing

And the brightest

Of red lipstick, knowing,

Full well, their audiences

Would only see them in shades of gray

 

So seemed the notion that the liquid

In the amber bottle could be both

Real & genuine and in the style

Of the Chicago’s World’s Fair

 

And somehow imitation bourbon

But beyond the moment’s thoughtful

Pause, I poured the liquid into the silver spoon

And into the mixture of farm fresh eggs and

Sparkling white sugar and real dairy butter,

Which would soon be, what

I hoped a really good cake.

Enterprise

 

 

He takes pigments and turns

them into expressions of sadness,

landscapes of beauty,

storms of rage,

portraits of artists as young men

and seductive views of ladies and their finery

 

or

 

majestic, fantastical scenes from a land far from home;

the need to record less,

than the desire to shape

 

or inspire,

 

the pigments arranged the same,

but the judgment modern

and not sentimental

and the point of view more defined.

 

 

Hollow

 

Dark eyes staring down the ski slope nose,

judging the book by its cover,

knowing that the life blood

of his craft is life

and knowing that his life

is lacking

but he remains too wrapped

in his cloak of superiority

to seek or to accept

the influence of others, easier—

 

better to create road blocks and walls,

to judge without thought,

to rewind & recycle

the cold hollowness,

instead of breaking free,

free to experience the buffet

before his own dark eyes

because it is easier

to judge from his safe tower

than experience

the rich earthly delights seeped in mud.

 

 

Din

 

Lanky, sophisticated pose,

but bland beyond compare,

he walks into the room,

 

delighting in the sighs and cries,

confusing the din with admiration,

when really

 

it is a cloud of critical malaise;

a boredom or

perhaps something more sinister,

 

for long is the memory

of the wronged and scorned compatriot,

as long as the horizon,

 

which taunts the sailor

adrift in the wide ocean,

because as the days increase,

 

so does the list of grievances

until one day,

the din is replaced with silence,

 

which fills the room,

creating a fog,

which even the most self absorbed,

cannot help but comprehend.

 

 

Balloon

 

Sitting hunched over a scotch and soda,

shoulders curving like the Alps,

 

he sits, stone still,

dim blue eyes,

unfocused and cloudy

as if his physical being

is rooted like a tree;

 

while his mind, has floated

off like a child’s lost balloon,

drifting further and further

into the distance,

far above the trees,

 

until it is but a dot in the sea of blue,

and somehow,

in time with the drifting,

the slope deepens and his empty head

sinks closer and closer to the glass in his hand,

until his forehead rests on the bar,

 

upon his hands,

glass to his right and

soon he snores,

counting time until his mind

returns and he walks out of the bar,

crumpled like a deflated balloon.

 

On the roof of the impossibly tall building,

 peering over the ledge,

 watching the cars

 move on the street below,

like ants at a summer picnic,

 

he paused

 

 and contemplated the ache in his heart,

which today overshadowed the one,

which resided

 behind his eyes and pulsed,

but as he peered over  the edge,

 

he wondered

 

was it truly heart ache,

merely indigestion or

a heart attack, the constriction

 of blood flow causing

 a series of Charlie horse

 seizures of the muscle,

 the muscle which pumped

 in time to his breath,

or was this ache,

born of the knife,

the knife which pieced

his heart at the same time

 

 he wielded

 

 just such a knife,

only it had not been a knife,

it had been a boomerang,

which was sharp on both ends,

knifelike, but foreign to his eyes,

which had inflicted a knifes

damage all the same,

but then turned point and plunged

into his heart,

cutting deeper than he ever imagined

 and leaving a wound,

which never seemed to heal,

even when he sought

to douse the burn

or exchange it

with the burn in his gut,

the one not purchased

 with water or milk

 nor soothed by their

cooling properties,

this new burn the product

of the empty bottles,

and the exchange seemed

 to pacify, if only for a time,

until now, as

 

 he stood

 

stock still and peered over

the edge at the ant path below,

only then did the throbbing

 and pounding cease,

for a moment,

as he gulped his final breath

 

 and flew.

For R

Rushing to the bathroom, clutching my towel

Fitfully commanding & embracing now

My chance, my shot

A half hour between sisters is all I’ve got
 

Bolting the door

Sliding the vanity chair across the floor

So ready to give chase

Untold agony, epiphany, ecstasy at the end of this race
 

Do you think, did you hear

I am sure he does, I bet he has

Ew, man how could that be

That will never be me
 

Now safely hidden

I will my flesh to rise as bidden

Quick, fast, slow

On, and, on, an On I go
 

Red palms, pursed lips

Rushing, grasping finger tips

Stark cold, sterile whiteness

The mirror my silent knowing witness
 

Do you think, did you hear

I am sure he does, I bet he has

Ew, man how could that be

That will never be me
 

Heart beat up in my throat

Ragging current, rocking my boat

Fighting, seeking, reach that goal

They said it would steel my soul
 

Gasping in surprise & relief

Time steals moments, like a thief

Shaken, looking at my unfamiliar reflection

Oh my, broken but claiming the insurrection
 

Do you think, have they heard?

I am sure HE does, I know he has

Oh man how could it be

Today that HE became me…

This poem was written for my daughter, in response to a writing prompt at a workshop I attended. I turned in another poem at the workshop, but this one is not less special...

******

Beneath the waning twilight, returns

a soft music, a soothing lullaby,
sung by crickets and other night creatures,
filling the pastel pink princess room,
complete with fairy wings, gliding butterflies
and jeweled tiaras, gems in the
crown of the rich lacy canopy,
which sheltered the sleeping cherub
and her most treasured friend,
a bear with a worn nose
and bruised ears,
whose fierce plushness
chased the bogey man
from the room

Night, after night, after night.

I am not dead, although that might make me more famous, or infamous!

No I have been busy, having spent a week at a writers workshop and on vacation with the family. I have also been taking a blog vacation, considering my options and where I want to take my poetry and writing.

The freelance side of things has been a challenge of late also and I think I have resolved some issues in my mind there also.

So look for some new material to appear soon and rest assured, I am still alive and kicking.

Another wonderful issue of the Naked Sunfish is out. Go check it out. I wrote about my issues with food, after a recent bout of feeling poorly.

Little bits of broken glass
glitter like diamonds upon the path
sparkling in a moonlight bath

Across the clearing - a figure comes into view
Hidden in shadows - and an eerie blue hue
Saluting the night birds and the moon on cue

Removing her cloak, bending low
She scoops up a handful, clutching the glittering bits like snow
Allowing the crimson tears to flow

Tight in her grasp, crystal rubies gleam
Crystalline rivers down her cheeks stream
Diamonds in the moonlight, rubies in hands, such is the scene

Speckles of crimson, dot her once snowy dress
Wide eyed she is obvious to the mess
The wind in her hair, a welcome lovers caress

To the clearing, drawn by her anguished cry
appears a mysterious creature, with a soulful eye
As if drawn by the moon, so willing to comply

Running towards the center of the clearing
The creature nearing
In the moonlight the surface a mirror appearing

First her cloak and now her dress removed
Hands drag a red river down her arms, soothed
The wolf, this creature, his cleaver eyes confused

Mirror of the moon smooth & calm
Its waters an icy balm
Ripples with the touch of stained palms

Then in the blink of an eye
Water reaches her creamy thigh
Her cries now an inaudible sigh

Deeper, Deeper she propels forward
The water drinks its reward
Grace, she sinks as a thrusting sword

The center of the mirrored surface
Ripples stilled, the restoration's slow purpose
Waters deep and calm become her peace purchased