Vacillating between what I want to be and
Giving in to what I know I am:
Creation of unequaled grace, dancing
Shoulder to shoulder with angels bent
On keeping me at wing's length and
Shining the shoes of the enemy with
Lace-trimmed rags discarded years ago
By a different Me.
Here I am, teetering on the edge of
The rest of my life, wanting to
Survive so badly it makes my
Teeth hurt and my eyes cough and
My toes twitch--
Is it fear that keeps me from accepting Reality?
Or am I shutting off in self-defense of
An even greater disappointment?
I am a scared lump of moss on a
Rotting tree stump... cannot turn my
Medicine into candy or even think straight.
Homesick for my ocean,
What am I doing to myself?
I have been walking backwards lately;
I am dizzy and confused.
If I stop dreaming, I'm through--but
If I keep dreaming, I'm through.
Do I vacillate eternally,
Waxing eloquent in my own mind... or
Do I open my eyes and start walking blindly?
Darkest fantastaical minds live in shadows
Cast by those not nearly as bright.
My lightest hour is your dimmest day...
Do you still wanna come out and play?
Lost inside a
False idea of what my
World should be,
I seldom see
The irony of how quite
Tranquil it really
Is here in the life
Where I am living. I know
That if I stopped my
Running through this woods
Long enough to hear myself
Breathing, I would see
That I've been living
In Serenity for far
Longer than I thought.
My path has not been
Empty, nor futile, nor bad--
Only unique, as
Much as can be (I
Suppose) expected of such
A blind poet girl.
Somewhere between smoking opium
And learning how to knit,
My soul did a dance with
Darkness and was instantly enamored.
Have you ever danced with
Someone you lived with in the
Womb of the Universe?
I am constantly reminded by the
Opera singers in my head
That the light at the end of
Most people's tunnel is a
Shadow compared to my fire.
Just the other day,
I spent eternity playing with my
Aura--watching the indigo
Flame twist around my fingers
Knitting a pattern as
Familiar as the lines on my hands.
"Old friend, how I've missed you,"
I whispered to the light, and it
Kissed my palm like a long-lost lover.
The Wise Old Woman inside me
Sits for hours in the moonlight
Braiding the hair of her grandchildren
And telling them stories of their mother.
:Once," she said, "when I was as old as the ocean,
A thousand needles pricked my flresh,
And the blood beaded around my
Neck, and my wrists, and my ankles
Like poppy jewelry, and when the air
Turned frigid, the poppies froze
And became rubies,
Glittering darkly in the
light of my father's irises."
The plaited hair of the youth
Shone like burnished gold, and
The Wise Old Woman smiled.
"Whenever you see a poppy, or a
Ruby, or a drop of blood,
Remember your origins," she said.
They yearned to ask why,
But knew they'd get no answer.
Somewhere between dying
And being born,
My soul kissed the universe;
Soon after, it was impaled by the
Sword of an unknown god,
And ever since,
We have bled.
Email me with your work and I'll see about getting them
up here.
Yes I am silly
And full of dreams, and
Yes I am lonely.
I am filled up with longing,
Filled up with nothing, and
Yes I am hollow.
Oh such games we
Engage in,
Only to be mocked by the
Realists right back into
Our caves,
Where we squat and
Rediscover fire
While the rest of the
World dances in the rain,
Playing as long as
Their spindly legs
Will let them before
Retiring under the rocks
Built up to support all their
Heavy hearts.
(c) 2005 copyrighted by
Dana Beth Stenholtz