Stories

We are surrounded by them;
cloaked so tightly about us
the words soak into our skins,
text becomes a part of our bones
and we cannot help but to weave
our own,
for ourselves
for our children
for the lovers at our sides
and for strangers at our gate

yet it is not enough to
be surrounded by the rhythm
of words spoken or read on page
but as hunters we pursue
words on paper right
into our lives
or
as gathers of tales told
from mouths joyous
to share and reveal
plots that are not
of us, of we

for past words rise phoenix
to generation and generation
to them that search
and gather, to those
who weave and display;
truths become legend.
myths become truths.
And the rhythm of all
bump along, tag along
in a cycle
we construe...

and we are a melting pot
of this infinite mystery
for some of us refuse
to live out our own text
and parasite another
until difference is no more;
merge and become one

and we are a mosaic
of this unending riddle
for we cherish within
the beginnings of the self
both the borrowed and unique
and continue to strive
in our fragmented selves

stories become us and we become stories
intwined and never ending is the tale of our birth and death

you've become books on shelves
though your bones are long gone
and the learned ones of this age
yawn, skim yours thoughts
As your followers
attempt to play the Frankenstein
and fleshen your words
as though you were there -
reading to them your wit
and your wisdom...

And here I sit,
among the rows
facing the stacks,
writing a poem
about poems
and swimming
among the titles
before my eyes,
wondering if
I should pause
and pull
any book
and briefly,
for a moment,
be captured
by the momentum
of a poet
and their attempts
to relieve
the boredom as I
go among the rows
and stand before
the stacks

book covers

As they say and
continue to do so
"judge not a book
by its cover"

but

I am captivated
rather by
the titles that
hook themselves
into the flesh
of my brain,
causing at times
to lift my
right hand to
the spine while
the left hand
slaps it and say
"get back to work"

a prose painting of a moment

Cranberries in hand
I stand upon
the stool
And survey the
faces of my domain,
faces that have been
translated into print
with eyes that
never blink yet
read the reader
leaving imprints
of self upon their
fleshy minds

(causing these victims
to translate more faces
into worded pictures)

jump out,
make the leap
across the
chasm that
separates
us both

perhaps...
I was separated
from you on that
day when we were
made two when
once we were one,
perhaps...

nonetheless
we are still of
two minds
and I cannot
read yours

you seem not
to speak, or
choose not to
speak, I know
not which
option box
I must check
in this relationship

those of the gentle
persuasion might
grind their teeth
in frustration
become flippant
and mockery
lining their teeth,
slides out on
uncouth words
to assail bone
of their bone,
flesh of their
flesh.

So,
you will not
speak your mind
but perhaps there
are no words to say
and your paradigm
contains sun-rays
rather storm clouds
and you think ~
peace be still.

So,
you will not
speak your mind
and your brain brims,
wanting to move forward
hesitant at best, cautious
at best and you wait,
abide your time
and you think ~
a time will
come.

And I say nothing.
Hold my tongue
For I am woman
under the grace
of God,

(dear God,
hold this
tongue)

and my
being has
learned that
a time and a
place will come
to speak the words
that line my bones

we speak in printed words
and have yet to learn
to speak in fluid tongue
though we be new
to this plane of existence
clasping hands
we take small steps
towards a firmer foundation,
a greater completeness
in hopes that one day,
we will be one.

I am restraining myself.
Tied the tiger within,
pulled forward the hooded
mask and await my revealing.

Though it be inches,
though it be seconds,
this inner face that
lies within will reveal
the beauty and horror
of self in due time.

Anticipation is not
found in revelation,
or analysis of my
feelings or my thoughts
but based solely in the
encountered moment
when his face appears
and the waiting ends...

and it is with
great expectation
I wait,
for I know you
will inspire -
cause me to concave
cause me to withdraw
cause me to delve
from the inner workings
of my secret self
so that I may
bring about words
that contemplates the nature
of our dynamic selves