Belles Lettres, Poetry, Essays

writings by yss


Time, again
Lilies
Breath
  the Beloved Lover  
P-cells
  Fellowship of Suffering  
River
Betrayal
Fishwife
Sewing Secrets
Waiting
Spoken of... worth
Time Dance





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          Lilies

          You said "...consider the lilies..."
          and i am undone by it.
          do lilies fall in love?
          do lilies fear the day, or nights alone?
          do lilies long for an embrace
          to still the tremble in their petals?
          where are the lilies to caress my lips
          or warm my bed?

          You said, "...wait patiently..."
          is waiting ever truly patient?
          what is patient waiting?
          is it forgetfulness?
          is it carefully counting the minutes
          and days...years, of waiting?
          is it patiently noting the hairs You gave
          turning colorless, waiting?

          You said, "I am He who knit you together..."
          and still i am undone,
          squeezed in a fist of pain
          closed in a smother of loneliness.
          do i know You, O Mighty One?
          i am ripped and torn asunder by evil and by love

          and still You say "I have carried you;...to your old age,
          I will carry you."
          is it You who carries me to the funeral pyre of
          an undying death?
          silent screams and dry tears
          fill my empty arms and cold bed.
          ---and still i wait...
               patiently.
          should i marry, i will carry lilies.

          © 2000








          P-Cells

          I am not a poet. No, really. I'm not.
          I don't know how to do all that stuff
          and the rules bore me.
          All rules bore me.
          Bore the holes that fit the chains that tie me
          to the dust of boredom.
          Then my mind wanders...
          away from "supposed to, away from details
          the close quotes in an expression...
          My brain cells queue up to play
          magic marbles, prince charming, eagle currents...
          I write a thing and people go "ahhh, poetry...""""
          My brain cells issue forth a collective: hunh?!?"
          Maybe it's just my brain cells that are not poets
          they prefer that wondrous mystery of concrete logic,
          deep reality, special relativity,
          psycholinguistical consciousness.
          Perhaps there's poetry floating free inside me.
          Special P-cells liven my blood
          puff "aha!" into a conflagration of brain cells
          assembled to deliberate the wraithe of discernment.
          P-cells wafting dreams across my lips
          widening my eyes
          deepening the blue to simmering passion
          accentuating the auburn to angelic radiance
          defining the curls to a deafening corona.
          P-cells hazing my visage to soft sensual renewal:
          "Come hither, my beloved, my P-cells are up."

          © 1997








Waiting

...cherish me...
words tickling in my ears...
working, watching, waiting.
days roll away...
endless shifting sands...
walking, wondering, whispering:
touch me, hold me, heal me.
breathing in eternity, breathless
anticipation shocking my soul.
folded like a fan; closing
out feelings; pain:broken.
queenly chrysalis struggle
unfolding, tenuous, fragile
hybrid blossom to tender, gentle hands.
working. watching. waiting. whispering:
...cherish me...

© 1995







          Spoken of... worth

          text measured so carefully, setting
          each word next to the other,
          syllable by syllable,
          letter by letter,
          parts edited with critical eyes --
          little left unaltered,
          less given a stet mark.
          Perfect Author sees the whole;
          but the work embraces artificial devices:
          run-ons, splices, mis-used modifers,
          mixed metaphors of pernicious proportions.
          will the edit ever finish?
          cut and paste: the knife
          is sharp, not swift.

          © 1994







          Fishwife

          i am weary of cleaning your fish
          bittered from the odor
          aged by the scent.

          i have blood grimed under my fingernails
          scales on my tongue
          bone chips in my hair.

          there are fish caught in our sheets
          moist eggs stuffed in our pillows
          rotting heads under our bed.

          i've named all your fish
          i can't remember my children's names
          i comb my hair with a fish spine.

          my head is filled with scales
          fins and gills and
          gaping toothless mouths.

          © 1993







          Sewing Secrets

          I have not showered
          his odor covers my skin.

          dead kernels hiding in
          secret places

          slide my arm under
          my nose, close my eyes

          his fetid weight pressing
          my body

          I let him take too much
          Again... Again...

          perhaps I'll sew my secret
          closed with a bone needle

          and a blood thread
          -- my sinew-song

          wrap the dead things
          in a backstitch grave

          rip out the basted flesh;
          conquer the little deaths.

          © 1992






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