The time of splendor

　
1

From where she stood,
the shimmering bank appeared
a green-gold plane;
laughter’s dreamsong.
Hedging the distance in her mind,
she longed to lay upon rustling grasses.
Sequestered by the reeling torrents,
her heart ached.

From within watery movements,
beckoned the river nymph -
whispering, I will deliver thee hence.
She shied her doubts
and entered the swirling flow,
grasped the laughing midge’s
gray-green hair surrendering.
Feeling the gentle currents sway,
into the deep she dove.

Deeper than deep
it seemed - into another world;
there she met the keeper of tides.
His hand an offering of friendship and faith;
a smile belying the hidden intent.
Beyond him lay shadows twisted
by the river flora,
writhing tongues to snag her
in a refractive dance.

Dragged into a deeper place
the flux tugging at her feet;
into a desperate breach.
Abandoned to energies unforseen-
adrift in the darkest night
she’d ever known.
　
2

Out of the warm ground he dreamed her -
heard her murmur in the susurrating leaves;
smelled her in the fragrant jasmine;
felt her ever-changing motions
in the river’s swirling spume.
He stretched out to embrace her raiment;
fell face forward into the shining grass.

He saw how light pressed
gilded kisses upon the blades -
how they yielded to its weightless touch;
the green rebounding into his retina.
Beyond density of rooftops and trees,
he inferred the backs of things
and contemplated profiles;
not seeing or feeling the frozen other,
the side which did not smile back
through the distorted lens.
A vibrancy tucked away
to surprise the finder.

The premise on which he stood
was not crusted and heavy
but soft as ploughed earth
awaiting his seed;
etched by rivulets of yearning.
All richness bloomed before his awe.
Wisdom’s plumes rippled in the breeze.
Discontent ripped from his garden
and acquiescence planted
in the vacant lot; it grew into a canopy
bestowing grace upon his head.

Finally all things became a metaphor
for the love springing from him.
Life’s sorrows were love’s sorrows.
Life’s joys - love’s joys.
The fire that burned away
night’s deepest passions
kindled the pendulous hope
that swayed his universe -
as the dream unfolded.
　
3

The two souls circled,
looking for the center of all things;
and they never saw each other
through the swirling foam -
reaching toward an unsuspected truth.
Almost touching the other’s fingers;
but never more than a dream
drifting upon a cryptic desire.

Years passed through days
as she thrashed within her story,
passing by the bright times
and the dim with less than
a second’s pause. The river
pulled her until the green grass faded.
Winter’s struggles lay ahead
and she wept for
what was left behind.

He stood upon the bank
and felt something slip away.
Her nearness evaporated
leaving a chance not taken
rustling in a beggar’s wind.
　
　
© 2001 Melissa Songer

Blackbird

Sitting in the pine straw
statue-still,
black eyes glaring
under the watchful gaze
of the bob-tailed cat,
the baby waited its fate.
To live or die by parents’ succor
or the claw’s honed grip.
The suspense was too much
so I scooped it up as
it pecked my fingers instinctively
and carried the ruffled bird inside
to nestle in a shoe box
with its sibling similarly
gathered earlier in the day;
fed buttermilk and bread
from a dropper
until it stopped showing
the pink-lined spread of its bill.

When morning came
only one was alive
and I wondered if
the other would soon die.
It didn’t and
slowly grew into adolescence,
taught to feed itself and
drink water from a cup,
given trinkets and a swing to sway.
But I knew its heart’s desire
even as it sat upon my shoulder,
pulling at the shiny dangles
hanging from my earlobe.
I observed its gaze toward the outside world,
the azure expanse, the tall pines;
its kinsfolk lined on rugged limbs.

So one day I carried
the cage outside and
hung it on the frame
of the outdoor swing
opened the door and waited.
Half of me wanted it to be free,
the other half wanted it to stay
a prisoner of safety and security.
It hesitated, confounded
by the smells and sounds
and lack of walls
then hopped on the threshold,
raised its wings and
flew in ever-widening circles
around the yard.
I held my breath and watched
as it sprinted from tree to tree
until it was gone from view.

The rest of the day and the next
I stared into the dark pines
until my neck hurt
wondering if it was there
regarding me
knowing me,
or if in its joy of ultimate release,
its former world had been forgotten.

But I noted, as if for the first time,
how blackbirds perch on the topmost sprig
and sing to the sun.
　
© 2000 Melissa Songer

Emergence

The wind that drove me

from the cavern stopped blowing;

a long intermission poised -

drawing my eyes into regions where

light had been filtered by jigsaw effects

of the surrounding trees.

To see inside myself meant

halting the apparent gaze;

meant arguing with the fractionated aspects -

all gathered in committee

to decide who would deliver

the final product.

As if I cared.

It was all a sham -

illusion and smoke and focus pocus;

a multicolored cape-swirl

beneath the spotlights

as the audience gasped

in pure amazement.

All facets danced with me;

the front men, the showgirls.

Performers all, enacting the sleight of hand,

the high kick - a dazzling/sparkling

disco ball of the self.

O wonderment.

Beyond lay a greener time -

a bucolic freedom to reassemble

the jumble of parts;

discover the integral.

Sunlight awaited -

warmth and silence

atop the mountain.

© 2002 Melissa Songer

Tales of the vine

I don’t have much to say
these days -
just a few arguments
with myself
as to the nature
of love and fear,
prana and demons,
light and shadow,
and whether
you can have one
without the other;
dualities mingling.
Fragments personified
to protest the
verging consolidation.

Does the vine
keep the fence intact -
flower-hearts dripping?
Mazes breathe their cantos
into the swirling mesh.
There is a place within
my heart unencumbered;
a river flowing
to a home beyond
my doubts.

© 2001 Melissa Songer

The Birds of St. Marys

Birdsong serenade -
pomegranate tea cooling
on the veranda.

The town quietly stirs.
Early risers stroll alone;
the mourning dove coos.

Red-head woodpecker
circles the magnolia's trunk
seeking breakfast grubs.

Mockingbird evades
its child's incessant pursuit,
pleading to be fed.

A schnauzer pulling
her master along the street;
she wants those squirrels.

On the picket fence
a red cardinal perches -
summing up the day.

mjs 6/15/08

Where home used to be

I came of age in a place
where cattle and chickens
eclipsed the human population;
where green fields and fence posts
made a forceful horizontal statement.
And though I chafed with desire
to run beyond the pasture lands;
the oaks and pines and birches,
part of their peace had been planted
in my chest. Somehow,
I felt this place was sacrosanct;
would somehow always be the same,
even though it had long been forsaken.

I left in 1971, and the folks sold out in 74
to some guy from NYC who paid ten times
what they had in 63.
He moved the house we lived in
to build one of his own.
Tore down the dilapidated barns and sheds.
Left the workshop Dad had built for a failed venture.
Took down the barbed-wire fencing,
uprooted the apple trees -
and never, as far as I could tell,
planted a garden.

Still home was there;
intact in spirit if not in form.
But it was the surrounding development
that detonated my senses into disbelief.
Tract mansions and subdivisions
spreading like fungus everywhere;
consuming the meadows,
the forests, the occasional shack
that nestled inside my memory.
When I found the steep circle
to the boat launch blocked off,
it was as if the mind said - Off limits!
You cannot go here anymore.

I backed up - never to return;

gave in to the present.

© 2002 Melissa Songer

resist and decease

in the slow progression
and small irritations of daily life
the musty smell
of lost opportunities permeate
my venial indulgences

dry as grass in a drought
precious fantasies
and raucous hopes
are shriveling

waiting for time to spin
the wheel of happenstance
waiting for something
extraordinary

a growing desire
to act on the urge

to fall into
an opening
a blooming
a canyon so vast
as to lose myself
for the rest of my days

© 2008 Melissa Songer

karmic drama

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-------------------------

dancing atop akashic records
we flow through time
two psyches entangled
playing a divine song
of yin and yang
through untold lifetimes
of storm and stress
joined by a
contract signed
when creation began

so here we are
in this life
facing off yet again
pushed and pulled
in a roundabout
what will we have learned
this time

will we run
as we have done before
or one defeat the other
in grim contention
or stand face to face
and waltz through eternity
beyond the duality
complete at last

© 2002 Melissa Songer

The here and now-ish

It's not where I'm going
or where I've been that matters
it's really more the here and now-ish
that can't be evaded
missteps can't be retaken
the holes ahead are lying in the dark
I'm standing in the pure light of the moment
strung between a memory and a dream
whatever I think I've learned
unravels as the day unfolds

following the shadows before me
brings only knowledge
of my ignorance

2006 MJS

The Crocus Knows

The shift occurs suddenly,
almost without warning;
and the marrow stirs -
awakened to the moment's
possibility, and possibly,
the long-awaited.

The permeable heart,
soaking up the radiant swells,
vibrating in the center of everything;
is there now - hidden
beneath the snow-covered bank.

Knowing its time has arrived;
pushing through layers,
pressing against the inevitable -
a joyful breaking.

© 2008 Melissa Songer