Tethered

A balloon suspended in the shuffling skies,
drifting into haze - dissolving into shadows;
suffused with a yearning too long denied.

Helplessly tethered like a blot on the carpet;
unable to recall the dreams of the night before.
Overcome in the face of a dazzling kindle.

The sails have been cropped - the bird grounded.
Perceiving in horror, the void caving inward;
inexorably lured toward the earth’s gritty kiss.

The flight plan altered, the pilot missing -
perhaps riding on a wind chime; enmeshed
in the flowing music, singing another song.

Waiting and watching and listening -
illuminati of leaves frisking atop car hoods,
sounds of distant engines conducted across grasses.

Entranced by the chorus rebounding over houses,
flustered by a squirrel’s prattle. Spanish moss
swaying in lingering strands of gray lace.

The rhythms of the day exponentially rising -
morning glides toward noon, the day warm and shining.
Shadows of voices emerge from behind blank doors.

They tell me nothing, there is nothing to be said
about the solacing murmur of riffled trees;
a reminder of forces to that which was conceded.

Flinging a net into the heavens, grasping for
the castaways. The lost fowl’s molten feathers -
evanescing desires scattered across dimensions.


© 2000 Melissa Songer

fountainhead journey

it’s been a year since
I walked this way
reading textural changes
the trees thicker
groundcover deeper
a pond so untroubled
even ripples don’t disturb it
a cormorant swam close by
and dived into the murky water
I sat upon a root-terraced bank
two red-wing blackbirds
chirped overhead then flew away
in opposite directions
and I wanted to cry
but couldn’t

thinking about what I’d lost
and what I’d gained
I scraped an overlay of leaves
into a simple oval
rimmed it with broken twigs
and spanish moss
inside I placed a rotted stick
a smooth white stone
a stem of dried green leaves
and made primordial art
enduring and transient
I still couldn’t cry
though the tears
were gathering

I left my token to be trampled on
by fishermen and drunks
who stagger down
with their twelve packs
to decorate the shore
with aluminum cans
brown glass and
blue and white cardboard
I stayed close to the trees
to avoid the flagrant sun
bearing down on the clearing
the oaks offered their tender growth
into my cupped hands
to be watered

by the tennis courts
I saw the grandfather of them all
bearded arms stretching
to the turquoise sky
girth too wide to reach around
roots clasping the primitive stones
and thought I might just sit there
like Gautama


© 2002 Melissa Songer

The eleventh moon

The elders whispered in my sleep -
In this time of the eleventh moon,
all that you are flits across the sky.
It is the time of gathering lessons
and offering yourself to the immensity
of your fate. Time to put away all that is dear
and let it wane as day fades into night.
As memory sinks beneath oblivion,
embrace the moon’s musing.

The voices clatter like frail leaves
swaying in the night’s breezes,
snagged against one another.
Each wanting to be first to unclasp
and drift to the ground;
they litter my house
with scrupulous noises.

I cannot see the road ahead
for the obstruction on my windshield -
the potholes catch me by surprise.
Still I know what’s waiting at the corner;
cat-like, poised in suspenseful posture.
I set the wheels in motion
and soon the tides will engulf me.

Swerving and veering in a drunken fury,
to fling away this onus -
it clings as lichen to a rotting stump.
The design veiled - a cloying mesh
wrapped around my face.
Leaving nothing but curiosity
to move me forward.


© 2001 Melissa Songer

Elementals

Staggering in
a drunken simulacrum,
inching towards the conclusion
of this transfiguration.
Unable to see past
the currents in which I swirl;
the eddies carrying me
into a whirlpool engrossed .

The inner fire leaps,
threatening to free me from the
binding of these forces -
a gravity
a breath
a thought
a longing
a stroking.

In my eyes,
a brilliant sun glows blazing florets.
A connection born of intersecting lives.
A journey traversed and
hands clasped as we pass.

Vaporous -
there now, a cloud wrack;
a night canvas sprinkled
with the heart
of who I am.


© 2000 Melissa Songer

Harangue

the insidious grip tightening
blinders on my inner eye
frames the unclear solution
like liquid silver blurring
spokes in the sky
rows of peanuts glimmering
over the sad specks
on the linoleum
shimmering like puddles
of antifreeze in the July heat
the day withering
like strips of jerky
hanging

graffiti head
too quiet within
stark tidings scrawled
upon my eyelids
squibs such as
‘you are the anti-zen’
and ‘wheels out of balance’
wooden bench hard against my spine
reminding me to look back
upon the hard places of my life
it’s not the getting to
it’s the getting away
moving ahead just to fall behind
not the change but the changing
movement of the clock
measures losses tick by tock
resetting means only
delaying the inevitable
bottoming out


© 2000 Melissa Songer