It wasn't anything

It wasn’t anything
that could be spoken
or pointed to.

It hung in the air.

a vague impression of a scent
with no
source,

a feeling
with no
name.

What can be defined by the space

it doesn’t fill? One cannot assert the existence of such a thing.

but
there it was.

Perhaps it could be drawn
on black paper
in silver ink,
and the act
of drawing it
(the shape, whatever it please
the illustrator)
would be the thing itself.

Let the drawing be the interpretation made
by the grasping senses.

I’ll trace the line with a fingertip,
try
to feel the tautness,
to locate the endpoints,
to collect a few silver dustings to print
on my forehead.

I would be a devotee
of the office supply closet,
transported by the scent
of rubber cement,
saying and counting my prayers
by a paper clip chain,
solemnly exchanging
incoming for outgoing mail.
Find comfort in numerable,
tangible odds and ends,
useful and always ready,
so very organized,
unlike these elastic impressions
of you
that
stretch
out
to encompass
so many interpretations,
and then
snap
back
to admonish my folly.


written 6.2.97
revised 2.28.07

© 2007 ElenaMarie

If love were a bargain

And you weren’t supposed
to be thinking these things—
nothing charitable in this direction,
nothing to encourage a strengthening
of this strand loosely woven
between two minds
(of hearts we won’t speak).
Calling up
little-promising proofs
was supposed to require a pot
of coffee and a dozen donuts
(twelve more free with coupon—
oh if love were such a bargain—
with six you get eggroll,
but one doesn’t mean
two necessarily.
There are motions to make,
bargains to plea, evidences to show...);
and there should have been more
days of snow, more mornings
punctuated by the hiss and clank
of the radiator that left rust stains
on dirty, grey carpeting.
The landscape should
have remained
that steely-blue grey, the color of eyes
too long used to the cold.
Perhaps we could have redecorated,
added a splash of Dante red
and delineated the boundaries
of the inner sanctum, to match
the tomato sauce spilled from pizza.
But green had to begin,
and the sun could stay away no longer.
They would collaborate,
those happy fellas,
to send small hopes,
kept in enameled boxes,
up and out and up into the sky.


written 4.25.97
revised 2.28.07

© 2007 ElenaMarie

Poem for Neil

A winter of discontent
has given way to spring's
warmer shafts of light
piercing into places too long
darkened by past sorrows.
A sunny eye
turns with moist life
to softly touch dry spots,
to unfurl this soul's beauty
slowly,
so slowly
deftly,
and to cup a delicate reality
gently,
so gently,
and turn it to the light.

© 2007 ElenaMarie

A book you can eat?

Not really. But this book uses enhanced photographs of vegetables and fruits to teach basics—like numbers, opposites, and so on—to kids. Too cute!

Stones in the Hand of the Master

This sadness does not know how
to mourn for you;
possibilities still exist
but hide themselves
in daytime language,
no more of sense
than the speaking of
the recurrent dream.
A pattern remains to be seen
in the dusk, gradations of autumn light
embroidering themselves
on the clouds covering these eyes.
Hiding produces little,
but your footsteps yet pierce
the canvas of this life’s turning—
heavy, measured footsteps,
as if walking must be ruled
by Pythagorean theorem.
But there is no formula
for this …
too many variables tumble over one another,
all semi-precious stones.
But the edges do not smooth on their own.

The Polisher takes out jewels
one by one and grinds them,
chips an edge or two,
shines them with a soft cloth.
Held up to the starlight,
the stones gleam a tribute
to the Master’s skill and dedicated love.

This life is His gem,
polished every day…
a simple rock,
striated with deposits.
In His hand, this rock rests,
shinier day by day.
With the others
it is part of a treasure trove,
that tribute to the Master.

How beautiful you would be
in His hand,
a gem of rare beauty,
a great tribute to the Creator
who is Master of all.
But your heart remains
rough-hewn stone,
fortress against His entry.
May He knock upon the gate.
May He enter, crowned in glory.
May stone grown warm under His hand.

{written in the late 1990s}

© 2006 ElenaMarie