A woman's death

The touch is firm upon the flesh

of death; the wrap of slow embrace.

A drawing closer till the breath

in silent lifting rises still

and yearns to break through barren lips;

a final freeing from the Self

of Soul released and barely held.

And yet the moments follow on

in watchful waiting, days deep drawn,

of endless dying made as one;

a threading of the final hours,

eternity is sown within,

the stitches silken, holding close

the memories and fading thoughts.

Life lingers on beyond the call

in reaching for the final sum,

accounting of the drifting years

and dreadful days which she has known

and which will litter long the nights,

sweet-cling to dreams created yet,

within the garment of the soul,

a last, black brightness

holding fast within the milk-white,

withered face;

reflecting back the dark embrace.

And death draws closer,

girds her loins, enfolds the body,

strokes the mind, lays bare the bones

in crepe-loose skin,

disturbs the final drape of life.

The moment come, the shades are drawn,

the messenger with bright-spread wings

brings dreams of angels; whispered words

and glowing golden through the mist

Draws close to give the celestial kiss.

The breath of death is scarcely felt

upon the cold, grey shrink of cheek,

yet life in final yielding stirs

and deep within is heard the call:

breath-held the moment beckons still

and then relents … surrenders all.

Death

It is so very final when death
has taken charge and someone
loved has left this world;
it's all so very hard.

There's nothing like the touch of flesh,
the warmth of smile and eye,
which life bequeaths for just a time,
until it is denied.

It's all so sudden and so strange,
with only shell to see,
of someone once so vital;
of body with no me.

And yet the dance eternal,
would promise there is more
and they have simply slipped
outside, the Self as they were born.

There is no point in consciousness,
unless it does survive,
and takes the truth of who we were,
beyond this world of time.

Synesthesia

A diamond kiss upon your lips,
sharp edges feeling still,
as jasmine drifted from your mouth;
heart's golden light revealed.
Your taste was drenched in perfume,
the shape rolled round my tongue,
as love lit anchored feelings;
the notes seductive hung.
In blistered, bursting moments,
the truth of all you were,
had dressed that one sweet meeting;
of flesh, of mind, of soul.

 For today’s prompt, I invite you to play around with mixing up those senses. It’s not necessary to write a complete poem in synesthesia, just include an incident in which you invite your readers to taste, or see, or hear, or touch, or smell something that defies the sense you are using.

http://dversepoets.com/2013/05/30/synesthesia-sensory-confusion-or-dverse-meeting-the-bar/#respond

Loss

It's all the same this sense of loss,
when something loved has died,
a body, mind, relationship;
it all brings grief and trial.

Sometimes it is the dreams we lose,
which are the greatest pain,
because they're so ephemeral;
not real enough to claim.

And when someone has changed so much,
that what they were has gone,
it's like the death made literal;
yet nothing there to mourn.

With every loss that we endure,
no matter large or small,
our hearts are touched so deeply;
raw feelings surely born.

Each will sit in shouldered shape,
a layering of such loss,
foundation for our psyche;
the substance of our soul.

Unravelling

Escher's Prints.
Like strips of worn elastic I did stretch,
to make myself what others said I should,
until the fabric snapped and fell asunder
unravelled psyche's ground on which I stood.

There was the barest image left to see,
through empty strands of nothingness and fear,
but substance and true form was rent apart;
with nothing left of what I knew as me.

http://margoroby.com/2013/05/28/poem-tryouts-try-an-escher/#respond

Appear

There did appear upon your face an image,
of what your mind had gathered up as thought,
and it belied the words that you were speaking;
expression did convey you were distraught.

It was a fleeting moment which revealed,
the pain which eyes and mouth so clearly showed,
and yet which was at odds with what you said;
I touched your arm so gently and tears flowed.


APPEAR
1a : to be or come in sight <the sun appears on the horizon>
  b : to show up <appears promptly at eight each day>
2: to come formally before an authoritative body <must appear in court today>
3: to have an outward aspect : seem <appears happy enough>

Question

There was a question on the lips of morning,
but night had closed its ears so forcefully,
that silence was the saviour of the dawning,
and truth had shut its eyes to what had been.
It seemed as if the words had been full broken,
and shovelled into parts of mind long hid,
so nothing could be offered up or spoken,
and honesty was mangled on day's grid.
That moment when reality was so revealed,
within the darkness, sourced in hope's desire,
was but a fleeting shadow of old feeling,
which could not last within dawn's burning fire.

Bubbled life

Image - Leovi 2011.

Life bubbled on the breast of tortured colour,
blew shivered gems of liquid, shining toil
and in the drape and dress of feathered telling,
bequeathed an image light of slurried gold.



In  rising resonance of deliquescent blue,
the blood of passion surged to huddled birth,
and in the sliding creep of glorious light,
revealed new mysteries upon the earth.


http://dversepoets.com/2013/05/25/poetics-through-the-lens/#respond

Connection

With every cloud the day did write a story,
as if to reach from heaven's pencilled sketch,
and cast an image relevant and purposed;
a meaning strong and weak in pure intent.

From curl of leaf and sod of earth it comes,
from drape of cat and howl of grieving dog,
and in the sodden drainings of my tea-cup;
is consciousness revealed and reason told.

Each fibre of all being, great and small,
is full connected through the web of life,
and as the butterfly does spread its wings;
it pulses in all hearts and every mind. 

Dreams

The bag of dreams has fallen into day,
with tightly knotted mouth and swollen shape,
as if to tease the memories of night
and mock the truth of what we call agape.
It is as if time gathered shreds of thought,
and dropped them into flimsy sacks,
full-blown, and bloated within mind,
released by sleep; adulterated facts.
In trying to sift through the scattered forms,
a search for meaning silently arrayed,
there is within the action deep desire,
that purpose and some reason are displayed.
Confusion has a coy and ancient face,
as if the dark had birthed some alien child,
and in the bright becoming, all erased;
narcoleptic journeys - hope defiled.

Soul work

What is this work of Soul required,
defined, denied, displayed
and held within the hub of mind;
potential oft betrayed?

Spiders

Such industry and purpose so revealed,
as glittering tracks of finely frozen light,
the frost which clung to closely woven web,
knitted through the grass in deepest night.

There was a moment in the brittle dawn,
a spidered blanket brightly wrought is seen,
before the sun would bring a sudden melt,
and it is gone, as if it's never been. 

Transformed

I woke and day had drifted into morning,
the fog in shy, slow roll across the hills,
as clouds in banked emotion rode blue sky,
and shredded, shrivelled leaves did fall.

As Autumn called the name of season's end,
and frost threw glittered life to cobwebs,
strewn on grass and fence and tree,
so did the brightness banish hollow darkness.

The light has come again to nettled night,
as if to say that cycles would prevail,
and that which died would be transformed;
whether day, or leaf, or life, or me.

Time heals

They say that time will heal,
as if distance can lay a salve
on wounds and render truth
more doubtful and less real.
Is it hours or days which repair
and restore what is broken,
or is it just a process of grief
and resolute becoming?
Perhaps there is an order within
which embarks upon a course
of change and compromise,
in order to assimilate what is.
That in the living with an event,
we slowly come to understand,
it was and is and ever has been;
past, future and present are one.

Synchronicity

Behind the huddled moments I did hear,
a few words, drifting, light as air,
which signified an image driven fast;
a thing the future would in time reveal.
The present had no place for it to stand,
but when remembered past it could be seen,
as symbol of the inner work declared;
an angel's touch upon the world of dreams.
These signs upon the path did gather force,
and rank as guideposts on my weary way,
to signify that there was sure a plan;
that what and how I lived would have its day.
It gave me hope in ways I'd never known,
to see the touch of purpose, written well,
upon the daily dross of life and mind;
meaning had a tale which it would tell.

 http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/05/22/prompt-158-playing-sherlock/#respond

Lament

The days did draw in ruffled coil
around the vision spent,
and huddled close to memory's hem;
in bloated, bloused lament.

Through dusted scuff of muddled mind,
they brushed on truth's dry soil,
and shuddered lint and broken thread;
the past so soon defiled.

Belief had dressed the distant times,
as ragged, frayed and worn,
to cast the image full depressed;
a victim surely born.

But thoughts are sent to service mind,
not dictate what must be,
and in the choosing we can know;
birth new realities.

Bitter Night

The curtains of denial had been so darkly drawn,

To neatly hide the truth of what had been,

And in the whispered grief of love forlorn,

There lay the broken pieces of my dream.

It was as if the shroud had fallen close,

To wrap remembered moments neatly tight,

And in the doing, let me know I chose,

To hide myself in sorrow’s bitter night.

There is a way of writing our life’s tale,

And choosing so to make it dark or bright,

For words will always have their solid way,

And build a structure bleak or ever-bright.

It’s in the way we look upon our days,

And how we see the things that we have known,

Which gives reality a sure and final say,

And lets us reap the harvest we have sown.

Live, best as you can

When mind did take a different turn
away from Soul's sure art,
then angels wrote a note to Self;
You get to choose your path.
There is no right or any wrong,
just different turns and twists,
as Soul and Self in partnership
explore this life's rich gift.
It's easy to condemn and judge,
to need and want, demand,
but all that's ever asked of us,
is live, best as you can. 

Remembering

In solid, sure remembering the days were written,
as if to hold in darkest ink, the truth,
and yet within the circling, lying words there lay,
deception such as I had never known.
It made of wandering, lettered life my stories,
and yet, had scattered them as merest dross,
for there was pure intent and deep flawed falling,
as message wandered, helpless, dark and lost.
The thoughts and spoken words were ever cast,
through wooded, wild and woeful forests deep,
dismembered as the psyche's shattered face,
and left to lie in cold, tormented sleep.

Time is so illusory

Time is so illusory,
ephemeral and light,
and yet it holds
with heavy hands,
my deep, eternal night.
It's in the darkness
of the day, that
I can call and find,
a greater weight
within the hours;
hangs heavy on
my mind.

Poetry anthology

I have a few poems in this:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/Sunday-Snaps-Stories-Susan-May-James/9781908858016

Trust

In patient figured waiting
my heart had stood beside,
the path which life had sought
to take, the hopes I  would deny.
Then fate stepped in directionless,
the map was offered, light,
as beacon of beginning;
an offering of mind.
It called in clustered memories,
for sifting, slow and sure,
and digging through deep sands,
where treasures could be drawn.
Through past and present turnings,
the way was offered up,
with futures born hermetically,
and new hopes sourced in trust.

Mother dreams

There was no sound on slippered feet,
and yet I heard your tread,
and knew that you had found your way;
I felt your whispered breath.
Through dusted halls of shadowed night,
you followed as I dreamt,
and breathed the love of mothering;
brought comfort as I slept.
There was a touch ephemeral,
a silent, graceful hand,
to wipe away the dreaming tears;
I woke and you had fled. 

Sorry

It's not enough to say the words,
to offer true regret,
for actions carry form and force,
if justice will be met.
We read far more in what is done,
than ever what we hear,
for actions speak commitment,
where words may not be real.
To show someone we're sorry,
is a true gift of choice,
which demonstrates we mean it,
and speaks in loudest voice.

Rain and tears

It was as if the rain in sympathy
did fall in sodden sorrow on my skin,
as if to offer comfort, liquid touch,
for all the tears still locked within.
Could coursing drops from heaven,
heal the pain which was denied,
and offer itself up as damp release,
or does our heart demand that we do cry?
Can heaven's act as symbol be enough,
to loosen at the girdle of our grief,
and wash away the knotted, silken cords
which hold us to the shape of our beliefs?
Perhaps in form archetypal can we find,
releasing of material and flesh,
in ways we could not otherwise imagine;
in ways which angels whisper in our heads.

When words wash

Words wash wasteful, wistfully
across the heart's divide,
and scour with foaming purpose,
the truth they could provide.
Then can I see slow cleansing,
of what I would confide,
and know that substance is erased;
that what was offered, dies.
How empty are those vehicles,
of meaning and intent,
when prejudice rends hollow,
the messages I sent.

Heart and mind

Sometimes it feels as if the heart has lost its way,
 to mind, to reason and to circumstance,
as if it walks, to the beat, of its own drum,
and asks I follow, but gives me no other choice.
The song which sets it on its unexpected way,
is always sounded through the notes of love,
of others, of those we hold so dear,
and those who beat in time with all our being.
It is as if each cell of child and lover has remembered,
how to play the strings of who I am,
and in the doing, build a symphony of my becoming,
and of theirs, and of the relationship that we have.
Is it the discordance between thought and feeling,
which brings to struggling birth,
something other; new beginnings and awakenings,
on Soul's surrendered and shared journey?
Perhaps it is only in the moments lost between,
what we call reality, or even truth,
 that we can find the pattern which will keep us,
both, in tune, with who and what we are meant to be.

Mothering and blame

Why do mothers get the blame
in ways that fathers don't?
Perhaps because in mothering,
we learn to carry loads.
Our shoulders have been broadened,
our hearts made wide and deep,
to carry children's hurtings;
to share their pain and grief.
Why do mothers get the blame
in ways that fathers don't?
Perhaps because in mothering,
we choose to carry loads.
 

It's not What we do but How we do it...

It's not so much the What of things
which causes so much pain,
but How the What is carried out,
that makes us feel betrayed.
Sometimes there must be suffering,
but grace will ease that sore,
and courtesy can act as salve
while love, will  peace restore.
It's what we do, not what we say,
that brings it all to birth,
and caring and compassion,
will heal whatever hurts.
There is no What which cannot be,
made easier to bear,
if How we do what must be done,
is sourced in deepest care.

Caring for others in death

Why do we run from death's tumultuous hold,
and call for that which will the silence sing,
in sudden ending, no recourse to pain;
denying of the life that death can bring?

If suffering were cause to bring on reasoned end,
then most would never live beyond their youth,
for hurting is the way of being in the world,
and torment is the way we're called to truth.

But when we think that living draws to close,
we lose our patience with the gift of breath,
demanding that the beating heart be stopped;
denying those who love, this precious test.

It's in the act of caring through the darkening days,
of reaching through the grief and splintered parts,
when mind can barely hold to what is known,
that we are joined eternal; fate long cast.

For life is but the act of love drawn surely on,
and those whose Souls have birthed to walk with us,
can offer grace beyond the bitter tears,
when we can care and soothe, in patient trust.

For loving is much more than smiles and joy,
in fact it's rooted deep in darker soil,
an earth of crucifixion, richly mulched;
where death is nothing more, than us reborn.

Autumn light

The Autumn light reflects in shadowed gold,
and scarlet dance of leaf entwined,
unfolding through the burnished branch and twig;
a dreaming into Winter's chilling mind.
It's like a mirror image of my wounded soul,
a minuet of sorrow thus divined,
which falls in scattered dance, delivered hurts;
a crumpled drift of what must surely die.
In melancholy moments all is written slow,
reminder of the change which Life demands,
and how the heart will hear the season's song;
the notes which play on fingers of the past.

If I could say

If I could say what I would choose,
the words would be so few,
for nothing more can be required,
than saying, 'I love you.'
It is a precious offering,
which we can give for free,
to those who share our lives,
our hearts and destiny. 

Take this confusion

Take this confusion God,
close mist upon my mind,
and purse your lips
to whisper truths,
a clearer way to find.

And if the truths
be lost in fog and wander
slow and blind, then
purse your lips
and kiss your love,
sweet breath to clear my mind.

For on your own strong,
gentle breath, you carry
for all time, the power
to blow all doubt away,
that truth, itself, can find.

86

Mother and child

Through  atoms of becoming
your blood did course with mine,
and sang the song of centuries,
as flesh was slow entwined.
Beneath the heart of mothering,
you grew to find your place,
and sought the light of birthing;
revealed material grace.
This lineage of love began,
in microscopic fold,
and found itself in being;
a new and brightening soul.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/05/trifecta-week-seventy-six.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+trifectawritingchallenge%2FIazs+%28Trifecta%29

3

a : lifeblood; broadly : life
b : human stock or lineage; especially : royal lineage <a prince of the blood>c : relationship by descent from a common ancestor : kinshipd : persons related through common descent : kindrede (1) : honorable or high birth or descent (2) : descent from parents of recognized breed or pedigree

Lies

He spoke as if like
laughter from his lips,
his words fell light
and loosely on my soul;
like a patronising hand
upon a child.
He lied, but without knowing,
never caring what he said,
he gave me pliant words
to twist my heart.
They laid with me
till morning and then
my mind removed distortion,
laid them straight,
until they faded
in a line of truth.
I knew that night's sweet
dimness was untrue,
but still my heart rejected
honest day and tried
to recreate the beauty past.
I'd curled into the fickle hand
of night and blessed
its soft caress with wanton joy
as darkness shrouded logic,
sense and reason,
and left me blind to what
I see today.
A memory without
meaning I possess,
a memory that I wish
I had not found-
and yet there is no sadness
no regrets - just doubts
within myself to what is me.

70

Sadness

Sadness sits beside me in the silence,
companion on the path that grief has laid,
and both of us are looking into distance,
the past, the future; now the present grave.

It's not in losing someone as a presence,
but rather separation from the heart,
and cutting of the ties emotion weaves;
a leaving for some far and distant part.

It's not about the physical or literal,
but something more ephemeral and real,
that loss of a connection and a bond;
a severing from what we each can feel.

Such times are part of Soul's eternal calling,
and brings a deep and sure abiding pain,
for reasons can't lay salve upon the hurting;
it's only time and hope which can repay.

I touched me

I touched me!
I know I'm there,
and then, I slipped
away. But not
so far I will not
reach, again,
another day.

82

I wasn't there

I wasn't there,
I didn't see
the coffin lowered
deep. I didn't
hear the words
that led your way
to endless sleep.

I wasn't there,
I didn't see
the dirt that fell
like rain; I didn't
hear the soundless
screams, that led
my way to pain.

I wasn't there,
I didn't feel
the cruel embrace
of death;
I didn't know
your last farewell,
that led me on
to grief.

I wasn't there,
but down you went,
not far, but ever deep;
 the dirt still fell,
the tears did too,
the memories
to reap.

I wasn't there,
I didn't see
the end sealed
fast in stone;
the grass hugs hard
around your heart,
and still
I am not there.

84

Questions

Get on with life,
they all said.
Stop shaking it
so hard, just
get on with life.
But isn't this life?
The questions
are there, is it
wrong to seek
for answers?
Are they concerned
for me, or just
frightened of
what I might find?
Questions make
people uncomfortable,
but not asking
them makes me
uncomfortable.
I am the questions,
and the questions
are me and, to
follow one's own
truth, is our task,
even if, in the doing
we upset others.

The wood within

The wood within
is dark and deep,
close-set with many trees-
the leaves stand stiff
like armour strapped,
untouched by any breeze.

A woman bent
and old as time
came out and turned to greet-
her face in shadow,
eyes black, sharp,
a chance, myself to meet.

And when I asked
her what it was
that she did darkly seek,
she cried: 'Your soul,
is what I want, for
it is mine to keep.'

The groan within
was dark and deep,
fear filled, took hold
and locked. I stood
stone-still,
I could not move,
as on my tomb
she knocked.

I turned and fled,
the forest deep,
and prayed once more
for light. I knew
I left not far behind
my own eternal night.

And when I sat
in safe, bright day
and turned my eyes
to see, I knew the woman
was my guide,
and she could set me free.

The wood within,
it is my own -
I planted every tree.
The woman old,
and bent by time,
can lead myself to me.

86

I couldn't find me

I gave you my love
and you held it so near.
I gave you my heart
and you held it so dear.
You gathered my laughter,
and stood by my pain;
a guard by my fear
till I joined you again.
But when I gave you my anger
you lowered your arms,
and stepped from my side,
as if fleeing from harm.
And you turned from
my tears, when I gave them
to you and they fell to my heart
and washed my love through.
What I wanted you see,
was to give you myself,
but when I had finished
removing all that,
you wouldn't accept,
then I couldn't find me.

84

Madness and grief

There is a madness
in my grief -
they say it's
only natural.
It doesn't feel
natural -  it feels
frightening.
My mind has
double vision -
perhaps my soul
needs spectacles.
But then I would
see more clearly.
I don't know if
 I am ready for that.
You see it hurts
 and I did not think
it would hurt so much.
Or did I? I think
I only hoped
it wouldn't.

82

Song of hope

The soul sounds mournful, silent words of grief,
as if to play a tune upon life's heart,
and in the doing bring to birth it's saddened song,
and dance upon the dark and shadowed path.

The ear can turn to find the source of brittle hope,
and listen for the moment it reveals,
that sorrow has its own belaboured notes,
and music is the blood of Self and endless spheres.

It is the dance of atoms,worlds of waves profound,
that brings such lyrical vibrations to our minds,
and taps upon the the tiny drum within;
releasing sumptuous voice as joy inspired. 

Pull yourself together

Pull yourself together,
they said.
As if I were yarn,
loose-stretched, ragged
at the edges;
a shapeless form
on life's hard block.

But the tears had knitted
in my soul, with needles
piercing deep;
a shimmering sheet
of memories
to shawl my troubled sleep.

Pull yourself together,
they said.
As if I could take
the strands, taut-tattered,
tired and torn,
and thread them through
again, on life's hard block -

so I did.

83

Broken love

You broke my dream;
you didn't know
until the pieces fell
and shining sharp
around us lay,
a shattered vision still.

83

Door

The door had slammed in violent thud
between your heart and mine,
and handled holding could not help;
division was defined.

I felt the splintered panelling,
which drove between our minds,
and knew that it had ended;
the past was left behind.

And yet my hands kept holding,
the key to break divide,
and love sat silent, waiting;
until you did decide.

Such barriers between two souls,
cannot be changed by one,
and each must seek to open doors;
new lives are thus begun.

The days of patient waiting,
can turn to months or years,
but when the lock is turned by love,
there is no time, no fears.







http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/04/trifecta-week-seventy-five.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+trifectawritingchallenge%2FIazs+%28Trifecta%29

DOOR

3: a means of access or participation : opportunity <opens new doors> <door to success>