Layers

The last day
Layers fall upon each other
We blink the dust from our eyes
And try to stay conscious
I can never argue enough to tempt
The fates
Or foil a well laid plan

Layers fall perceptibly
Can we always make room for
Disagreements in our heart?
Tragedy strikes once again, we cope in Immeasurable ways
Try to laugh, cry, distance or bring ourselves unrealistically close.

Layers build upon fate
Still the sudden loss of one life is felt
And yet
I shall someday be standing closer
Someday the loved ones–mine.
Today, I write, tired mind knowing
That there is no difference between this
My sad poem–
And where tragedy begets comedy
The literary greats of our past
Is here your modern focus.

Villanelle: Ghost in the Room

Toronto, Ontario: brandy elizabeth nemeth-shorten

Your face flooding the night sky
The Ghost of my past reaching
The years you wrote are wasting by

Shadows find your hands and thighs
Darkness wanders closer, leeching
Your face from each night sky

That you could be so young to die
Tears and laughter that were ours, breaching
The years you wrote are wasting by

In all your theories I could fly
Faded diagrams of your love and teaching
Your face flooding that clear sky

Translucent, hard to touch, we cry
Each precious day we’re both beseeching
The years you wrote will not waste by

Spirit of my loved one, rise
That my ears won’t hear the screeching
Your face has flooded the night sky
And the years you wrote have passed us by

Today's Word Press Daily Prompt honours National Poetry Writing Month and suggested we try our hand at verse:
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/daily-prompt-dickinson/

Poetry saves the world–

On Saturday, April  27th, I was referenced in a list of related articles on We Drink Because We’re Poets.  Written by Sahm King,  the post On Poets and Action: the Voice of the People is a philosophical and inspirational approach to poets and activism.

I feel that artists, poets, writers, do have a power to change things.

I am thankful for the reference, and also for the clarity of mind that co-writer of the blog, Sahm King’s post and subsequent comments helped bring me.

Writer Bastet’s comments on the article were shared from the heart and I appreciate her candor.  The author shared: “I also think that writers, poets, musicians, artists and historian etc.are witnesses…and should avoid moralism and preaching, a trap into which many have fallen.”

This statement hit close to home, helping me to bring the “activism” in King’s article full circle.  ”Yes, I agree, but what is it that I can DO?”

Not too long ago, I was incredibly hurt and haunted by a fictional book I had read that promoted violence against women.  I was so so mad and heart broken by the publishers, editors and the author of this book.  It affected me physically.  Writing about it helped, but it came out unorganized and rendered only with passion.  After having my partner look over it (honestly confirming my suspicions about it’s lack of cohesiveness and dragging of parties through the mud) I decided not to post my three plus page rant.

Now with a clear head, and with the dreams no longer haunting me, I feel that the article might succeed into what we as artists wish to do so often….help protect our humanity and “act against the justices that corrupt the very balance of our world.”  (Sahm King)

It has been inspirational to read each of King’s chosen articles related to On Poets and Action: the Voice of the People.  Each of the writer’s are engaged, clear and forward thinking.  I feel honored to be among these fellow poets and writers.

I look forward to the future, where sharing and being active are more prevalent parts of my life as a writer.

In kindness,

Brandy Elizabeth NS

The standoff

Drying my eyes today
Caught in the feverish tug between
Sensitivity and truth.
There are no smiles this way

Your head turns toward the north
Toward beautiful mountain tops
Snow covered with another layer
Of disapproval

Winning a kind word is not the same
As having your obligatory love
As having another day where
We could sit together as true friends

 

A special thank you goes out to Sahm King, who recently included me as a reference to his heartfelt article about poets and artists changing the world.  His article On Poets and Action: the Voice of the People  and the writers of the blogs that he referenced in this post are inspirational and have caught my fascination.

“Do we have a power that we are sitting on, untapped, unused, and stagnating while we pine over our own woes and fears while so many suffer around us?  Or is it a lofty thing, a high ideal, this wishing to save the world from?  Can poetry save the world?  Would any listen?  Is saving the world even realistic?”  -  Sahm King.

The Cattle Afterlife

Ghost cow
The truck that crashed down
Interstate 17
Spilling off the sloped sides
Of the side of the most eastern
Bradshaw Mountain
Carried cattle that in their deaths’
Followed the trail to Bumble Bee.
The lonely brown steer,
Struck to the north in a fit of heat stroke
Wandered uphill to Sunset Point
He stands there today, enjoys the whole change of the season.
A set of eyes straying from the highway
May yet catch his silhouetted horns
On a backdrop of pink sky.
The rest of the heard were last seen
With bees on their noses entering into
The old ghost town
Never to be seen again.

Conscious Cow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s nice that spring has finally come

(in the desert)

a lone cow stands on the ground before the drop

slopes just to the south, full of saguaro

we both caught a glimpse of the moon

hiding from us in the glare of the early sun

the steer, in all his bulk and brown glory

might be waiting for slaughter

massive horns cast a shadow where once he had company

i wonder what he is thinking of

on this perfect clearing with the mountains rising behind him

the sun rising behind me, and i catch his huge muscles

in all this light, he comes alive

alive with feeling and provocation and loneliness

that is what we are of course

i personify the steer.

no others in sight

can we get any closer?

When you’re not paying attention

Trying to get nails
Out of my black rubber shoe
Glimpsed a hawk’s tail

And the mouse he’d caught fell
Ran off toward the sunset

Going Out West

Being grateful about their move
Is a coin that bares guilt on the other side
I can really see the sun today, bright
Clear.
April’s cry “Make-no-mistake I am still Winter!
In the north the icy, icy wind chills straight
Through Spring.”
Hollered after my roots as they landed
Here out west, where the sky stretched
For more miles than it even existed.
And that is where all the gratefulness
Poured from.
Our own personal ray of sunlight
Warming off the dark of the sky
“This is just an after thought,” said April
“But you can bet I have zapped your tree buds.”
I turn my head to see, hair whipping my face
With a sting
“She can’t know yet.” I whisper…
“We may still have fruit.”

Of course all of this is related to
Ohio
On some scale of Winter to Fall
Your crazy meter goes shaky and breaks
He was left by the bath with a pile
Of cigarettes that took over the whole
Of a white glass mixing bowl so many
Still fell to the wood floor, warped beneath.
So many ashes will give you a heart attack
That is the guilt side.
A hoarders cave and his ghost and
All the retellings of his best REM
I exist because he did.
Gratefulness
Sitting in the west with those who raised me.
Tonight a transformer explodes
And all the guilt and gratefulness merge
To one side of the cold dark tease that
Is April.

Nobel Novel (the journey of MC)

Spector.
A haunted route through
California.
Torn and missing the man
Who had been her world
Main Character is constantly seizing
And when she is finally freed
She never gets further than looking
At magazines and turning on the radio
She never gets further then writing
Good bye letters and going to funerals

When will action strike her?
Propel her into crime solving,
Spirit crossing or even just crying?
Can her creator channel miss Alcott
Bring them to the Abbey
Where mystery can encase them?

A reader sighing over 19th century
Craft will find the Pennsylvania author
Quite capital
This moment while plunging back in time
I find myself awakened and hopeful
Find Main Character in the thralls
Of times forgotten by most of the newsstand.

We landed with two feet.
I held Louisa’s hand in my left and MC’s
Tightly in my right.
We imagined sitting down together
Finally rendering a polished and succinct centre
And orchestrating unfathomed
Nobel Resolutions!

I ought to acquire to type
With both my hands occupied
For to ever get this done I cannot let go
Of either.

Goodbye Niagara

She sighs
Deep at the end of adventure day
And snuggled into down on the
Expanse of the last hotel bed.

It’s like violets in a field during summer
Somewhere like she imagines Canada
Could be in warm months.
She sighs.

Winter leaving patches of snow behind
Putting skiers into constant lament
Over their cups of hot cocoa
But leaving mystery in place for the rest
She sighs.

Seeing that last icy section on the walk
Where pathways aren’t kept and any
Step could be dangerous,
She sighs
Eyes glued on the falls and breath fogs.

Upward and swirling from the mouth
Of her lover as she can think just to
Kiss him but joins him instead
Both sighing.
Their breath becomes part of The Falls.

Moisture. Cloud. Snow flake. River.
Niagara Falls. Water churning, bracing
Cold, spraying, delighting her.
A sigh escapes her lips
And she snaps her last photograph.