faces in the crowd

The Woman You've Forgotten
The customary presence
Of a middle-age blossom
Fills the house,
But goes unseen.
Her radiance
On days gone by
Was enough to drive you wild
With the passion and desire
That came so easily
With youth.
The beauty has never left,
It has only changed:
Matured
With the maturing of her soul.
Her body holds more beauty now,
Than it ever did
Squeezed into tight clothes,
With legs running bare.
Her beauty is deep,
It does not vanish
With the scratches of time.
The completeness of her beauty
Could drive your heart
As it did in youth,
Only if,
Your eyes hadn't blinded
To the beauty
Which you have mistakenly
Taken for granted.


The Turn
she kneels down,
pulling the red sweater
down,
onto the little boy.
brushing his hair back into shape
with her delicate hand,
she stares into his eyes
and releases her love for him
in a short burst of code:
a smile.
the young boy,
filled with mother's love
runs off to play
with childhood friends.


left alone,
the woman recomposes herself
as she stares after him.
she slowly rises
from where she had knelt,
and with extreme reluctance
she turns away,
and walks off.


the youth turns back
and as his eyes follow her,
he sees her hair grow gray,
her skin fold,
and her steps slow
until one last step -
and she has disappeared.
then he turns around,
kneels down,
and fixes the blue shirt
of his child,
as he stares deep
and smiles.


The Mime's Invisible Box
Her life has been taken from her.
she no longer has control,
for she can barely survive.
she has no more dreams
of a picture perfect future,
she just wishes she could escape this day:
run off to her apartment,
to hide from the pain,
the fears,
and the disappointment
of the life she leads.
she never dreams of grandeur,
she just hopes for survival.
fighting for her life,
for her safety,
for her sanity.
she has no time
to dream the fantasies
of rich kids in their beds,
or old couples nestled in.
she cannot reach the lands
of open opportunity
that beckon so many.
she only struggles to avoid
the easily reached escape
of death.


Looking Up
The world shines onto the silvery slate
Set still on the water's surface,
But do the people
And the things
Which have been pushed under
By the world
And their oppressors,
Look up and see their reflections
Upon the surface of that pool
From below?


Reputation revised
look at her smile:
the innocent expression upon
the face of that child.
she seems so happy,
so cheerful.
her heart must be floating upon the clouds,
soaring above every worry.


but who is that?
the one she is with.


his clothes are ragged and
his face is deformed by the absence of a smile.


why does she play with him?


doesn't that cute child know
that the little boy she is playing with
is not fit for her:
will only hurt her and
hurt her reputation?


someone tell that girl
that she should cease to fraternize with him,


he can only bring her HARM.


The Cry For Help revised
a sound.


( is it a voice? )


floating on crisp winds,
cutting through the cloth
draped around your quivering form.


turning around:
bracing yourself against the wind.


your eyes can see no one,
and in dissapointment,
you turn back once again.


further you walk,
foot following foot:
a trail of footprints,
and short lived clouds
of warm air.


a sound whispering into your ear.


( are you imagining it? )


you turn,
but there is no one,
there is nothing.


you turn again,
but there is nothing still.


you stop,
and you hear the sound.


now as you turn,
you can hear the sound more clearly:
a faint whisper.


a crushing wonder
begins to course through your mind.


strange feelings of familiarity
dance around in your thoughts.


the sound:
louder,
clearer.


" Help! "


where does the cry originate?


someone is in distress,
but you cannot see them.


fear suddenly overwhelms.


you start to pull off your glove.
exposing your hand to the cold.


and you lift your frigid fingers up to your face.


and they come to rest,
on the frozen lips
that cry


" Help! "


The Nectar
The jumbled mess
Of colors, echoes, and perfumes
Is shivering,
And quivering,
And collapsing into
One thick stream
Of liquified sound, smell, and sight.
Dripping into the voids
Of other dimensions,
Is the nectar
That I am craving.
It is so appealing to my soul,
But I have no beak,
And the nectar I seek
Is a poison,
That would cause the death,
That life was meant
To postpone.


The Tear
She tried to think
Of some way to let me know,
To let me know
How much she cared,
Something to show what she would do
To keep me.
She did the most
Anyone could ask for -
She shed a tear:
A sign of her deep pain,
An offering of a part of herself,
To me -
And only me.


Liquified
A sorrowful tear
Slid from her cloudy eye.
All the suffering
Condensing into tiny drops,
Of a substance
Appearing to be water,
But is actually just
Highly condensed,
Liquified,
Pain.


Outstretched Arms of Darkness
upon the mount,
high above
against the setting sun,
lies an object
protruding from the soil.
ordinary,
far from unusual,
yet it will leave significance
for centuries
to follow.
wars will be fought
in honor of it.
lives will be born
at the foot of it.
countries will form
in the shadow of it.
from the ashes left
when it is burnt,
will spring
the next generation
living under its presence.


the sun shining past it,
shadows filling the gaps.
from down here below,
an outline of darkness
against the blaze,
shows us the outstretched arms
of the cross,
and every life
nailed to it.


Multiple Facets of Frustration
how can you ever look at someone
and see all sides of them?
everyone is stubborn
and refuses but to show
a few sides of their being.
and every time we scratch
their crystalline surface,
they crack,
but turn to another facet
and keep on acting -
the cheek that keeps on turning,
and the tears
that keep on drying.


you want to know
all that is possible
about this person of your fancy,
yet they need to press forth
the image,
they have rolling off the assembly line
in their basements.


it is ripping up the weeds
around your prized plants,
only to come back
and find,
that the plants you saved,
were actually the weeds.
it is stepping onto a shiny marble floor
and having everyone stare,
as your feet leave a scratch
blazing your trail.
and you retrace your steps,
hopeing the scars will go away.


the infuriating people
who burst into our lives,
wishing to dominate and control,
and to struggle with them
is to dig your own grave,
and carve your own tombstone.
the only thing more painful
then dealing with the hidden assassin
is to wade in the tears
that fell from eyes
pierced by the fallen crown
of thorns.
The Woman You've Forgotten
The customary presence
Of a middle-age blossom
Fills the house,
But goes unseen.
Her radiance
On days gone by
Was enough to drive you wild
With the passion and desire
That came so easily
With youth.
The beauty has never left,
It has only changed:
Matured
With the maturing of her soul.
Her body holds more beauty now,
Than it ever did
Squeezed into tight clothes,
With legs running bare.
Her beauty is deep,
It does not vanish
With the scratches of time.
The completeness of her beauty
Could drive your heart
As it did in youth,
Only if,
Your eyes hadn't blinded
To the beauty
Which you have mistakenly
Taken for granted.


The Turn
she kneels down,
pulling the red sweater
down,
onto the little boy.
brushing his hair back into shape
with her delicate hand,
she stares into his eyes
and releases her love for him
in a short burst of code:
a smile.
the young boy,
filled with mother's love
runs off to play
with childhood friends.


left alone,
the woman recomposes herself
as she stares after him.
she slowly rises
from where she had knelt,
and with extreme reluctance
she turns away,
and walks off.


the youth turns back
and as his eyes follow her,
he sees her hair grow gray,
her skin fold,
and her steps slow
until one last step -
and she has disappeared.
then he turns around,
kneels down,
and fixes the blue shirt
of his child,
as he stares deep
and smiles.


The Mime's Invisible Box
Her life has been taken from her.
she no longer has control,
for she can barely survive.
she has no more dreams
of a picture perfect future,
she just wishes she could escape this day:
run off to her apartment,
to hide from the pain,
the fears,
and the disappointment
of the life she leads.
she never dreams of grandeur,
she just hopes for survival.
fighting for her life,
for her safety,
for her sanity.
she has no time
to dream the fantasies
of rich kids in their beds,
or old couples nestled in.
she cannot reach the lands
of open opportunity
that beckon so many.
she only struggles to avoid
the easily reached escape
of death.


Looking Up
The world shines onto the silvery slate
Set still on the water's surface,
But do the people
And the things
Which have been pushed under
By the world
And their oppressors,
Look up and see their reflections
Upon the surface of that pool
From below?


Reputation revised
look at her smile:
the innocent expression upon
the face of that child.
she seems so happy,
so cheerful.
her heart must be floating upon the clouds,
soaring above every worry.


but who is that?
the one she is with.


his clothes are ragged and
his face is deformed by the absence of a smile.


why does she play with him?


doesn't that cute child know
that the little boy she is playing with
is not fit for her:
will only hurt her and
hurt her reputation?


someone tell that girl
that she should cease to fraternize with him,


he can only bring her HARM.


The Cry For Help revised
a sound.


( is it a voice? )


floating on crisp winds,
cutting through the cloth
draped around your quivering form.


turning around:
bracing yourself against the wind.


your eyes can see no one,
and in dissapointment,
you turn back once again.


further you walk,
foot following foot:
a trail of footprints,
and short lived clouds
of warm air.


a sound whispering into your ear.


( are you imagining it? )


you turn,
but there is no one,
there is nothing.


you turn again,
but there is nothing still.


you stop,
and you hear the sound.


now as you turn,
you can hear the sound more clearly:
a faint whisper.


a crushing wonder
begins to course through your mind.


strange feelings of familiarity
dance around in your thoughts.


the sound:
louder,
clearer.


" Help! "


where does the cry originate?


someone is in distress,
but you cannot see them.


fear suddenly overwhelms.


you start to pull off your glove.
exposing your hand to the cold.


and you lift your frigid fingers up to your face.


and they come to rest,
on the frozen lips
that cry


" Help! "


The Nectar
The jumbled mess
Of colors, echoes, and perfumes
Is shivering,
And quivering,
And collapsing into
One thick stream
Of liquified sound, smell, and sight.
Dripping into the voids
Of other dimensions,
Is the nectar
That I am craving.
It is so appealing to my soul,
But I have no beak,
And the nectar I seek
Is a poison,
That would cause the death,
That life was meant
To postpone.


The Tear
She tried to think
Of some way to let me know,
To let me know
How much she cared,
Something to show what she would do
To keep me.
She did the most
Anyone could ask for -
She shed a tear:
A sign of her deep pain,
An offering of a part of herself,
To me -
And only me.


Liquified
A sorrowful tear
Slid from her cloudy eye.
All the suffering
Condensing into tiny drops,
Of a substance
Appearing to be water,
But is actually just
Highly condensed,
Liquified,
Pain.


Outstretched Arms of Darkness
upon the mount,
high above
against the setting sun,
lies an object
protruding from the soil.
ordinary,
far from unusual,
yet it will leave significance
for centuries
to follow.
wars will be fought
in honor of it.
lives will be born
at the foot of it.
countries will form
in the shadow of it.
from the ashes left
when it is burnt,
will spring
the next generation
living under its presence.


the sun shining past it,
shadows filling the gaps.
from down here below,
an outline of darkness
against the blaze,
shows us the outstretched arms
of the cross,
and every life
nailed to it.


Multiple Facets of Frustration
how can you ever look at someone
and see all sides of them?
everyone is stubborn
and refuses but to show
a few sides of their being.
and every time we scratch
their crystalline surface,
they crack,
but turn to another facet
and keep on acting -
the cheek that keeps on turning,
and the tears
that keep on drying.


you want to know
all that is possible
about this person of your fancy,
yet they need to press forth
the image,
they have rolling off the assembly line
in their basements.


it is ripping up the weeds
around your prized plants,
only to come back
and find,
that the plants you saved,
were actually the weeds.
it is stepping onto a shiny marble floor
and having everyone stare,
as your feet leave a scratch
blazing your trail.
and you retrace your steps,
hopeing the scars will go away.


the infuriating people
who burst into our lives,
wishing to dominate and control,
and to struggle with them
is to dig your own grave,
and carve your own tombstone.
the only thing more painful
then dealing with the hidden assassin
is to wade in the tears
that fell from eyes
pierced by the fallen crown
of thorns.
Table of Contents Words Never Spoken. Copyright © 1991 by Matte Elsbernd. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.