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. |