A sweet repose of soul
In summer-studded evening;
The calm before the storm,
The pause before believing.
Will he laugh like raw honey,
With fine, flaxen hair?
As calm as the willow,
All noble and fair?
Or maybe a tempest,
Long-loved by the moon;
The songs we composed,
Revealed to us soon.
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Summer’s earth lets spring forth a new blade,
Just as she sustains a great tree.
Her rains made aplenty by His guiding hand,
The joy of Creation, e’er plain to see.
His fragile heartbeat entwined with her breath,
The babe in the womb is dependent on one,
As the tide seeks its path by the light of the moon,
As a young flower yearns for the sun.
What a blessing it is to be host to His love,
To feel movements drawn out by His hand,
The promise of new life within me;
A mustard seed hewn from the sand. -
Atlantis in the blue
Gleaming, lost and sunken,
Like starlets in the pictures,
Their opulence forgotten.
Did lovers twirl in chambers dim,
Their heady romance blooming?
Did writers pen their tale of yore,
While death was surely looming?
Another side to every coin,
It's golden age gone by,
For everything- a season,
A time to live and die. -
The landslide of time is as sure as the sky And soon, at no fault of its own, It will yellow the photographs, letters, and books, As children will outgrow their homes. It started at recess when girls whispered low, Of fevered obsession with highlighted hair, With daiquiri lip gloss, shaving their legs Or trying on clothes only mothers would wear. It must’ve been then when the landslide began, The playground girls offering up all they knew, Now their past’s behind rose-colored glasses, Only remembered by much too-small shoes. The avalanche claimed them at their request, Each boulder a decade; a damning decree, While I took cover under my baby face, Wondering why I couldn’t just “be.” In the summer-soaked fields where I learned to walk, Where popsicle tongues and sidewalk chalk hands, Would greet me in earnest and let me recall, What it was to be young in this far-away land. Nostalgia was knawing and before I knew, I tired of hiding from time with no end. I surrendered myself to the rocks and remains; Each felt like the loss of a once-sacred friend. Though bruises there bloomed from time’s harsh assault, An odd sense of peace would envelope me soon, When I saw the sculpture formed up by debris, As I looked down in the light of the moon. Each stone that had plummeted past on its way, Was a precious piece of my girlhood gone by, Slowly forming a masterpiece made just for me, Each rock a remembrance, a star in my sky.
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I. I think on the moon in a dark, starless sky Does she still remember who beneath her cried On an evening like this, with twilight on high; The tears shed hundreds of years ago Before the great war, before the cock crowed? Do the clouds hold memories of our love, Of those who embraced with them up above, Of medieval lovers, who history forgot Does the sunset recall the future they sought? How wondrous a thought that the dusk and the dawn, Hold sights we can share with those dead and gone. II. I spy in the mirror a nose I despise, On a sallow-skinned woman with overgrown eyes Both her waist and her figure not quite the right size- Though my harrowing monologue comes to an end, When I stop to peer through an old hand-me-down lens, Where an ocular tour through my own family tree Reveals branches of women who smile back at me. One with teeth not quite white and pale yellow skin, One who snorts when she laughs, and her arms paper-thin Hold a babe at her hip and her love by her side My own insecurity was once their great pride.
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I am nothing if not a woman, Apologies on painted lips, My head always diverted By my heart's fervent eclipse. If my heart is made of moonlight, Then my skin is tender lace Handle with care, or I may tear, Guilt's rosy stain upon my face. 'Tis true my soul is fragile, Melancholy as the dove, But scarce are men as willing To pour out all they have of love. To bleed and cry for all to see, To swallow pride at any length, This pow'r is one unknown to men- Vulnerability as strength.
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I see him in alleyways lost in the gloom As oft as I spy him disguised in my room As the burning of candles, by the heat of the flame Or a push down the stairs- it’s to him all the same. I catch him in headlights that speed by too fast, And all of a sudden my die has been cast, I spot his gaunt outline in fluorescent glow, While I stall in a waiting room somewhere below. Obscurity masks his intentions for me And I still am not safe while behind lock and key, So I garnish myself with his grave souvenirs A vase of dead violets, a skull on my ear. Will then he look kindly at my sallow face As he vows to exclude me from his sure embrace? No- but he’ll see my odd penchant for woe And perhaps until then I’ll be friend and not foe.
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Loneliness rises like bile in my throat As I take to heart that solemn decree, Their inside jokes and bouts of laughter Never, it seems, are they meant for me.
The treasure of girlhood, so distant it seems, When friendship was sure as pinkies that swear, A promise forged clear with nothing amiss, Before we were caught in complacency's snare.
Visions of welcome play through my mind's eye, Where a best friend is waiting to skip hand in hand, To listen to secrets and whisper at dusk, Our memories count more than there are grains of sand.
I hear the whole party as it echoes above, As if I'm in the cellar and they're in a cloud, Frantically trying to pick the right lock, Lest I be swallowed by anonymity's shroud.
I scream and I shout but no one can hear And I'm yearning to catch just a glimpse of my fate When the lock finally gives, but I've struggled in vain As a single unoccupied chair there awaits.
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Like the mottled cream spots on the mother deer’s hide, So do eventide dreams paint the back of my mind When my eyes flutter shut in twilight’s embrace, ‘Tis in that quiet hour when I glimpse of her face. She warms at my touch yet she says not a word, A renaissance portrait, always seen but ne’er heard, Akin to the moon is the glow of her face, As soft as the meadow, as dainty as lace. The curve of her hip and the plush of her thigh, Her faultlessness haunts me as midnight grows nigh, Through Sicily’s temples and halls painted red, Through Scotland’s dark castles and streets she has tread. Ambition flows through her like blood to the heart, The world and its travelers all drawn to her art Like bees to their honey or moths to the flame, All beauty-starved people have whispered her name. But as dawn starts her quest towards the brightening sky, Her silhouette shatters as night says “Good-bye.” I plead to my mirror that her face there I see, But I am not her, And she still is not me.
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Kaleidoscope pictures that never will be, Swim behind eyes that no longer see; In each: a miniature what, where and when, An infinitesimal “what could’ve been.” If I’d not been lazy, anxious, or shy, If I’d only dared to dream up one more “why?” Will my long reverie prove only pretend? Will I leave behind nothing but dust in the wind? A moment’s repose I never can buy, Nor can I escape through the close of my eye, For kaleidoscope visions dance through my head, They taunt me in turquoise, violet and red. As I fall down the rabbit-hole, Impending doom Follows me into a dimly-lit room, And there I am merely a brick in the wall, My life’s greatest fear to which I am thrall.
Eliza Cameron Poetry 