This is all I know.
First, you come.
Then, you go.
This is all.
I know.
I know.
It is all I can know.
Yet something shows
from hidden places
up and below.
Something unbidden
that hints at more, longer;
that feels better, stronger.
Where does more come from?
Where does more go?
Where did I come from?
Where shall I go?
It is never enough
this life that I know.
This is all?
Can this be so?
I want to know.
I want to know.
I want to know.
Filed under POETRY
After the heaving winds of Winter
blow across the face of Earth
dropping heavy rains in ceaseless floods,
the blazing winds of Summer force heat waves
upon plains and forests and fire up
an atmosphere of heat and drought.
The plants in my garden are anchored
beyond the sound of my pleading voice
begging them to live , if not for me,
then for every butterfly and bee
as if Earth might survive
by some miracle, as have I;
beyond cancer scares and chronic ME,
and fibromyalgia that brings me to my knees.
Yet, like Earth I continue to survive
and even thrive.
No future generations of my DNA
will I leave behind, but seeds
that blow on restless winds and bury their heads
in fertile soil across the garden I have spread,
and breed new life in a new garden
long after I am gone.
This may be my only immortality.
Or, perhaps there is more
in a place yet unseen but hoped for in my dreams,
built on faith and fed by love
Felt in such ecstasy of our union,
its solidarity a true communion
where we explore the truth that
we are not alone, anymore.
The whole world, not merely Earth
is ours to explore,
building hopeful memories to outlast
the fear of loneliness from the past.
Our loving connection gives such strength
even death cannot break the bonds
of love and life meant to survive an eternity.
We are in this together, you and I.
One thing I know for sure;
like the garden, our love will never die.
Memories of bridal veils and sharp edged crinolines
biting the legs, seated and held still in quiet pews,
hands tight on rosary beads, Grandma’s gifted pearls, twisted,
turning, clacking, in anxious prayer.
Feet planted on kneelers already down
to hold aloft tiny feet in lace-edged socks
in white leather shoes with silver buckles.
Seldom seen relatives from far and near appear
to grace the day so full of grace it overflows
until the urge to flee such attention lightens the air
and breath seems a solemn plea to rise and go.
As my memories do because there he sits,
solemn and silent, and ready as I am never,
with a strength and wisdom so rare
it settles the soul and stiffens the mind
reminding us of the moment soon to arrive
when Grace itself takes form in the Host,
a thought so alive we all rise to process up the aisle
all smiles of delight light us inside and out
as the Host melts on the tongue and our hearts shout
God is alive! As am I. As am I!
Unconditional love exists in this moment of bliss,
in communion with all others, our sisters and brothers
within a family, a church, a neighborhood block,
a city, a nation, an entire world
of people to love and bring inside hearts opened wide.
No human assessment of follies,
no judgement of errors done and undone,
no constant surveillance of sins yet assessed.
On this day
with this child
one only feels blessed.
Too many today feel disaffection
expecting a loving connection
where none is possible.
Independence is overrated
in a culture soaked in sex
and self-gratification.
What bonds can be created
when self-focus reigns supreme
and dodges vulnerability
at every opportunity.
What love can grow in such infertility?
Have we lost the basic ability
to fall in love, to wrap in feeling
the deepest needs we fear to speak?
Courage! Courage! Take the risk to try
to open your heart, deep and wide.
Yes, love may fail. It almost certainly will.
But taking love’s ride is such a thrill.
Grab that hand. Touch that cheek.
Allow your deepest longings to speak.
Perhaps this one will
be the one who listens
with a heart ready to be filled
with you.
Filed under POETRY
I have outlived my own mother,
one like no other, as yours must be ,too.
A mother who labored to bring me to life
then labored every day after
to create a world of joy and laughter,
joined by my father with teasing whiles
who kept a joke ready for when I most needed smiles.
Life struggles were an everyday event
twisted into humor at every bent.
Nothing could really bring us down
so long as we could laugh and play the clown.
Long gone are my parents, to play other venues
where they must have been needed,
while I continue to live honored and feted.
Happy birthday to me, yes, it is indeed
thanks to two people whose love brought forth
a daughter who could never fully explain their worth.
Being loved teaches love of self passed on to others.
Brought to each of us by our fathers and mothers,
if we are lucky enough to join such hearts.
Such love breaks every sorrow apart.
And, love leads to laughter beyond the here-after.
I still feel Dad’s touch tousling my hair
as Mom grunted a sigh of despair
at some forbidden lark I had dared.
I still sense their dismay when I leap into a fray
they would wish I had avoided,
or take a risky challenge simply to brighten my day.
I hear their voices of warning advising how to proceed.
Their teachings continue to meet my every need.
They may be gone beyond my sight
but they continue to live within a greater light
that fills the heart and seeds the mind just right
that I see Dad’s grin on my face as I pass a mirror,
or hear mom’s lilt as I sing at the kitchen sink,
recalling her tilt into dad’s arms as he gave me a wink.
Each day my parents gave to me
is wrapped like a present in distant memory.
I am thankful for the life they gave to me.
Filed under POETRY
A heart cannot break
when it has been given away
and held in another’s embrace,
by layers so deep, love so strong
it finds the place where it belongs
The heart can neither crack nor flake
held safely against the heart of the other,
strengthened and treasured
by steel bands and grateful hands
that strengthen not only the bond
but the heart itself.
With each giving the heart grows stronger,
fearful and doubtful no longer,
until nothing exists
which could tear it apart.
There is nothing so strong
as a loving heart.
Filed under POETRY
I stand by the gate and yearn.
I did not build the fence.
It serves a purpose, I suppose.
I did not build the gate.
There was no intent to close
the being standing here inside.
I stand by the gate and yearn,
by the gate which keeps you away.
It has no lock.
You could lift the latch.
But, you simply wave and walk by.
I stand by the gate and yearn.
For what, I no longer know.
It was not always so.
There was a time
when you would have leapt over
the fence, the gate, any enclosure.
Now, you walk by and wave.
I remember now. I yearn
for you.
Filed under POETRY
Oh, Sun!
You have reappeared.
Yes, I flirt with clouds.
I love their changing shape,
the shadows they cast
across the landscape.
But, it is you I hold most dear.
My heart begins to race
seeing your warm and loving face,
as every day you draw more near,
and stay longer in my embrace.
Ah, Sun, your hot touch thrills
until my heart stills
then beats along with yours.
Oh, Sun, my Sun, my love!
Filed under POETRY
Where does passion go?
Why does it flee before it is spent?
Has it no sense of time, nor pace?
What does one do with a heart rent
by passion’s too swift flow?
How empty is a life bereft of passion.
How lonely is a passionless soul.
Time stands still and lingers in empty space
covered in ash from burned-out coal.
The need to re-light passion is out of fashion.
Where does passion go?
I, certainly, do not know.
Filed under POETRY
Thanksgiving has always meant more to me
than the holiday we celebrate happily
seated among broadened family.
It also means Angelo’s birthday.
He was born two years before I
on Thanksgiving Day,
and every 7 years or so
we could celebrate both joys
on the same day, November 28.
He has been gone too long,
yet memory remains
of a big brother
like no other.
A Sicilian American boy born
American to the bone,
Italian to the heart
whose need to be the Prince
was never questioned
except by me,
his pesty sister
who believed
she was his equal
in every way
on every day
in every play
trailing the gangly group of boys
across the street
down the alley
up the trees
over the banks
into the river
despite the words
“GO HOME”
where I would
have to play alone.
And so he let me stay.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 