Rays of Sunlight

 

Sifting

through the greening trees,

slipping

past the birdsong

and the breeze,

silent,

bright...

one more reason

to get up,

to get out -

to live.

Let it snow!

The snow drifts down in thick swathes. 

Fast flakes chase each other

in swirling, slanted,

straight-down showers. 

So thick, so fast,

the driveway disappears.

The deluge is quiet. 

No sound disturbs the eerie stillness,
except for the washing machine

that groans and whines its way,

and the television that squabbles elsewhere,

and a knock upon the door

I sit and watch the quiet storm,

the large, fat flakes, the ordinary snow
that builds winter weather,

piling up outside my window.

Halloween Treat? (The Verse Version)

(This is the "poetry" version of the blog I've written over on my sister page, Soprano Notes.)

The plan had been to call in sick today 

and just stay home and chill.

The sick part came true...

Maybe this is what 54 feels like.  

It's my first time being this age, you know.

So, what am I going to do today 

to celebrate my natal day?  

I'm celebrating not having to wake up 

at 4:30 in order to get to work on time.

I'm celebrating not having to BE at work today.
 

I plan to buy me some soup,

and maybe another bottle or two of perfume.

At the very least, 

I'm going to get some more sleep

So, happy birthday to me! 

Love Waits...

In the middle of an afternoon,
lazy, like today,
I saw your face, and fires lit
like pilots in the core of me.
I admired you then...

In the middle of a morning blue,
quiet, like today,
I read your words, and storm clouds reared
like stallions in the core of me.
I wanted you then...

In the middle of an evening clear,
darkening, like today,
I felt your touch, and flames struck
like lightning at the core of me...
I needed you then...

In the middle of a midnight warm,
hungry, like today,
I hear your call, and springs well up
like fountains in the core of me...
I'll have you, then...

Copyright © 2011

Quiz Time

(This was in response to a poetry-writing challenge...I think it was to write a poem in monorhyme.  It was fun!)

The day dawned bright and fair.
Teenagers everywhere
groaned loudly at the care
that Mrs. B made clear
she wanted them to share
in writing essays rare
on Chaucer's Chaunticleer.

Boys sat with faces bare,
and wished for their own share
of lazy summer fare,
of final moments rare
where they could take a dare
and kiss the shoulders bare
of girls down at the fair.

Girls fussed on with their hair,
and wished that they could stare
with longing eyes so clear
upon the handsome pair
of new boys over there
beside the wooden chair -
one boy would only glare.

Their teacher didn't care
that boys or girls weren't there
to learn about the fare
she had prepared so fair
for their especial care.
She really was aware
of each one's angry glare,

She put each in a pair
so they could each one share
the burden and the care
of reading Chaunticleer,
and memorizing fair
the lines about the dare
that caught him fair and square.

The fox out of his lair -
the students did not care!
The boys in lather rare
their goal would not forswear.
The girls sought to ensnare
the new boys in mohair -
they were without compare!

"Quiz time!" she did declare.
She knew this was warfare,
and since she would not swear,
she needed to beware,
or else the students there
would all her goals impair -
but she did not despair.

Pinning them with a stare,
her gimlet eyes aware
that no one had a prayer,
unless they had the flare
to let their thoughts cohere
on that poor Chaunticleer,
first question hung in air...

Copyright © 2010

Nostalgia

How to say the million things that well up in my heart
when I read the words that may be meant for me,
while fumbling with the seemingly unsayable other things
that float up, without permission, into the overflowing well.

My tangled thoughts, thrashing round the inky depths,
wrangling with each other like hungry sharks circling
the chum thrown in to woo them to their capture and slaughter,
will not settle on one spot - angry, or happy, or hurting;

Muddled, whipping through my head like a wild summer storm,
with no controls in place to stop their frantic streaking pace
across the heaving, flustered quadrants of my mind, a maelstrom
in gray and blue, struggling with the dissonant nostalgia of Fall.

Copyright © 2010

The Dance

Somewhere...

on the other side of the world,

he sits,

watching her play,

hands swift to delve,

to tickle, to surprise...

for his eyes only.

Somewhere...

on the other side of the world,

she glides,

dancing round,

hands swift to part,

to open and explore...

for his eyes only

Some day...

on the other side of the world,

they meet,

giving each other

wet kisses,

hands swift to touch,

to fondle and arouse...

for their hearts only.

Today...

on the other side of the world,

they long,

sighing deep,

for touch and scent,

for thrust, and groan...

for their hearts only.

After Four

It's after four in the morning...

why are you up so late?

Is it the words I whispered,

and raised your heart rate?

It's after four in the morning...

why haven't you gone to bed?

Is it that desire you feel

at the naughty things I've said?

It's after four in the morning...

why aren't you asleep?

Is it the lust we're fighting,

the need that makes us weep?

It's after four in the morning...

why don't you come to me?

Take me, my darling, I'm open,

ready, and hungry to be!

Promise

See my tears?

I cry them for you...

Not mine the agony of soul

for chances missed

and deeds undone,

for love not given

and lives unlived.

See my eyes?

They look for you...

Still there outside the gate,

awaiting someone's hand

to push the buzzer once

and let you in.

See my heart?

It beats a steady balm

of love upon your wounded spirit,

grim and bleak and torn

and signals peace.

© Copyright 2008

Drowned

Like feet in well-worn shoes 

that rub against the sides

and feel the loosening of years,

she feels the sameness 

deadening all her tomorrows,

a numbing void of feeling,

dry, like old newspapers,

the story never told,

long overdue;

like stinking laundry,

enduring the drowning crush

of Cheer

and bleach

and dryer sheets.

Going through the motions

- the everyday routine -

the radio blasting out

the story of her life

in wailing notes on metal strings,

while dinner simmers 

on a pristine stove,

a baby's bottom washed,

an aging parent soothed,

a scuffed knee bathed and dressed,

a once-but-no-more lover

fed and watered.

The table cleared, 

the hum of busy dishwasher 

drowns her life.

The quiet evening light

sifts through her drowning eyes,

which search with fruitless stare

for some new vision

of a sharp and brilliant future.

Nothing appears 

to change the awful sameness.

The floods break through the dam

of eyelids swollen by old tears, 

newly minted

in the furnaces 

of expectations

and anticipations 

disappointed.

The familiar, no longer safe,

entombing a dying spirit.

© 2011

Daydream

Through all the little mundane things

I do each day and night,

I think about you, and I wish

thoughts would turn to delight.

I wonder if you're sleeping

As I fold the socks and shirts,

Or if you're having dinner

While I hang the frocks and skirts.

I pack the dishes, glasses first,

and wonder where you are,

or if, as I ply mop and broom,

you're wishing on a star - 

the selfsame star I wished upon,

while tucking girls in bed,

The one my eyes lit up to see,

as thoughts flew through my head.

I think of how I wish I'd see

the passion in your eyes

that blaze from every note you send,

that thrill and hypnotize.

Some day, perhaps, my wish will turn

to grand reality.

Till then, I'll just imagine you

right here, right next to me.

© 2008

Imperfect

She has lived her entire life

in fear...

of being hurt,

of being found out,

of being damned,

of losing,

of being rejected.

She has clothed herself

in invulnerability --

or tried to --

to avoid the pain

of a messy existence

where she is passionate

and imperfect.

Copyright © 2012

Conundrum: "Nothing is ordinary...everything is ordinary."

Shady Truths

I stood in the shade
and I cried...

Jumbled sounds,
like grasshoppers' wings
when they fly away
as I walk by...
like birds chirping
high in the trees
that tower above
my dappled country road.

Jumbled sights,
like sun-brightened green --
the shade of leaves
atop those towering trees...
like warning signs on trunks,
or blue skies, wispy clouds,
shining with the midday sun
on my dappled country road...

Jumbled thoughts,
like anger -- deep,
abiding, the constant
of a broken spirit...
like fear, and hurt,
and swamping regret,
crowding in, never-ending,
on my dappled country road.

I stand in the shade
and I cry...

© Copyright 2012 by Teri K D Bannerman

Red Roses

You always left me red roses...

a single one, 

lying by a steaming cup

of warm love's morning brew;

blood red,

petals tightly closed around a single point

of deep emotion.

You always left me red roses...

four or five,

sticking out above the curling paws

of red or white stuffed bears;

blood red,

petals partly opened to permit some light

to touch the soul.

You always left me red roses...

eleven or a dozen,

plumped up on heart-shaped pillows

or against white satin sheets;

blood red,

petals fully opened to receive and give

of passion's heat.

You always left me 

red roses...

Copyright © 2011 by Teri K D Bannerman

The Longing

What do we hold when the arms aren’t there for holding?
Where do we put the longing and how do we build a place
inside ourselves strong enough to endure the ache? 
When we become frantic and only the sound of our own
breath echoes through the emptiness where we can swear,
absolutely bet our lives that laughter should live, what then?
Was it always dark or did light once shine here?  Where is your
spark and why can I not feel the heat of it from where I stand?
Every minute I am not with you I can feel a piece of hope
evaporating into the ether and I have run out of strength
to reach up through the sky to try to catch it’s moisture,
to feel it land on my hands and absorb itself into my skin
and carry itself through the miles of veins that have lost
their purpose when your hands are too far from my hands and 
there is no need to rush blood to the corners of these lips,
no need to curl them into a smile for eyes that won’t see it.  
How do we stop counting the days, when it’s the hours that
taunt us and the fact will always remain that it’s every single
minute that you are not near me that attach to me like thousands
of anchors and pull me deeper beneath the surface.  I am drowning
and choking and gasping for breath but it is not the water that
I am drowning in, there are no swallowed fish in these lungs and I cannot
taste the sea.  Drowning not in water but in the sheer volume
of tears that have gone unwiped by fingers taking leave of my
hand they were holding.  Choking not on a lack of air and not
on the flavor of breath that I have forgotten but on the lack
of you and the number of moments left unshared between us.  On the
life that flows beyond us endlessly while we sit on the shore
and wait to be ready to dip our toes in, ready to jump with
our clothes on.  
Is this what you wished for on all of the candles on all of the
birthday cakes from when you were tiny?  Did you watch the smoke
rise to the ceiling and believe with all your little heart that your
wish rose with it, disappearing into everywhere the instant it was
received by whomever would do the receiving.  I want to somehow
tell you that I can feel my childhood inside me, screaming and 
slapping the walls of my chest and when those tiny hands are covered
in the red of this aching and they match the color of those tiny knees
and the weight of it all crumples his tiny body to the floor of my 
insides what then do I say?  Do I apologize and re-light every candle
he’s ever blown out in some weak and hollow attempt to repent for the
madness he will one day face, the longing he will wrap himself in?
For now I will rock him gently back to some form of calm as I raise
my left hand slightly above my face and let it hold my chest higher,
while I drop my right hand where your waist should be and I feel
my feet fumble through the familiar steps of a familiar dance.
I will dance with the ghost of you and swear that when I turn
just in the right direction or close my eyes long enough I can smell
your hair and feel the form you should be filling spill into my empty
fingers. I will hear the fabric rustle and the feet shuffle and
taste your lips on my lips and feel your heartbeat bouncing through
the cavity where I know my heart once lived before it grew tired of
this place and paid it’s last month rent and left nothing but empty
boxes and broken promises and piles of my life like dust on the floor
ready to be swept up and thrown away with all it didn’t see fit to 
pack for the trip back to you.  When the music that isn’t playing stops
and the awkward shuffling alone through the room feels sillier than
it should and I am left standing alone and dizzy will the walls whisper
to me, finally, all of the words that were left unsaid between us?
Will they mock me or will they grow soft and cradle me into them
and allow me the spared dignity of muffling my sobs with their
insulation, just for a moment, just for awhile.  
How can I see all I am missing when it is things I’ve never seen?
How do I know what your arms would look like painted with sunrise and 
the lines from the blinds on the windows? How your back will
become littered with goosebumps when by a combination of accident and
precise purpose, my fingers brush your spine as I zip and unzip
your dress?  What do I hold, where do I put this ache and how do
I stop being so frightened by the sound of my own voice echoing
back through the emptiness when it screams the words 
I Love You back to me only softer, only further away.  How do
I not feel broken when the final echo stops and the sound of 
Love and You fades into nothing once more?

~ Tyler Knott Gregson

You Who Never Arrived

You who never arrived

in my arms, Beloved, who were lost

from the start,

I don’t even know what songs

would please you. I have given up trying

to recognize you in the surging wave of

the next moment. All the immense

images in me — the far-off, deeply-felt

landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and

unsuspected turns in the path,

and those powerful lands that were once

pulsing with the life of the gods—

all rise within me to mean

you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all

the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing. An open window

in a country house—, and you almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me.

Streets that I chanced upon,—

you had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

were still dizzy with your presence and,

startled, gave back my too-sudden image.

Who knows? Perhaps the same

bird echoed through both of us

yesterday, separate, in the evening… 

~ Rainer Marie Rilke