Aging Hands

Strings of light shine on faces that hang
In the shadows that darken the walls,
And an echo of voices vibrates
In the ominous dank of the halls.

Specks of dust fall on tables and chairs
Long grown cold from the stark solitude.
Apathy sits curled up in the dark;
Head slumps over in a solemn mood.

Aging hands flip through old memories,
Photographs from a time long ago,
Lives and loves from the days that are passed,
All the close friends that I used to know.

And of all, I alone now remain,
Clinging to what I had once before.
And my memories pool in a tear
That falls into the dust on the floor.


© JMariah, 2011

Fall Splendour

Fall Splendour (Rispetto)
October 11, 2011

A murky hue invades the breeze
while sunshine kisses grass below.
And autumn’s brush paints all the trees
where birds put on an aerial show.

Then I take out my canvas white
to recreate this splendid sight.
But my rendition can’t compare
with nature’s hand splashed everywhere.

© JMariah, 2011

Note: The Rispetto poem consists of two stanzas, four lines each. It is written in iambic tetrameter, and the rhyme scheme is abab ccdd.

The Spirit of the Woods

Logs
burn in a cabin fire.
Sparks dance along their edges, where wood burns black,
and the smoke billows dark up the chimney
and smells
of cedar and pine.

Trees
like giant sentinels overlook the cabin.
A cool Autumn breeze combs their branches
and dances the leaves of their hair.
Slow rain runs over the cracks of their skin,
and the aroma of their spirit rises above the smoke
and smells
of cedar and pine.


© JMariah, 2011

I'm Not There Yet

A wind blows menacingly
through the stitches of my cardigan,
buttoned to my neck.
I'm not there yet.

Whoo! Whoo!
it whistles in cold tendrils
that lap around my ears
and neck.
Whoo are you
and where do you think you're going?
it seems to mock
as I pinch my clothing
tighter to my chest.

I'm a poet,
born out of sadness
and chiselled from the hardness
of life.
I'm walking a dark, windy road.
I know where I want to be
and I'll know the place
once I get there.
I'm just not there yet.


© JMariah, 2011

Not My Fault

It's hardly my fault
that he leaves her
wandering
along the beach at night
in her tattered wedding gown,
faded with age.
It's hardly my fault
that she cries
whenever she looks
at the paled line
around her ring finger,
the empty space stained
with the dreams
he snatched away.
And it's hardly my fault
that his feet
have retraced their steps
to the place where we met
and that he has gently lain his head
on my breast
and taken his last breath
wrapped
in my arms.


© JMariah, 2011

Cold Night

Water marks dot the cheeks
that roll over against a pillow.
Sheets divide
in the middle of the night
and a leg is exposed to the cold.
A sniffle echoes
into the dark,
and eyes clamp a tight hold
on a dream
she can't let go.


© JMariah, 2011

The Sound Of Their Moment

There's a stirring in the night
where images come together
and bump into each other.
They are blind to the light
and fall away so quickly
that lightning
flashes between the dust
of their falling.

Hands come together in a hush,
whispering their groans
to the wind,
afraid of the after effects
of their touch. They are brave,
but pull away
when eyes scan their moment
from the present
and demand a reason
for the games they ignite between them.

And it is night now.

Sounds move against the sheets
that rub against bare skin,
where she is still watching;
she is still asking questions
and wanting the riding to stop.

She sleeps.
And images come together against the night.
They clash against her thinking
and insight night terrors.
She knows me,
though we've never met.


© JMariah, 2011