the chiding autumn ~ a midsummer night's dream

I know now that I have been hiding from myself – okay, that’s not entirely true. It’s not that I’ve been hiding per se, but I think I’ve been attempting to sometimes allow my heart to be dictated by what I supposed I should be. I didn’t really realize that I been held captive within the confines of my own restraints. I’ve built walls, I’ve put up fortresses around pieces of myself I didn’t know I was trying to hide from others. I pride myself on loving people completely, always being myself. Despite my complete idiosyncrasies of not being able to handle silly things like weird noises that people make with their mouths, or the irritation I feel when I hear “I love you” carelessly tossed about one’s lips, almost in the same tone as “Hey, what’s up?” – cause then I don’t feel it necessary to reciprocate the phrase, which can come across as heartless. And pondering all of these little things, I have, somewhat unknowingly, kept friends apace with my non-compliance of the heart.

I have often said things as removed from emotion as: “I love you as much as my inability to love allows me to.” – which isn’t quite truthful in concept. I have a lot of love to give. I love everyone. In fact, sometimes I think I love too much, but when it comes down to the pressures of love, the expectations of love, I fall apart. Sometimes I can be so affectionate, and sometimes receiving affection is like hearing someone relentlessly fumbling with a candy wrapper during a production of Swan Lake, when the music is lilting and mesmerizing, as the ballerina is fluttering to her death amongst a pile of feathers on stage, and all you can focus on is that damn candy wrapper being tormented between the weathered hands of the idiot behind you. Yeah, sometimes love is like that.

I know I don’t have to hide anymore though. It’s okay to feel love differently toward different people, and it’s okay to express it glowingly on some days, and cinch it closed beneath pursed lips on others.

The leaves are falling outside my window right now, and as each branch becomes less clothed with it’s summertime companions, the tree seems a bit lighter, a bit more free; yet all the leaves seem to chase the others as they glide through the wind, gathering in sepia piles at the tree’s roots. No matter how hard they try to cling to his limbs, they can’t help but let go eventually and fly away with their seasonal pals. After all the leaves are gone, the tree is still there, still watching the world go by, still welcoming the birds to his branches, and the squirrels to his nuts (sorry, I couldn’t resist) - warming his soul in the sun, and sleeping in the moonlight, keeping post in the neighborhood under the street lamps. I wonder if he’s happy. For so much of the year, he has no choice in the matter of friendships. The leaves stay with him whether he welcomes them or not. But when winter teases their loyalty, they find humor in providing piles of fun for children’s games, as their little hands and feet scamper through the crispy outlines of the parched foliage. As the tree stands through the seasons, he meets so many. And knows that next spring, a whole new gathering of leaves will join him, and remain steadily loyal throughout the fall.

I feel as though, perhaps it’s always a bit like fall within my heart, never wanting to have anyone cling to me too tightly, so that as they fall away, I can smile and watch them from afar, admiring the qualities I’ve loved of them, and knowing that a piece of them will always remain with me. But it’s nice to love and let go, to have friends who come and go. It’s nice to endure the seasons with different picturesque views, each one different from the one before it, and yet equally as beautiful. And sometimes, there are leaves so spectacular that you can’t help but want to keep it pressed tightly within the confines of your scrapbook; but that’s when you examine it carefully, place it amongst the others, and know that one day, when you’re walking down the street, and you stub your toe, and mumble curses about how awful your day has been, the wind will blow just right, and that leaf will be at your fingertips, reminding you that even when you let go for a while, the most beautiful things will return to you -- if you hope, love, and allow your heart to believe that the fates do exist.

after a guilded butterfly ~ coriolanus i.iii

For Denice Hicks, my mentor, my muse, my friend.


January eyes swimming in a dark roast
beneath cerulean skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts dance between her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.

Cobblestones and weary bricks
measure a lonely street,
counting patterns,
counting feet.
Awaiting that forgotten man
who comes to sit awhile,
burbon tears slipping through his broken smile,
forget-me-nots reaching for his sole
breezes pushing past his shadow-
fireflies on patrol.

January eyes, an unmasked Muse,
in disguise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts woven through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.

Concrete steps and paper bags,
a simple home this lonely street,
quieting his whimpers,
quieting his feet.
He's forgotten life,
no more to dream,
newspaper headlines cushion his sleep,
burbon tears fall silently
down his wrinkled face,
no one to care for him;
his soldiered friends turned to epitaphs,
left alone-
battlefields haunt his shadows,
no more to love,
not even a trace.

January eyes drowning in blackened waters
beneath the ashen skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts mending through her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.

Stepping stones bound with leather and spines,
covered in dust;
words within,
words to trust.
A fairy queen and lovers' quarrels-
stately kings, crowned with laurels.
A ghostly father,
a son's murmured speech,
a tempest whirling 'neath a nectarine sky,
breezes sifting through the pages-
this Muse awakening moments
within reach.

January eyes, uplifting yesterdays
in humbled reprise,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts beating with the rhythm of her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.

A pebbled past and wearied soul,
overcome by poetic measures.
He's counting sunsets,
counting treasures.
He longs to remember tomorrow,
pushing past his sorrow.
Sunny tears encircle his crooked smile.
She reaches for his soul,
whispering music past his lighted shadow;
she has played her role.

January eyes peering through a locked door,
beneath the Poet's skies,
sing to me Shakespeare's lullabyes.
Hearts unlocked with her fingertips,
her gestures wise;
brushstrokes of antique cinnamon
soar through butterfly goodbyes.