rebecca_v's blog

I am
the clock's second hand.

Secondhand like smoke
on a winter morning from a necessary cigarette,
and you are shivering
and watch the ashes fall.

Falling like the leaves
on the trees here.
The scent of summer growing older,
greying
like the anecdotes it's told a thousand times.
A thousand and one.

One moment and we can disappear;
and would it look beautiful,
a ball of fire hurtling toward Earth?
A poem to tell the tale,
scribbled in a moment before
the flames turned us to dust.

Dusting the pictures frames on the mantel,
there is a child with somber eyes

Deep down there is Love,
hiding in your stomach, curled among your thighs.
Deep within the muscle,
it hibernates,
its eyes fluttering in a dream-sleep-dream world
of make believe.

You've lived without it for some time now,
you've given all the extra Love away,
saved none for yourself

and you can feel it.

Can feel it in the mirror
when the world seems to small for anything real.
Can feel it in your empty hands
at sunset
when you yearn to share your warmth.
Can feel it in a bird's love song,

Why can't anyone sing just for you?

And you try to cry it out,

I memorize the landscape of your skin.
A minute wrinkle behind your ear,
a line of freckles like soldiers,
crossing the bridge of your nose.

Your hand shifts as you dream,
and I fold my own into yours, fitting the crevices of our palms
together.
Melding skin and we are one.

Your eyes flit open as I whisper in your ear,
couldn't resist,
the gentlest voice.
My heart stands still when I see your eyes again,
blue like a forget-me-not,
and I never will forget.

How could I doubt
the touch of your hand on my back, my neck?
How could I doubt you
at all?

I'll miss the world when I am gone.
But I imagine how beautiful it will look
as I fly amongst the clouds,

a life only I have seen,
as it flashes before my eyes
and then the softness of the air
will envelope me tight.
Embraced by heaven as I leave everything behind.

And I stand here and see the milling beings
like ants below my feet.
"Come on down, love, there is so much more
to life."

More than the wind like breath upon my cheek,
wrapped in the arms of a lover, my Earth?
More than the freedom before gravity pulls me down,
when I am an child's experiment;

You were covered with dust when I found you.
Hidden away in the corner,
discarded.
Perhaps forgotten,
but I saved you.

Your skin was turning grey,
but I could see the rouge beneath,
painted on long ago.
And I imagined you shivering through the winters,
left without even a blanket
to soothe you in your lonely years.

Doll face,
doll eyes,
beautiful but locked away.

How does it feel to be set free?

It is dangerous to love like this.
At any moment
you could escape
from the tower in which I have locked you.

And I would sit there in the evenings,
as I always had,
and imagine
how you could leave so suddenly.

But for now
I hold key
on a chain 'round my neck.
And you sleep safe beside me in our tower,
and you dream only of sweet things.

My darling, don't contemplate that open window,
don't dream of worlds outside.
Stay in the tower in my heart,
enveloped in my dangerous love.

Dangerous,
as I could not bear a world,
where I couldn't call you mine.

I remember that night.
You told me that you'd given up.
And you weren't lying.

Because I knew there was another girl
for you, out there.
A happy girl,
who could trust.
Who could love you.
Who never worried, and maybe even

kissed better than me.

It's okay,
I understand.
I would've given up

too.

You gave me your worries.

But I hide them like
you never could.
My panic attacks happen
after midnight
when no one can hear my wheezing,
choking on sobs and fear.

I wonder if you drove them all away
too. If you never let them in
because
it meant they'd have to know.
No one knows
about me.

And did they tell you
you were over-reacting?
And you were the cause of the force
pulling everything apart?

And did you cherish
those that loved you - almost?
They were your back-up plan;
called in when you tore the real love
apart.

Do you wear the mask
that I wear?

And aren't we all desperate
for a savior on that long stretch of road?
And when you see me through the panes,
smudged with fingertips and smoke,
will I look beautiful to you?

Perhaps I am more in tune here,
when I am alone,
trying and trying to call you on the phone,
but you can't hear it ringing.

Maybe I'll just stay here for the night,
wait it out,
call you when you want to listen again.
When it isn't so dark,
and I am not so lonely.

Tonight I'll be a Phone Booth girl.
Won't be afraid of the dark,
not, not here,
behind these glass walls.

Can you promise me
your voice?
Your sacred skin?
The sounds of your chest,
your heart?

Can you promise me
the wind
in your hair?
The red in your cheek,
snowflakes in your lashes?

Can you promise me
the Earth,
the ground we've walked?
The taste of ocean in your breath?
The sun that lingers in your eye?

Let me see my world,
promise me your love.

I picture you
in places that I've never seen,
and will never see.

They burrow behind my eyes
and I dream of them.
And you are there.
You guide me.

I cry there,
really weep,
because no one can see me.
And that is how I like it.

And you don't think I am cold,
hard, made of stone
there.

I am still young and fresh there,
in this place I'll never see.

When salty stars ask me to change

I pick prisoners from the stream.
They laugh like glass.
They are old,
but brilliant.

My velvet secrets.

Remember the translucent smile.
This sacred voice,
warm, slow, moist.
the lingering throb.

Pictures that seep.
They surround you with rot,
a prisoner beneath the glass.

This is a dream,
I'll do what I please
and so I dance like a fool
on that street.
It may be nameless;
if it has a name
I don't care about it.

The windows are open in those
cookie-cutter houses made of gingerbread,
glues with frosting and too beautiful to eat.
Child eyes stare
as I scream
"Bloody murder! Lord please save me!"
I don't believe in God

but this is a dream,
so I'll do what I please.

If she could see me now
she'd laugh.
"You've finally lost it." She'd sneer.
Her laughter maniacal, angry.
But this is just a dream.

I lay in the street,

Maybe you are leaving.
And it is the maybe
that kills me.

That enormous perhaps that hangs over us
like a fog.
We rest in its midst,
forced into silence.

I didn't love you enough,
I know that now.
But isn't that always the way it is?

We've touched lives
gracefully and courageously.
We have sobbed together,
and yet we do not see the weakness
that hides deep within.

Perhaps,
Maybe,
I knew you would leave someday.
Just remember the dreams we made,
formed and molded to each other.

Just remember me.

I'm going to consider podcasting this soon

[Verse 1]
She was a dreamer.
A run-away, hide-your-face girl.
She lived like an orphan
in a house down the street,
and fell asleep in her own world.

[Verse 2]
She wasn't easy.
Her face was a graveyard,
her heart like a canvas
brushed clean.
And she'd been forgotten by the whole world
but me.

[Chorus]
Oh, lonely eyes
kiss me goodnight,
I pray by your window that you'll see me
here tonight.
And when you are drowning,
let lonely arms hold you down tight.

Dear I can save you,
with only a glimpse.

The world was grey
the day he left.
The day he "up and floated away"
like those old southern belles turned housewives would say,
pouring iced tea for their youngsters.

It looked like rain,
and the world was grey,
and the Earth couldn't feel him
any longer.

Perhaps he was caught off guard,
perhaps he screamed like a madman,
clung for dear life to this Earth he loved so.

But I believe he knew he couldn't stay long.
I believe he let himself fall into the sky,
fall into that grey world.

I believe he is happier there than I could ever make him
down here on this Earth.

If you could read her lips
her words would be mundane.
"You never put your hat on straight."
or
"You're too darn tall."
Her tone exasperated, perhaps.

But from here I can only see her eyes,
and they are smiling.

If you could read his mind
his thoughts would be routine.
She's always got to have things her way.
or
She's still got those nice eyes.

But from here I can see only his smile,
and it speaks volumes.

This is love in it's seniority.
It forgets the minute details.

iii.
I pretend I am asleep
on Friday nights after Mum leaves
for the night shift
and Daddy snores on the couch.

I pretend so I can see Darcy,
silent and sad,
prepare herself for the evening.
I watch her color her cheeks pink
and smear black on her eyes.

Her ritual is unknown
by all but me,
and I love the secret we share.

My nerves tingle in my belly
as Darcy climbs through the window
and is consumed by the night.

iv.
Sometimes
Daddy forgets her has to love his girls
too.

I see it in his eyes
when Rory smacks a baseball into the air,
so far away

The USSR

You cannot touch it
but it lives.
This paranoia.
Eyes wary under fur caps,
hands settling on knives buried deep
in pockets.

A land shrouded in
snow blankets.
Minarets iced with whispered words.

Can you taste the lies on the wind?
Inhale them,
let them mingle with your breath.
Lies in your lungs, in your blood;
let it take control.

It is what they want.

Welcome to Mother Russia;
icy breath to kiss you goodnight.
Love disappearing fast,
carried away by a winter breeze.

i.
Hidden away,
inside a smooth white pillow case
pressed tight to a sweet smelling mattress,
there is a story
previously untold.

Locked tight between leather-bound covers,
it is a tale of martyrdom,
a sadness deep and perplexing.

And it is brought forth by a voice so small,
pried open and exposed by
a little girl so sweet,
but scarred beneath the skin.

ii.
A long time ago,
we were a happy family.
Mum and Daddy always smiled at us,
whispered goodnight kisses on our cheeks.

I knew him as
my parasite.
A lie.
Never was he mine.

A boy who soaked in sympathy.
Mind foggy with medication,
eating at my inside
to stay alive.

Caress my insecurities with guilty fingers.
I forgot his past of beer-stench and
bloodshot female eyes.

A room of glass he built around me,
held in my cell, and I forgot the voices, faces
of all those whose love I knew before.

And with these words
I break the glass,
for never was he mine.

The blind artist
standing at the corner
of an avenue that used to be
so much more than it is now.

Eyes shadowed, but on the inside
color pulses
pushing against eyelashes
images morphing
and then blown away.

Such a sad man,
lost behind blank canvas
and forlorn faces in acrylics.
Brushstroke eyes, lips,
wind in swirls of white.

A home invisible
but on the walls the color of his mind
memories of his life before,
which now he cannot see.

The Blind Artist,
the Deaf Musician.

And I a mute poet,
only yearning to speak
the way I think.

Staring in the mirror.
The past in the shadows under her eyes,
the quivering of her hands.

The past:
stomach sick with guilt, with grief.
Laying in a bed cursed by insomnia, searching for an answer.
Tears when she cannot find anything at all,
when her dreams have been buried
under a layer of dust.

But no longer,
feet planted and eyes bright,
hands clutching the locket at her throat.

The present:
the taste of a smile,
soft and spreading.
The light of unfulfilled dreams alive
in her irises;
something to work for, incentive to live again.

Her name is Heather
and she is five.
Hands outstretched, palm wide and fingers splayed.
Five.

She is the baby-watcher,
legs tucked beneath her, cooing at the blue-eyed infant.
"His name is Garrett."

Nearby Sister is a princess,
swirling in long dresses before a mirror.
She longs to be older and beautiful, a princess like Sister.
Hand pressing against the air, she is only five.

Strangers smile at Baby,
who gurgles and nibbles on her fingers.

No one remembers the baby-watcher,
Mamma's little helper, guardian of the newborn life.

He has touched Heaven.
It was only for the briefest of moments,
the tips of his fingers brushing that pure sky.

But you can see it still,
in his eyes.
Can see the yearning.
Yearning to be so happy, fading away.

He pleads with you
in every touch, in every breath.
"Just take me back. Let me feel it again."

Every word whispers, so faintly,
"Perfection is unbearable."

He has touched Heaven,
and collapsed beneath it's weight.
I hold him up,
hoping to feel paradise through his fingertips.

Hoping to feel paradise.

I want to feel your anger,
heat on your breath
and eyes a bonfire drenched in pupil-night.

I want to feel my stomach
tied in rugged knots,
the tears ready to spill.
I want to be terrified.

Just now. Just once.

So I can know I am legitimate,
my mind not left to rust itself away.
So I can know that I am real to you.

Just once,
to overcome all hate.

So color your eyes red
and let corneas singe.
Please touch my with your anger.

Perhaps we just fell apart,
left for too long in an attic ripe with air
grown stale.
Dolls in a cardboard box fading to grey.

But we still savor every memory,
morphed into something beautiful
despite any petty human concern.
Simple beings, lost in love.

And no matter our struggle
to find the greatest happiness,
to prepare the brightest future,
we will prevail.

You've taught me to want the simplest of things.
I only wish to hold your hand.

Can you hear her?
Whispering to herself
in the corner,
windows closed and curtains shut tight.

Lost in time, in space.

Maps cover her walls,
and she travels them in her mind.
Forlorn,
a misfit.

"Have fun alone."
And a kiss upon her cheek.
Affection to cover up the carelessness,
to hide the deceit.

And so she charts African deserts
behind heavy drapes, and simply imagines
the sun.

It isn't always the rain that makes one fall apart.

Her head heavy and hanging from a slender neck, eyes pouring oceans of tears that bypassed moon-white cheeks and puddled on the kitchen table. Her reflection was the subtle slope of nose, swollen lips painted red. Eyes downcast, with emerald irises behind the shade of eyelids ripe with purple veins. Auburn hair a shield, hiding her from an empty house, an empty street.

The world stopped when it rained.