Mahogany suede-scented candle
lifts my prayers heavenward
petitions spit like sparks out
to the beyond where golden stars
balance on black silk with shiny
pearl strings of galaxies in a coil
teakwood, oil, flame, light
magic cradled in Japanese pottery
hands pressed clay together
in meditative knowing aligning
time, place, now, never
where all the answers sit
comfortably together unbothered
by the questions.
Dust more valuable than gold,
treasures worth their weight
in memory.
Antique steamer trunks
stacked at the foot of the bed
hold space, time –
capsules layered with matter.
I have been buying trunks on Marketplace to use as storage. I never liked the plastic totes and cardboard boxes I used to keep my items in. These feel full of mystery and history. They even inspire poetry.
If the Goblet of Fire
spits out your name
expect to face dragons
and battle sea creatures
You’re doomed if you do
and doomed if you don’t
for the game is rigged
and no one really wins
Contenders end up in a
graveyard of darkness
Save who you can
as you fight for your life
because you will face
suffering greater than any
you have ever known
Persist through the mazes
of self-doubt and despair
Stay true to your values
remember your friends
Speak truth to oppressors
stare down the barrel
of hatred’s unrepentance
to earn peace in the end
This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the fourth movie Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
What is your greatest fear?
Finish it with silliness.
Spiders stumbling in roller skates,
tyrants donning absurd apparel,
cobras turned jack-in-the-box,
full moon a deflating balloon.
A bit of whimsy bordering on
nonsense disarms the boogeyman.
Don’t wait for your father –
he’s not coming.
Save yourself with joy,
for laughter is fear’s nemesis.
This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the third movie Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
The key
to opening
my chamber
of secrets
is consistency.
Showing oneself
worthy of trust,
a companion
who arrives.
There is something
to be said for
presence,
the constant knowing
that someone can
be counted on
to exist
when others
are virtual.
This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the second movie Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
What would stare back
from the Mirror of Erised
should the chance arise
to gaze into that smooth pane?
Only the deepest desires
of the heart reveal themselves;
neither knowledge or truth
reside in the likeness.
It is said that the happiest
on earth would see themselves
exactly as they are, no magic
greater than reality.
Do the broken-hearted souls
whose sad countenances
look longingly for the lost
ever make peace with reflections?
This poem was written during a Harry Potter marathon with my friend Debbie M. while watching the first movie Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
Image credits – The Mirror of Erised by Daan van Genechten (Harry Potter Illustration) https://www.artstation.com/artwork/bKgG0g
An orchid appeared
on my counter last week.
It’s stick-straight stems
point proudly skyward
upholding regal blooms
of white with
painted purple lips.
Waxy long leaves
splay around the base
as though palms upturned
in adoration.
Imagine my pleasure
upon discovering that
the beautiful blossoms
in question were left
for me by my daughter.
Symbolic of elegance
and fertility,
love and respect.
Printed directions
attached to a stick
explain care and feeding,
so my granddaughter
places three ice cubes
reverently just above the roots
and waits to see
what happens next.
The right cuppa
is both soothing and invigorating,
much like your company.
No wonder we are lovers.
May our relationship
be long and refreshing,
full of rich flavor and
bold choices.
Goodbye, my dear friend.
“The earth has arranged her skirts
and taken you back so tenderly.”
I know you have “vanished
into something better-”
“the dark hug of time.”
What is it like “after the last day?”
“Did you float into the sky?”
I know “you never intended
to be in this world,”
yet you still got on with
“building the universe.”
“Everything dies at last and too soon,’
so I will bathe in the
“moon’s bone-white eye”
while whispering
“prayers made of grass”
until “all the locks click open.”
No matter how “humble the effort,”
I will “move my grains on a hillside”
one by one if need be
for “neither power nor powerlessness
will have me entirely”
and “I am willing to be dazzled.”
Yes, “my spirit carries within it the thorn,”
but I “keep on trudging.”
And every so often
“green leaves emerge from the tips of my fingers.”
A “fox on his feet of silk” found
“a bride married to amazement.”
I “have changed my life,”
“announced my place in the family of things,”
and “invented the dance with the wind,” for
“death is a little way away from everywhere.”
This is the very reason that
“every morning the world is created.”
Thank you for living
“your one wild and precious life.”
I will “remember your beloved name”
until I am “washed out of my bones”
because “death isn’t darkness after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us.”
I am taking medication
to relieve pain.
It is an experiment.
Does it help?
Am I better?
All I know is that
my mind is free to
feel joy:
for my best friend’s
IRS windfall,
my husband
on his way home,
our dog
not escaped,
the tea pot
boiling,
another episode of House
cued up,
my bed
waiting for me.
These are not new,
but my ability to
appreciate them is.
My pleasure is sincere.
The pain is still there.
I am not cured.
No marathons are in my future.
But there is a tiny space,
a slight cushion of awareness,
a sliver of hope that wasn’t
present before.
Like the absence of
intensity has given breathing room,
possibility of expansion,
a moment of focus on something
other than merely coping.
The pain is not gone,
but neither is my mind.
RJMarshall 6/2/16
rebekahjmarshall 