Questing

Questing

I sail on a ship in a far sea

            and my eyes are gold,

gold as the daughters of Hecate

            who follow the Hounds of Bran.

I am searching for a little flower,

            a little purple, reddened flower,

and a greening grave, mounded with stone and earth.

My boat is a cockleshell, golden and green,

            and I sing as I sail

            a new, sharp tune.

Silver flowers bloom out of my hair

I wear glass earrings, whistling in the wind.

I am on a quest for tomorrow’s yesterday

that one, sweet point

            where liquid sun and amythestine moon

                        kiss in a never-never world of night.

2-27-2006

(This is - was - my last poem. It was the latest I wrote, right around the time I finished undergrad. It was also the last, as I never felt the urge again. Guess I wrote out everything I had. Incidentally, I have no recollection of writing this, at all. When I found it, I googled it to make sure it was mine! I'm pretty sure it is...)

Summer evening--

Summer evening

bright white light filters through

a profusion of narrow green leaves

outside my window

flickering shadows on my face as

I dry my hair

a sudden swoop

a red cardinal

darts and lands on a

suddenly swaying branch

crimson feathers

translucent orange beak

stylish black trimming

he falls to the deck like a stone

and curves out under the railing

5/15/01

Sun glows--

the sun glows

i balance

on a chair and climb

into bed

the white walls

of my room

are quiet

we talk;

then...

“goodnight” she says

and is silent

i stare out the window

at the leaves

black blurs against

mellow gold

sunset

this is evening

i gaze at the white walls

and listen

to the hum of the air-conditioner

2/3/98

Spring morning--

Spring morning

the raindrops run cold races

down my neck

bare legs in the warm

humid air

brought out of a stiff cocoon

light as wind

I dance

in wet grass

and spin

chasing my own fingers

that stretch

spattered with mists

towards the gray sky

2/15/01

Single beam of light--

a single beam of light

a lonely moon,

the clouds hurry by too fast

to speak of things below

the moon sighs.

rocking herself in a blue hammock,

she listens to the swish of the clouds,

gliding past

murmuring,

thoughtfully she sends her rays

gleaming down

on a laughing girl

Looking at Sparrows on a Rainy Day

           The sky is coldly grey

           the rain drips slowly

           soaking the dreary, unresponsive earth.

           And

           on a tree’s bare branches

           [starkly stretching towards the sky like empty hands]

           the sparrows flit.

           Somehow they fit --

           their drab brown coats are copies of the atmosphere.

           their quick, sharp hops belie their modest feathers

           they dart

           through raindrops

           through winter raindrops

2/21/98

Like winged bullets--

like winged bullets

the birds dart through

the blue-white sky

1/19/99

Is it nightmare...

is it nightmare?

or sweet dream that courses through my mind?

leaves me cold with longing

and abhorrence

silent rooms

rooms

twisting, dimly lit

about heavy shelves

I feel myself

wraith-like

turning from shade to shadow

to human thought

my body is envisioning

reality

becoming naught

I hover

between the worlds of sleep and dream.

3/8/00

(so...do you remember how I said I was sick a lot all the time I lived in Texas? Because of my allergies? Well, I took a lot of stuff to try to combat the allergies, including various mixtures including decongestants. It turns out that if I take enough decongestants, interesting things happen...I've always rather liked the floating sensation, but some of the other stuff...)

In the mist

everything is dull

gray

misty

sad

the mist distorts things

makes them seem to be

what they are not

a few chirps from some brave bird

are all I hear

the rain is drizzling

a shameful defeat

every gleam of light is hidden

in the mist

like the cloak of night

it comes

covers

smothers

all rebellion

all hope of victory is gone

an old wizened tree

in place of the strong oak that once was

in the sunlight

and now we: those who once fought bravely,

are in the mist

2\6\96

(um...yeah, I don't know where that was going)

It is my loss

it is my loss

that you, who once were fair

are now cold earth

your breath mere air.

I had thought

you were of different kind

your flesh immortal

deathless, your mind

glowed

like tintillating stars

one look

worth molten gold

you are now still

dead, molded, rot

has taken over

the glad thing that once you were

9/28/01

(Yep, Teasdale and Millay)

Shall I go walking on--

Shall I go walking on?

the habit grows

of biting back the tears.

One evening gone,

“And there shall come soft rain”

I plant my feet

And let the wind go rushing by

With it the voices

Crouch and gambol past

I am encased

In a rectangular box of glass

the teratoid visages I cannot see

I am alone

with me

struggling to cast off my reserve

and weep out toward the stars.

6/28/99

(Definitely had been reading a lot of Sara Teasdale and Edna St. Vincent Millay)

Did I once fear

did I once fear

the silence of the dark

I long now to stifled

wrapped 'round in still

quiet is not cold or pale

it is a warm red room

hot and stupefying

a drug that brings relief

shut up

shut up

let me lie still

and hear a great abyss

wide and open

constant, cruel

noise comes

my nerves

are as taut as the plucked strings

on a violin

waiting

let me sleep

let me find oblivion

that my ears may be no longer torn

with shattering sound

(See, my older younger brother, as opposed to my younger younger brother, decided he was going to raise birds. Parakeets to be precise. In his bedroom. In our very small mobile home, with paper thin walls. Did you know that parakeets, if you don't take care of them consistently, SCREECH ALL DAY AND NIGHT? I have never really liked birds since. On the bright side, I didn't have to share a bedroom with him - If I recall correctly, it was around this time that my older brother started sleeping in his car...)

Red tail-lights--

red tail-lights

string along the road

my eyes bunch them

into clusters of fluorescent glare

4\20\99

(you can do a lot of fun things with your eyes when you have awful eyesight and wear glasses)

New Mexico fields with foothills

     new mexico fields with foothills

it’s not loneliness

but peaceful emptiness

the fields lie quietly, dreamily

at the hill’s feet

silently they exchange thoughts

slowly knowing

learning

being

dwelling

forever

(This is my other first poem. Hey, I was 12, ok?)

Mother--

mother

i am bone of your bone

flesh of your flesh

your voice, warm with wisdom

continually echoes

the mind is ruler over the body

the will can tame the desire

wise words

tell me, where did you find such wise words?

I am enlightened now

beyond the reach of your mean mind

i find myself wondering how

uneducated, untaught, you say such things

in the final analysis

(they tell me it is a clinical disorder)

my mind, as you so strongly said

has ruled my body

and now,

i wish that i could kill my aching sphere of thought

 (just playing with words, remember? I like my mom, even if we drive each other nuts. No, this is not about her. I was just playing!)

My garden--

My garden is heavy-rimmed

folded and skirted with green

bared to the sun and sky

pitiful, young and still

the weeds grow thick

blossom soft

beneath them worlds settle

ants scurry

leisurely june-bugs trundle to and fro from naps

mosquito hawks hover

like planes above a mystic jungle

4/3/01

Witch moon

Witch Moon

burning with a dull light

behind clouds

of rain

Song for the spring

There is a red cardinal

  feather-red

  winter-red

sitting on an oak branch

  old limb

  new leaves

contrasting with the green earth

  spring’s here

  green growth

the sun is sweetly golden

the cardinal is red

the earth is gladly green.

Worlds turn--

Worlds turn, light twists

we sleep. Gold dreams

come through stars and cloud

black horses of the mind

drift through the sky.

days’ pain made soft

through furred air

we wait in the wings

we hum in the dark

rise now in the sun

paths turn, feet shift

trees strangely seem

in this cold borning light

Have we not changed

(minds, hands, eyes, thought)

throughout our sojourn

in black crystal dreams?

Wind

wild and fast and cold

slow and warm and old

daintily dancing

wildly prancing

tossing the leaves

swaying the trees

sweeping clean the sky

moon

and stars

it comes.

(My first poem! Written all by myself! When I was...12 I think.)

Upon rejection

I could not answer

her words shocked me

into silence

not that

I cared

it was only that

the words

surprised me

and then...

silence

(I really, really, really hated school. Really.)

Southern Autumn

sunlight achingly golden

muted sounds ripple past

trees put forth green

spurred on by chilled mornings

memories flit by

called up by afternoons

when the

sun’s rays beat hot

battling against chilly wind

summer is gone like a dream

Name is a box--

A name is a box

A frame for the inner soul.

All the things in the box

are the inside, the me.

I am changing the box,

renewing the frame

Sorting out the contents

re-painting the picture.

Some things I want to keep

I move them into my new box

this old box is shabby

I'll tape it and put it in storage

There are the same things inside the box

I've only changed the outer shell.

Spring, 2003

Rose perfume

The scent of a rose

like apples

and a far, sweet essence

a picture materializes

From fairy tale and legend

of a jeweled tree

living, blossoming stones

and hanging,

like great globes of honey

golden apples

that send forth soft perfume.

3/29/00

Riding the bus on Saturday afternoon

          Riding the Bus on Saturday Afternoon

         

                                                This an adventure,

                                                August adventure.

                                                Out on my own,

                                                September adventure.

                                                Dreamed of, now coming

                                                this is delicious

                                                wobble-leg sweet

                                                head-pounding

                                                heart-dancing

                                                finger-stiffening

                                                sour taste in my mouth.

                                                I am released

                                                like a single clear note

                                                set loose to shimmer

                                                for this time and remembering

                                                I shall be loosed

                                                mind boggling

                                                tongue drying

                                                shy voice

                                                free.

Cailin Sanders

(I was 15 and I wasn't allowed to ride the city bus downtown by myself, which limited me to our local one-room library and the occasional trips to a branch library. I really, really, really wanted to visit the Central library in Austin. I'd been there a couple times, but I wanted to go whenever I wanted to! The books called me! So, sneakily, (and I was not normally a sneaky teen) I told my dad where I was going (while he wasn't listening) and told my mom I was just taking the bus to the church where I babysat on Saturday. Which I did! But then instead of coming home I continued on the bus downtown and went to the library. Of course, I got in trouble later (as I had planned, my dad totally forgot I'd said anything to him, so nobody knew where I was for about four hours), but I was firm in my justification that I had told someone where I was going and after that I assumed I had permission to go wherever I wanted on the bus, although I told my mom when to expect me home afterwards in the future (-:) It was an utterly liberating feeling to be on my own, going where I wanted to. It was a gorgeous day, I got a ton of wonderful books, and it was one of the perfect moments of my life. 13 years later, I'm still single, I still go on expeditions by myself, and I still love it!