Procrastination

Procrastination

It’s like you’re wearing gloves;

nothing that can be traced to the source;

the hand dips in the water and then lifted, leaving

nothing but ripples; no identification. “I was here

but now I’m gone.”

A street lamp cuts a white ribbon

through fog in early parking lot,

pre-dawn tinting everything else with an adolescent blush;

watercolor suspended in the air. “I am here

            but I won’t stay”

Ariel

Nov 1, 2011

No Time for Grief

No Time for Grief

Stop seeding the clouds!

Let the remembering sleep

during the heat of drowsy summer;

there is no time for blackened falls.

The day is bright & demanding

and time … oh time should have buffered

the edge between the breasts. Don’t seed the clouds

don’t launch those glittering capsules

into pregnant and ripening clouds

sunlight bouncing off them and sunlight blinding.

Wipe away, wipe away before the crowd lowers their gaze.

You are here.  Too exposed  And I ...

I must defend you. No one wants

The salted rain.

Ariel

Aug 18 2011

Fall on 12th Street watercolor by CC Willow

Portrait

Portrait

I must distill you down

To lines, and angles & space.

Ariel

Aug 8, 2011

"Cabin on Link Creek" by CC Willow
sketched on our last camping trip together.

December Vacation

We left you behind when we came back from our December vacation

Two weeks of you & me

Two weeks of holding your hand

Left you behind in that room of clean white sheets

          And soft noises

          Equipment turned off.

Ariel

May 3, 2011

Trees at Silver Falls watercolor by CC Willow

Apologies to My Stepson

Apologies to My Stepson

I try to keep my

resentful antipathy at bay;

You are not to be the

            Recipient of another’s rage.

Kept on the outside

            Looking in from the sidelines,

Thinking, knowing

            “Mine”, “Not Mine”

As I try to keep my family

            From falling apart

Ariel

May 2, 2011

I was tempted to not include this reminder, but this is part of the tale.

Blowout Creek Camp (unfinished) by CC Willow
One of our camoing trips; his tents, his tools, his chair.
Timber company's signs.

Secret

Secret

There are times when you pause

and I can't seem to look at noon

in a day that seems ordinary  - should be right  -

you look at the lines and you realize

that everything  is wrong;

the worn carpet is wrong ,

your thoughts about tomorrow are wrong,

your own skin is wrong ,

the molecules between the air is the wrong size.

I look at the length of my arm,

from elbows  to the tips of my short nails,

and wonder how can I still be alive -

why am I still alive in a space, a place

that has long been ready to release me.

How can I move forward into the next second

into the next slide into the future ?

it rejects me ; transparent cement wall

of postponed, prolapsed possibility

I looked at my past and

I see those walls strung one next to the other

as like and as unlike as pearls can be.

Somehow I have slid between them -

like secrets not knowing they exist-

maybe it's wrong-sized molecules of air

allowing me to phase through as a mutant

continuing my progression through the wrong days.

I have made my decisions, made my strategies

and they seemed right

But I was blind . I did not see the walls .

did not see my own skin for the fragile thing it is.

Ariel

Dec 10, 2011

Mount

Mount

Bushes burn around me

but I hear no booming voices;

bushes burn around me

but I see no miracles in my choices.

Bushes burn around me,

thunder breaks the sky

electric swords hit carelessly;

my words no longer ask why.

Thunder breaks the sky

but I hear no booming laith;

bushes burn around me.

The ashes have taken my faith.

Ariel

Dec 22, 2011

No Longer Spoke of White

Winter no longer spoke of white anymore

She had forgotten what fresh and soft felt like

What being covered and clean looked like;

Winter no longer remembered the crisp laughter of children.

Ariel

Jan 18, 2012



by CC Willow



Update re "The Widow's Handbook"

Three of my Waiting Room pieces have been selected to be included in the anthology :The Widow's Handbook" - "How I carry You", "Prayer Shawl" * "Who will Not Be Home".  The Editor's have lined up a publisher and it will go to print Feb 1. 

The Troll's Toll

The Trolls Toll

Yes, it is true I have lived in those dark tunnels this year,

following you in the dark closeness,

funneling down into the understory of society,

digging under buildings, being brought under water and then

up again for a gulp of air.

This year I came to you

stripped more than in years before;

I still have faith (my breasts as ponderous as a war chest)

My thoughts today tale the color of vengeance

as I curse my drowsy mind, reluctant fingers.

Yet some may liken it to walking down a twisted hall of fun-house mirrors;

images of your core reflected in distorted obtuse,

maybe your eyes are too long,

(sometimes our waists are folded in, stretched like taffy).

Ogre’s path, that you saunter down,

left overly bright, unnaturally sanitized by some

cromwellian petard; (they will lead you astray),

you expect to end somewhere else, anywhere else.

I can tell you the truth - though

it is often like searching for a particular tree

in a foggy forest of old-growth,

underbrush sneaking out, snacking on you;

it is the wind, that violently knocks

the top of trees against each other

the same that runs through indolent tunnels shrieking loudly

(our children will ask what trees were).

the same runs through indolent tunnels shrieking loudly.

the top of trees against each other;

it is the wind that violently knocks,

underbrush sneaking out, snacking on you

in a foggy forest of old-growth.

It is often like searching for a particular tree;

I can tell you the truth – though

you expect to end somewhere else, anywhere else.

Cromwellian petard (they will lead you astray);

left overly bright, unnaturally sanitized by some

ogre’s path, that you saunter down

sometimes our waists are folded in, stretched like taffy).

Maybe your eyes are too long:

images of your core reflected in distorted obtuse.

Yet some may liken it to walking down a twisted hall of fun-house mirrors

as I curse my drowsy mind. Reluctant fingers.

My thoughts today tale the color of vengeance;

I still have faith (my breasts as ponderous as a war chest)

stripped more than in years before.

This year I came to you

up again for a gulp of air.

Digging under buildings, being brought under water and then

funneling down into the understory of society.

Following you in the dark closeness.

Yes, it is true - I have lived in those dark tunnels this year.

Ariel

Jan 16, 2012

a mirror poem.



Stripped Mountain by CC Willow 2012



Sharing - Published on The UK Poetry Library

Just received word today. My "We Both Know" can now be viewed at http://www.poetrylibrary.co/poem-we-both-know-by-ariel/