Saying Goodbye

It’s been over thirty years since you died,
but in soul-time,
it was only yesterday.

It’s time for me to let go;
I’ve carried my hate
for too many years.

The calcified place in my heart
has taken up too much room.
It has weighed me down,
taken away precious time in my life.

In order to fly,
I need to jettison that lump.

There will be times
my memories will flash forward,
the pain threatening to absorb me.

But in the light of day,
the beasts fade,
and I use my energy
to create beauty and life.

Death and memories
won’t overshadow my sun,
anymore.

Though I’ll never be able to forgive you,
I still loved you.
I’m ready
to say Goodbye.

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The Blind Violinist

He plays his violin,
like a blind man reads braille.

He need not see: the sweet tune
sings in his heart,
stings his sightless eyes.
The music, like his sorrow,
sits deep in his soul.

He wanders the days away by rote–the years
have carved a path through the cobblestones,
guiding him along.

The villagers gather
to hear him play his magic.
But he no longer performs for them;
he now plays solo, to his wife,
God rest her soul.

Soon, he will join her,
for the last serenade.

Photo–Wandering Violinist by Andre Kertesz

Loneliness

Loneliness is like a sore.
It begins small, a tiny pang
that disappears when busyness sets in.

It quickly festers,
the ache seeping through
the veneer of happiness.

Before long, it is constant,
pain and pathos oozing from every pore.

I walk the fine line between
being alone and being lonely
on a daily basis.

The longing to belong
overshadows the peace
that quietude brings.

On writing: Need versus want

Some poets create such beauty when they write–a piece of art.
I create something ugly. It comes from a dark, dank place. It’s full of pain and rage and despair.

I was perfectly happy just reading books. My love for the word (language) sated.
I did not WANT to write. Had I wished to write, I would have taken creative writing classes.
I would have learned how to develop ideas, direct my ramblings into cohesive paragraphs.
I would have learned when to use a colon, a semi-colon, and ellipses (boy, I love those).

The times I wanted to write, I’d sit down and stare at the empty page; rearrange my pens; shuffle some papers, in the hopes that inspiration would hit. NOTHING would happen. Then, at the most inopportune time, the NEED to write would engulf me.

I feel out of control when this happens. I can’t make the words wait, or they will be lost. I can’t staunch the flow or else I feel restless, uneasy.
I become consumed. I think of nothing else.
I feel grubby with need, a nympho with words.
I am left frustrated, unsatisfied and miserable.

Reading takes me outside of myself. I can dream.
Writing brings me inside of myself–a nightmarish place of haunted memories and unfulfilled dreams.

My thoughts are too long to be a poem, not cohesive enough to be an essay, too scattered and unorganized to be a short story, and too short to be a novel.

There are times I feel it is a curse. There are days I rue the moment I spilled my words onto paper.
But…I know that if I hadn’t, it would all still be festering inside of me.
A curse? A cure?
It all depends on the perspective.

I think it’s time to renew my journey. I’ve had a long enough hiatus (creative block?) and need to get back to blogging. Writing. Posting.

Until I find my rhythm, whether it will be daily or weekly or something in-between, I will post random stuff–ramblings, older poems and hopefully that will spur new ones!

Aug. 2013, waiting for the birth of my first grandchild:
Baby girl:

I can’t wait to cradle you in my arms,
to feel the sweet smoothness
of your velvety baby cheeks,
to count your wee little fingers,
your tender baby toes.

I wonder the colour of your eyes,
and the hue of the soft, fuzzy down
on your tiny head.

I want to smell
the warm, lullaby-baby scent
of mama’s milk and powdered talc,
sunshine and rain.

I want to hear your voice,
from faint whimpers of discontent,
to soft mewlings
that quickly turn to angry wails.

I didn’t anticipate
to feel the soul-ache of motherhood,
the remembrance of my own babies’ births.

I didn’t know
that I could feel such heart-bursting love
for someone I haven’t even met,
yet.

I long
for your arrival.

pb-2013

 

What draws you to the meadows,
little girl…
one photograph after another, of open fields
and tiny fists clenching wildflowers–
weeds to anyone else,
but their petals beckon me.
Who loves me,
who loves me not…

Wandering in fields of green,
I can breathe in the perfume of flowers
and grass.
Run free, little foal.

I search…
for what, I don’t know–
peace in nature,
soothing smells, sounds;
a breeze blowing away worries
that little minds should never have.

I look for simple beauty, bracelets
made from tiny daisies,
fragile as my heart.

I find a respite
from what my soul can’t bear,
my pure mind can’t understand.

Even now, when I see a field, I get the urge
to run free.

©PB–2007

Hello world!

This is always an awkward moment…the first blog. Not that I’m new to blogging, having had an account on another blog site. But after a year and half over there, I decided to stretch out a bit. Discover some new things.

So here I am.

Yes, my real name is Piroska. It is Hungarian for “Little Red Riding Hood”. Imagine going through life as a fairy tale character!

I will be posting mainly poetry, interspersed with ramblings and the occasional rant…and maybe a book referral or two.

So bear with me, for the next few blogs, until I get used to this format…this site. I suppose I’ll learn as I go.