The Heaving Heron writing
Candy drops with sizzle thoughts
I thought I was young
I drag my fingers across your bountiful lips
Your sweet like vanilla beans
And rich cinnamon burst twist
All this luster under the sun
But as my heart listens
It tells a tale that glistens
Of convoluted kisses
And lies of self perseverance
By crumbled byzantine divinity
Heartbeats turn into
Blasts of bladed love
Sprinkle down into the easement of the night
In hopes that my dreams will repair my anxieties
For all I wish is to be naked with your unexplainable bliss
But all my favorites have been collected and protective
In a balloon lifted away or in a warren cave
And I’m a whirling spindle of lights
On the search, a kaleidoscopic spell
I know these words are somewhere
down inside me.
Some I held as a child.
Sisters spoke in endless streams
to flood a river.
No room to pour out, no echo to rattle in their ears.
Locked up for years.
My mouth felt like the arroya split.
Until we met near the December pines.
You pushed me out into that frozen lake.
My mouth filled up in frost.
When I spoke, my words emerged slowly, like icy swirling ghosts.
You were the miracles in those days.
The founder of my blue heart.
The day you left Vincent,
was the day I lost my voice again.
I long for my rattle,
To speak endlessly, while you smile back at me.
Photograph: Talking to Vince, Francesca Woodman
You’re the tiger eye to my wobbly mind.
To teach me what I mouth on a pixelated spread.
And not just be another chalkboard poet.
You were the core to my apple.
The yin in my yang.
Before you all I knew was to forget, to stop asking, to stop tearing, and to bobble like drift-wood.
Abandoned symbolic punishment.
Trapped an alien connection, of what we said in the dark.
We found a common need.
When daylight came streaming in, duality, apparently.
You came to my rescue and built within me a honest temple.
So where did all the magic go?
Must’ve palmed my ego too tightly.
And I was too eager to rise.
For the feast is tossed over cliff’s edge.
And my heart, like bruised blueberries scattered on the floor.
Somehow I’m back digging in the ruins. As the seeker surrounded, in bleeding hearts.
Slay me, you did.
The remnants of me,
Caught, as a fossil
In the sap-like of the night.
I was beguiled by your love…
Spun in the heady amber-burnt midnight.
Fallen beneath your achilles’…
Tangled, in dark muddy roots
Living in the archaic Aspen.
Waiting for you,
To pluck me out of this ground.
To keep in your pocket;
As your shiny souvenir.
Stepping barefoot out into a leafy glimmering patch. Junebearers shoo-in little red desires. O’ how they dazzle my senses.
Like when I was nine and picked all the wild strawberries from Gram’s patch. Couldn’t resist the taste. With stained fingertips and crimson mouth…I buried the leftover leafy evidence.
That Metamora June, when I was nearly seventeen; I gave you more than a handful of plump red gems. I had somewhere buried my leftover stained heart in that festival ground.
Your daughter, now seventeen, is the Jen gem of June. She harvest her own Junebearers with hands like yours.
O’ Junebearers…Junebearers, the truth you hold about June. They are here, as you are. They are gone, as you are.
Poem: Naomi Ruth
Images: Pinterest and ceramic image: Naomi Ruth
Hannah, you always soared higher than the skylark. Your dawn song, the loudest, banishing all the darkness of our childhood days.
I often tried to mimic the way you caught their attention, your energy, your beauty, your unshattered confidence—how you sought more life then the day could bring.
You showed me how to be brave through all our youthful escapades. Held my hand when we jumped into that crystal dusk lake. It’s okay, the fish will only caress your legs.
When we climbed out on that roof, it mattered not what season…The country midnight fields echoed our laughter. Your voice booming the loudest and aliveness for the both of us.
When did you start banishing the day? Throwing fire at the sun? You’re battling against your strengths.
Yes, there is time to lie under the grieving rock, but the moss has begun to grow on top. And the air pockets are closing in on your withdrawal. It must be hot!?
In the stark night, you pour poison down your throat, but you’re not meant for this bitterness. Even so you broke your wing, the dawn still misses your summoning.
I’m only your little sister, but I’ll fly and sing out…Tell the sun you’re just under the shade. That your song will shimmer in the reflective morning again. Once your done being the Nova of the night.
Poem and Photo by : Naomi Ruth S. W.
Video: Heather Nova – Throwing Fire At The Sun