Posted on by Lydia Ink

Deception Drones On and On

Stones in shadow, black

move along the crack of closing reality,

a brilliant shimmering gold line of unbelievable.

Unbelievably true none-the-less.

Reality is the glinting line fast closing

Golden thought stays only where wanted.

Come to the darkness intones the stones

There find rest, which is peace, but for the continual grinding.

Perish there in half-truths and groping blinding ambiguity

The golden line is reality indeed and so lean away;

Too blinding

Too harsh.

We are all dying.

At night, the fires burn and the restless scream.

Moaning in darkness that the daylight will bring hope,

then curse and mock the golden glimmer of their prayers.

Break the windows, shatter the frail walls of long left alone!

Hope is in action, which is sitting still and understanding trust.

The hills still roll, evil hides in corners and the good move toward the end.

All stories end, so let’s begin.

The end will show the glinting line of gold and where one stands.

Stand anywhere but behind the stones of whispering.

They always said it couldn’t last-

‘They,’ don’t understand forever.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Saint in Name

White frocks and patent leather shoes,

Dainty ankle socks with lacy curls –

The pictures of long ago taken not so long ago.

The girls that didn’t live to long legs, slender arms, impossible hair,

end up in garden poetry and ghost stories.

A Vassar girl who wore a tie; a long line of activism and a brief existence.

Dare I say that the fame framed your life?

A saint named, but not in the litany. I feel outside myself when I think of it.

I have a thing for older men too. Maybe they all died with him.

The early meter and images stay with me

The rest I leave to monotony.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Immortal Spaniel

Maudlin music and anything less than red linen made for soft people she felt; yes felt, which was beyond knew and just before faith.

In oneself.

Her red, the blackish kind, hung in curtains and blocked out the sunlight opening only to rainy days.  Contentment blocked the wants of the world.

The world bloomed red in small startling places and she searched for the sear and pucker of the color in the dead of winter.

This proved effective in drawing her attention away from the doggish way he looked upon her.  He had a spaniel she liked and wished was hers.

But he wasn’t hers (the spaniel) the spaniel was his, but she ignored that fact.

Well sheltered within the stonewalled cottages described as farmhouses and which stood as manor houses they lived their lives.

The walls encompassed them and there they searched for red and a chance; she in hers him in his.

The spaniel was immortal and sighed often.

Magicians, outlawed and not allowed through the gates, directed witches to fly over their stone dwellings spelling out smokey threats over the sky.

The breeze, constant and often stiff did away with their threats by sunset so the lack of fear thwarted any sense of time and the idea of rushing headlong into passion.

What could an immortal spaniel do but sigh?

He (not the spaniel but the man who could waltz perfectly) thought of tempting fate with this or that bauble of love but without the magicians and witches no ruby red stone could be obtained to move her.

In this stonewalled place he only had his merit and his face. He was determined to surprise her with a perfect waltz later.

A curt nod only she gave him when they met upon the cobbled street. She, always with her eye on the corner of a stone building looking for red and wishing the dog was hers instead of his.

What could he do?  Learn to dye the world red?

Understand her?  No, that’s when love fled.

Then one autumn’s day their eyes met over the scarlet rose of fall.  Embolden he walked to a stranger’s garden gate and bent his head to smell the flower and block her gaze.

He turned to see her staring out upon the horizon.

“Stay,” he said, “and the dog will dance until you see the famous scarlet sunset.”

The dog appealed to her, twitching red orange sparks around his silky long ears.

She petted the dog and watched the sun heat the earth which caused the wind that brought the clouds all pink and red.

Clasping her waist he whirled her round, and the dog barked and gamboled about their feet.

And they built a stone terrace that connected their stone houses and invited the neighbors to watch the sunset pink and blue and green and silhouetted spaniel dogs and autumn’s roses red.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

This House

my love, he prefers the corner of the room, his feet upon the footstool.

my sticks they knit and click. he smiles upon the rhythm and frowns upon the faults.

the corner of the room is wooden and plain and the footstool a mere iron thing.

we sit in silence watching the stars reveal jewel toned colors of magenta, cobalt and topaz.

the silent moon shines out in maternal roundness, the spectrum sharp and piercing bends

snowy white to her gentle vibrance.

the wind howls up the wolf and winter and the freshwater thunders spring

the comforts are not so tangible, but peace stands guard and sings.

my love, he prefers the corner of the room, the angles of the walls curve, he hears the

bird nestle close to the house and he sees the children sleep in their beds.

we sit in silence listening to words of love I cannot articulate.  I knit the silk, merino, linen.

in lesser shades of the stars and in anticipation of my love’s glorious sendings.    

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Steel Water

I now know much, my love,

Your hands still strong but less safe in my mind.

Your steel gray gaze always focused on the distance

I now know much my love, and yet

My reality remains undefined but soon explored.

Often you left to roam so great an unknown as me.

Your strong, rough hands upon my hair,

Your gray-eyed gaze focused on my face

Often you left me to make

Known the unknown and me a lesser certainty.

Weeping and lonely through

Childbirth and longing you left me and us.

Your hand upon the great wooden wheel

Your feet firmly planted on waves of fresh water steel,

I know you, my love, along with storm and churning sea.

I know your love for what is vast and not tamable;

Ice in September, shipwreck in November.

Buffeted by howling wind, your back straighter

Only I am frailer; My ghost upon the shore

Longing for more now than you and your steel water gaze.

Now sit upon your chair, solid on rocky shores,

Sand in your shoes, the wind softly upon your neck and chin.

Make the mistake of me safe within my grave

Smile a thin satisfied line.

My love, look upon who I am and do not recognize

Your ghost, your Steel Water

In heavy heated August I freeze the blood of men.

As flesh and blood I was a wisp of mist

At death a ghost without a properly mourned grave,

As a crashing wave, now your proper lover.

Come one last time, challenge the ‘she,’

In the vast freshwater sea.

Come one last time to steel ice, steel wind

to clarify that I am the reality of what men love best,

that which drowns and screams down their death.