Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 19
February 3, 2016
Love & Death
Love spent hours
staring at
the destruction he saw
in his own eyes
trying to understand
what could’ve gone so
terribly wrong, how he
could’ve so easily
forgotten his own song.
Outside his window, he
listened as the birds
continued to practice their
song, the music that was
birthed in their womb
at creation. Guiltily, he
wished to smother the song
out of them. He wanted to
borrow their song,
too fearful to find his own
because
he’d grown used to
having others write
his song for him.
Afraid to stay but
more afraid to leave
he stood there too long &
he no longer saw himself
staring back at him. Fear
drove him to madness,
a madness that eventually
drowned him in misery.
One day he looked up
declared that he was
as happy as he’d ever been,
ignorant to the fact
that
Death hid in the shadows
afraid to breathe
because even Death has
those days when he
doubts that it’s himself
that he sees looking back
at him from the mirror.
This happens most
when Death realizes
Love has left him. And
Death, unable to find Love
doubts his own ability.
His very reason for existing
becomes a burden
to his soul.
Sometimes when a soul
is taken too roughly or
a mortal’s death stretches
into a seeming eternity,
it is then that Death
wonders guiltily,
“Why have I chosen to
abandon the best of me?”
Love and Death
used to imagine
they were
twin souls
separated at birth.
They get so caught up
in what the world
expects from them
even they would
sometimes forget
to love the one
looking back
from the mirror.
And that’s how
Love and Death
became
separate entities
who gave birth
to separate dreams,
dreams that kept
them permanently
separated.
February 2, 2016
On the Tip of My Tongue
“For some people, “the point of no return” begins at the very moment their souls become aware of each other’s existence.” –C. Joy Bell
It’s always there on the tip
of my tongue, the dripping wet
honeydew love song my soul
wants to sing to you. I seek you
daily to share this melody
even though you disappeared
without a trace. My love still
craves your presence, your voice
your soul
so I fight
to retain
memories
and
those sweet words on the tip
of my tongue, so I can relish
the flavor of what it tastes like
when two souls converge,
when love empowers instead of
destroys, when souls reunite
after spending lifetimes apart,
when I can give you my heart
knowing you will not break it. A
love so sweet it will melt
on my tongue, leaving behind
a trail for you to follow, a saccharine
sweet temptation which will
leave you feeling devastated
with satiation. Who ever knew
one love could be so filling?
One day
we’ll kiss like we used to
and you’ll taste the sweetness
and know I’ve loved you
all along, that it’s always been
there right on the tip of my tongue.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 30, 2016
Driftwood Memories
I walked back into my past today. Not on purpose. I went back into the neighborhood where my granddad used to live and once again I was standing face-to-face with my Past. The biting anger in her eyes and the coldness of her soul entered me once again. My Past. And it hit me that all my memories of childhood are bad experiences. I can’t remember running through the grass barefoot. I cannot remember playing with my cousins. I know I did because there are pictures. The vivid memories that invade my mind are the ones where someone is hurting me. In fact, it all began with my very first memory. The memory of hearing my parents arguing and hearing my dad threaten my mother. That’s it. That’s all I have left of their marriage. I don’t know what they have; they don’t discuss those years anymore. It’s a part of the family past that’s been buried. But, for me, it’s always there. And the only memory that makes me smile is when I remember the scent of honeysuckle. I know that I was surrounded by honeysuckle.
So, I started asking my kids to recount memories of their childhood. Happy memories. I needed to know that I had kept what happened to me from happening to them. And once they started talking, we were relishing in a flood of memories. Times that made us laugh and times that made us cry, but they were happy tears. Satisfied, that they had not been denied a childhood because I somehow failed to protect them. I held onto the driftwood pieces of their memories.
And I composed this poem:
Pieces of my childhood
lost
in the whirlwind of years.
Trying to grasp the driftwood
memories, I continually miss
the ones where I must have smiled
at least once or twice.
The only memories keeping me afloat
are the ones that are trying to drown me
in dysfunction. I refuse to believe
the memories that must’ve buoyed
my spirit are lost forever
never to be re-claimed. I continually
search the well of memories
but every one that my hand touches
burns and I let go once again.
I was birthed in a void where
everything was exactly as it seemed.
So, now maybe you see
why I will never believe in fairy tales;
how can I believe in happily ever after
when my childhood is another poison apple
and every time I bite into it, I quickly
spit it out so I won’t be forced to remember
how little girls became women overnight
while other girls were sleeping and visions
of sugar plums danced in their head
grown men climbed into my bed
claimed my soul as theirs. And even
now they won’t let go of my soul.
I fight every day and pray for release
and pray for the day when I’ll have
driftwood pieces of memories that won’t
try to drown me.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
Glass Heart–Take Two
This is a different take on the poem I wrote yesterday, Glass Heart, which you can read here.
I have a heart that’s made of glass.
It’s fragile & always needs cleaning.
Many a woman has declared,
“I don’t clean windows!”
But I’m always cleaning and taking care
of my heart. Because I’ve always known
that it’s made from the most fragile of glass.
Like all fragile glass, the surface of my heart
has been smeared and covered with fingerprints
left behind from lovers who were attracted to
the rare beauty of the most purest of love,
one that can only come from a heart made of glass.
Those lovers who couldn’t stay, didn’t know how to
hold a tea-cup heart, one that is open and willing
to love as much as a heart made of glass can bear.
They were afraid it would break
and they’d be forced to try and put it back together
again.
But I’ve learned how to wash away smears
so my heart of glass won’t get clogged up with memories
from the past. I protect my heart, knowing
it’s a work of art, a priceless Leonardo da Vinci painting
A heart that loves simply for the act of love
a heart that understands the value comes from
the simple act of love, love with no strings attached.
Love like this
invited voyeurs and poseurs who just want to
experience the phenomenon of the woman born with
the heart made of glass.
They try to break it, leave scrapes and
scratches across the surface, wondering
how it manages to hold up under all the pressure.
And when they move on, I continue to marvel
at the way my heart of glass stays strong. Always
ready to love one more time. Just one more time.
I will continue to sit in the window, watching and knowing.
I see you looking for me, always searching for me
in others. It’s the way it will always be
someone will always come and try to steal my heart of glass
wanting to displace it. The truth is
this heart belongs only to me. And I will always
take care of it after all the cheats and masked men have gone.
And I won’t waste time trying to understand
how loving could be done wrong, especially when it’s true.
I have stopped looking through the window, trying to find you.
On those days when memories overwhelm
and the glass surface of my heart becomes infected with
poison memories, I go find my window cleaner and wipe away
all traces of the presence of you from the surface of my heart.
I finally accept the truth: You can’t give a man Breakfast at Tiffany’s
when he’s looking for a pair of Jordan sneakers.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 29, 2016
Glass Heart
She has a heart that’s made of glass
It breaks rather easily. She’s the type
to ask that her lovers tread across her heart
carefully. She doesn’t know that people
who don’t value her but only lust for
loving her
like to brag about
leaving dirty tracks across the heart
of those foolish enough to love them.
And the footprints she sees on the surface
of her glass heart doesn’t mean she’s unworthy
of being loved. But there are those who value
destruction over beauty. And somehow
manage to see beauty in the
tiny broken pieces of her glass heart.
She just has to learn to pick up the pieces
of her glass heart once it’s been destroyed
and hope she has the strength to
put it back together again.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 28, 2016
Daydreams
Daydreams descend like waves,
like thick soupy clouds, sometimes
obscuring the view of what’s right
in front of you. Trapped
between what seems real and
what is real, it can be hell swimming
toward the shore. But
on the day when the waves fall
from the sky like sheets of rain,
you can’t help but run
for the safety of home. And though
you swear you’ll never allow yourself
to daydream again, the allure of other
will one day pull you back under the swell.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 27, 2016
Butterfly’s Wings
He taunted me as
he took off, knowing I never
was fitted for wings
so I can never fly away.
And that’s why I stay – here.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 26, 2016
A Lonely Flower
I found a lonely
flower in a barren field
then smothered it with
my love.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 25, 2016
Save the Last Dance
Save the last dance for
me. My tears will stain your shirt,
my love stain your heart.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
January 24, 2016
The Dream Conjurer
I finally realized
I must have dreamed you
into being, that you were
just another vivid dream
and I a dream conjurer.
And even when I knew all along
that you were the one dream
I never wanted to wake up from,
I knew you were a fleeting memory
of my vivid dreams
and that’s why it always
surprised me when you would
return to me and why I no longer
search for you when I close my eyes
to fall asleep.
Peace & Love,
Rosalind
