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That Once My Favorite Place
In my rocker-recliner,
my favorite place;
comforting, the wood stove’s crackle,
generating the mood
for my favorite thing;
losing myself in a book.
My darlings are safe,
“dress-up” their game.
Through the hall
their giggles dance,
mingling with the happy snap
of roaring, aromatic cedar.
Aaahh.. life is good.
Nothing could’ve prepared
me for the impact of the blow,
destroyed my sense of safety,
raped me of all serenity.
* * * * * *
Donned in homemade masks,
my sweet angels
leapt as only children do,
nearer, nearer to my place,
that once my favorite place.
I felt a tremor stir within,
rapidly grew to quake;
leaping, hopping,
they continued play.
My heart beat thundered
in my chest.
From the corner of my eye,
o’er the edge of my page,
I saw it.
There welled a scream
primal in nature,
terror, indescribable,
stifled, muted, scared of voice,
incoherent utterances,
deep, innate, core.
In fetal huddle,
my tome, my shield,
omnipotent peril,
untouchable horror,
murdered, my favorite place.
Uninvited, unwelcome,
those eyes of ice.
Familiar? Can not be.
I begged them go away.
But they followed me,
haunted me,
refused to be a lie.
* * * * * *
My darlings can’t forget,
(the terror in Mommy’s
eyes won’t let).
Mommy changed that day.
For years she wore that look;
couldn’t walk to her car at night,
couldn’t stay home alone,
nor use the telephone.
They knew it was bad,
what their Mommy saw.
They’d take it all back if they could.
But they can’t.
They couldn’t understand,
because they couldn’t see,
What only Mommy saw that day.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, January 30
All Rights Reserved |
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| caged
*
caged in the confines of mind
thought now a life of its own
built on a day dream whim
mindlessness fueled the drone
of endless unnecessary thought
expanding illusions and what ifs
grandeuring the grass greener
mocking the unthinking stiffs
thinking in circles and squares
thoughts rebound and grow
go round and return bigger
upsiding my head, what a blow
images that never shut up
trapped in the confines of mind
thoughts materializing before me
building worlds of deaf and blind
caged in the confines of mind
iron grated, mind-made cage
hardly notice the thickening bars
thoughts turn another mind page
*
shirley harshenin
© 2003, October 7
All Rights Reserved |
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Scream
Herewithin me, a scream ~
growing,
gurgling,
brewing,
building.
Exigent its life pulse,
subduing
mind,
body,
spirit.
Epicenter tremor from years
of gnawing,
chewing,
grinding,
champing.
Within me, primal ~ core ~
festering,
flaming,
raging,
nuee ardent.
Demanding full release ~
erupt without,
or die within ~
the strangulating
implosion.
Must be freed
to furor the fire,
weep with sea water,
wail with the wind ~
allow Earth absorb,
embrace,
filter,
DISSIPATE,
that which Malignancy desires,
and continuing mental health
requires.
Shirley Harshenin
(C) 2001, May 8
All Rights Reserved
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She Hated Roses
I bring lillies,
I know how deeply,
she hated roses -
their aromatic allure,
a facade, a pretense.
Bitter from years
of timely delivered bouquets,
each an offering,
she learned to loathe.
Roses that stung
with thorns of deceit,
seductively situated -
gift of the guilty.
I bring lillies,
subtly sensuous, stalwart stalks,
pale, satin perfection,
like her sleeping complexion.
Laying each blossom
to soften her scowl,
caress her acquiesed soul
in loyal linen white.
She hated roses.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, July 7
All Rights Reserved
Author's Comments on "She Hated Roses"
This poem was written as a 'challenge' using the line 'I bring lillies' as the opening line, and 'She hated roses' as the last lines.
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Consistent Incongruity
Contradictory
to a once simple Plan,
we've complicated,
corrupted, and twisted The Truths:
could well be the downfall of man.
Small crowds gather,
bittersweet -
the deafening silence
from those who most need to hear
meet
with salty tear.
Rid the spec's that deceive
you mournful optimists.
Hear the silent alarm,
"our near future looks bleak!"
Humanity's only hope? to seek
WITHIN
peace, acceptance, realization.
Squelch the quiet riot
of discontent.
Seek the plan Original -
basic, direct, fervent.
Incongruous to The Way,
we no longer act naturally.
Round the corner problem solved -
ONLY if we try.
Shirley Harshenin
(C) 2001, March 18
All Rights Reserved |
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Universal Consciousness
For the believers of the seers,
Keep this fact in mind,
Sometime between now and then,
Be sure, probabilities unfurl.
Events forseen are alterable,
If only we choose combine,
Consciousness, harmonious -
Peace within, radiates Divine.
Universal vibrations respond,
to a higher plane -
an invisible river-flow.
We each a vital part of the All,
the Whole.
How do we choose bestow the inner 'me'
to this All, this Divinity?
With thoughts of woe?
Oh, helpless am I to appease
our sick society, much-diseased.
Or... share
a smile, a laugh, a courtesy?
an ear, a heart that cares?
Today's thoughts and actions,
In our future we invest.
There are no retractions -
allow this Truth digest.
Blessed be who are aware,
yet laden with their duty,
to blanket with illumination,
our dismal, earthly days.
Let's steer those probabilities,
with intuitive directional ways.
The 'foreseen' future's alterable,
(dismiss false prophets' babble),
For what is seen, has been foretold,
Lies within an indefinite mold.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, March 31
All Rights Reserved
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Facing Our Naked Selves
...a little self introspection
Sometimes when we face,
With honesty absolute,
(no facades, not even a trace),
Down the drapes irresolute ~
We end up in the eye,
Of truths bittersweet,
Perplexities to de-mystify,
Realities we can't defeat.
All armor and defenses,
Weapons and denials,
Oust all pretenses,
In our face, all past trials.
Can we accept what is there?
Do we respect decisions made?
Do we despair? or try repair?
Are forgivenesses delayed?
Are there secrets still locked?
Hidden even from self?
Veracity? Would we be shocked?
Justification, off the shelf.
Bare your heart. Can you?
And not feel any shame?
Ego? Humility overdue?
Own our choices? or cast blame?
Frightened by our nakedness?
Or Truth be our comfort?
Willingness and readiness ~
Up front, or last resort?
Can we look within with love?
Compassion? Appreciation?
For each step, we un-glove
Core's vociferation.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, May 2
All Rights Reserved
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Witch Hunt
They came October first, near twilight's rest,
Prepared, she stood, with rapid-rising pulse,
Deny the urge to flee, ignore impulse,
Antique emblem on brazen, heaving chest.
"Enchantress! Crone!" their manic charge; her test.
Defiant stance, as timber beams convulse.
She stood - No shame, regret, nor need repulse,
Foreseen, her fate. In ebony she dressed.
In honour coven sisters thirteen strong -
Their chants she heard above the hunters' din,
Their spirit force she felt despite her bane.
Above the drone of death, the Banshee Song,
Her stoic gaze hid virgin tears off chin.
Ablaze, her final breath. The righteous reign.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, November 9
All Rights Reserved
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Alter Our Fate
(Pace Kyrielle Sonnet #3)
Drinking flat beer, chewing stale food,
Twenty years gone, is this our fate?
Comfy rut, but tired of my 'tude,
Bored of bare bones heaping my plate.
Before eyes bite forbidden bait,
And I've burnt filet, sealed our fate,
Feel my hunger, and wholly sate,
My thirsty goblet, lust-want plate.
Savour sweet our combined flavour,
Out with the bland, alter our fate,
Deliciously bolder, braver,
Hand-meld, fired, earthenware plate.
Mad passion - ate our boring fate,
Gobbled mundane from disdain's plate.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, November 9
All Rights Reserved
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Recurring Unrest
A gnarled ball of blanket and me,
Another night of unrest.
Her silhouette, from my bedroom door,
beckons, "Come."
Though she's only a faceless shadow,
I rise. Follow.
She's gone.
I stand alone - that corridor and me.
Recognition's bile gurlges, spits,
Burns.
Trapped, shackled, torn -
they're tearing me in two,
Arms stretched, wrists screaming -
Their torturous fight, unrelenting.
My head snaps left to right,
Why can't I see the opponents?
Screams rip like honed fingernails
on newborn-baby's skin.
I wake up disoriented, drenched
in an ugly swill of sweat,
and yesterday's tears.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, November 9
All Rights Reserved
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Spirit Flight
Standing at Meadow's edge,
Waiting at Woodland's door ~
The whispering breath of Zephyrus
stirs sleepy lavender fields awake,
inviting sprightly play.
Lightheaded headiness, pirouette
a helium cocoon ~ round 'n round,
head to toe.
Westerly winds dance with floral skirt,
A smile grows on grateful lips
blossoming radiant rouge.
Lust-want palms turn skyward.
Purple clusters tickle bare soles,
As I levitate
on this anticipatory portal.
I remember!
Giggles spring from laughing lips.
Oh, I remember!
Rising. Borne along by glorious current ~
delightful excitement!
Wordless wonder, gravity gone;
With the horizon I lay parallel,
inhaling redolent scents of pine,
fir and spruce,
I soar.
Grazing emerald needles,
effortless, unhurried ~
A water ballet choreographed for sky.
Lapis Lazuli amused by child-like fervor,
for this, this that I remember!
for this, this that I oft forget,
yet for-ever soulfully long ~
Refreshing, felicitous, unparalleled
Spirit Flight!
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, January 21
All Rights Reserved |
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Inhibitions
I don't wanna write It,
think It, nor feel It.
not today, okay?
Give me one day
without It.
To experience
without It ~
a dance without eyes,
one wild, uninhibited
soiree, just me
and the forest.
Free, without It,
for a day, and some.
Don't write It,
think It, nor feel It ~
Just run with the wind.
Feel His breath
on my breast,
feel Her heartbeat
on bare feet...
without It.
Please?
A day? One day?
without It?
Allow me curtsey
bare as the babe ~
to woodlands grand,
to towering brothers
of Fir and Ash stand ~
wavering,
luring,
encouraging me
Play.
Prance upon carpets
of moss and needles shed,
all day!
For only one day
that I may
twirl arabesque
with teenager Cedar,
flutter past
flowers in rainbow array,
past fairies and gnomes
and showers
of crab-apple blossoms
and wild rose blooms!
I don't wanna write It,
think It, nor feel It.
Not today, okay?
Give me one day
without It.
Just one day without
oppressive,
cancerous
It.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, April 26
All Rights Reserved
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| What’s it like?
What’s it like?
To be embraced,
Tossed in the air ~
Divinity-laced,
To understand fair,
To be caught in mid-flight,
Safe landing in arms
Of heroic might ~
No concept of harm,
From one you’re born of,
Not an ounce of fear,
Simply boundless love,
Continuity by year?
What’s it like?
To feel protection,
Affection, nurturing clean,
Rather than subjugation,
Stifling, lustful glean?
To be placed with esteem ~
Given princess status,
Through eyes of her dream,
Through hearts not hiatus?
To know her armored knight,
ever near, smite all danger ~
Not fear He in the night,
The lurk of the deranger.
What’s it like,
To not be his carnal caddie?
What’s it like,
To have a real daddy?
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, May 8
All Rights Reserved
*
Author's Comments
Seeing my daughters as they grow up, being loved as a child should be loved by their father, and grieving for what I did not, nor will I ever, have. |
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Night Visitor
waiting, listening
the familiar creak of floor board
In the stillness of night,
buried 'neath wool blankets,
wake ever a breath away,
I lay.
Hyper-vigilant of necessity,
unseen censors finely tuned,
waiting, listening...
the familiar creak of floor board,
the heart-hammering squeak of hinges...
quiet footfalls pad nearer... nearer...
maintain even breath, go deeper -
he'll know you're awake.
His presence invasive,
vile his stench - a nauseaus
combination of whiskey and smoke.
The pressure increases
within rib-caged walls,
thundering, thundering...
I've forgotten to breathe.
Golden cord stretching further...
further...
'til tenderly under familiar wing,
cradled in white light - my angel Camael,
sister to my dear friend, Michael.
She strokes me with her heavenly love,
soothes my tortured soul.
"Bless you, Camael, this precious respite
from the Night Visitor,
my daddy..."
Shirley Harshenin
© 2000, December 9
All Rights Reserved
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Death Dance
I hear your cries,
As limb from limb,
He strips you clean.
Deaf? Can he not hear?
First hand I witness,
Your trembling arms fall,
Gracefully to death.
Blind? Can he not see?
I inhale your freshness,
Your final seepage scent,
Helpless from my vantage,
Weeping as he bares you.
I taste the bitter root,
Of his dense negligence,
Spit it out repeatedly,
Ignorance saturates.
I feel the essence You!
Waft with ether angels,
Your death dance shrill -
Severed yard by yard.
I sense what he does not,
Your life-force forced to die,
Blurry stare, he only sees,
A cord of fresh-cut pine.
Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, October 26
All Rights Reserved
Author's Comments on "Death Dance"
Watching a neighbor hack away at several beautiful pine trees, on his property, until they were gone. For what purpose? Just didn't want them. So sad. |
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| Searching
Searching for the road back Home,
On a path that seemed all right.
Lost, no matter where I roam.
Tinkered with my metronome,
Crazy tempo, what a night,
Searching for the road back Home.
Aptly lured to Excite Dome,
Surprise dive from such a height.
Lost, no matter where I roam.
Scanning lines of ancient tome,
Wanting answers to “Life’s Rite”,
Searching for the road back Home.
Surf the net with fine-toothed comb,
Never finding much sought Light.
Lost, no matter where I roam.
Patient gold waits ‘neath the chrome,
Aimless wander, fogging sight,
Searching for the road back Home.
Lost, no matter where I roam.
Shirley Harshenin
© Oct 26, 2001
Author's Comments on "Searching"
This is my humbling attempt at writing a villanelle. |
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