|
The Writing Forum Presents
Poetry and Short Stories
by Aleta O’Brien
|
The Writing Forum’s Poet of the Month - January 2009 |
|
POET’S BIO:
‘She walks in gardens' was a line from his poem. His whispered words bring me gently home. It’s good to feel joy again, like the rising of the city around me. I was born in New Orleans and if I were a flower, Fleur de Lis would bloom.
Currently I reside in the suburbs adacent to the Crescent City in Louisiana with my husband Greg. I’m a graduate of the University of New Orleans, with a Bachelor of Science in Business Management, and a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology, with a minor in Psychology.
I design and make jewelry as a hobby. I'm also an instructor for the New Orleans Beading Society. It’s a labor of love. If you’d like to
visit my website, please click here.
My book of poetry, “Fleur de Aleta” is available for purchase by
clicking here.
My poetry has also been published in magazines the latest being
the June 2008 edition of The Taj Mahal Review.
To read my short stories published here at The Writing Forum,
please click here.
Email: aletawsc@hotmail.com
“Poetic renderings are a muse in echo ~ the reflection of a pond’s ripple, floating above the surface, beckoning to swim a little deeper.
~ deep breath ~ and dive…”
POEMS - Page 1:
(click on the button next to any poem title below
to be linked to that poem’s location on the page)
 Uninhibited
It's Never Truly Over
Clowning Around
Figment
Haiku
Kitchen Plans
Dream Kiss
Day (Diamonte Form)
Lavender Mist
Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony
Equestrian Dance
Valentine Anniversary
Turning the Pages
Colorful Bugs
No Precise Moment
Amber Dawn
Remember Me
Nemesis
Haiku
Kokopelli
Red Crested Lover
(Sijo Form)
Memories Snippet I
Memories Snippet II
Garden of Gourds
Her Wish - Christmas poem
Written Word
Lavender Echo
Peresphone Lost
Time Captured
Transformation
Name Her
Scented Dreams
Is it possible to dream of
spices, to be suddenly attacked
in a vision of yearning to smell
and taste the hallowed refuge that
tempts in clever ways from vanilla
perfume and cinnamon sweet, then
dizzy fragrance of sautéed garlic
and onions
from the pantry comes dark
chocolate chips to top the elegant
triple mix for the oven, making
a succulent, glutinous goodness
coupled with raspberry delight
the refrigerator calls with green
salad offerings, sprinkling ripe tomatoes
and cucumbers along leafy greens,
the crisp sound and smell bringing
summer memories to jolt you out
of sleep
library of herbs, like the rosemary
bush outside the door, wafts through with
saffron comfort on long, tired days
and offers an invitation to pull up a chair
and dine
Camellia Stroll
An impish grin, an outstretched hand
Leads to the court ladies of romance
In full glory, the blooms and spring
Shades of pink, peppermint and
Satin white texture
The ruffled petticoats dance
In a maze of slopes and oak tree arms
Turn and twist, we gallivant
Clinging to the beauty, even
Luster lovely on the ground
Falling to scented charm
This, our rendezvous of breath
Mingles on the leaves and
To know past the faded petals
The evergreen passages
Keep memories in bewilderment
To beckon within the twinkle
Of his eyes and stroll
Once again in camellia’s courtyard
Too Close To Home
Caravan out to Gramercy,
from busy city and suburb rows of
homes to a jewel on a belt buckle.
Oh, it shined, larger than life,
round tanks, tall pipes, forming alien
ships, this was their community, past
the long shaft sweeping over highways,
catching us little fish in invisible nets.
Even in darkness aliens breath,
coating landscape in pretty, pretty
lights, a Christmas village year round,
three in a row, never mind the cyanide hill
with throat scratches and sudden fog
making it a never-never land. Winds
pick up and drive the smell
away as the path dips low, down
Bonny Carrie Spillway, where
mossy grounds and trees make canopy
picnics, home again home. A shiver
tingles, quench the windpipes to
wash away the question. Did it really
exist ~ the abduction down the
road along pretty, pretty Cancer Belt?
Uninhibited
it all coalesces into this
beautiful wholeness, the richness
to prime the pump along eternal roads
wandering into footsteps of before
the very earth looked mystic with
shadows in a moonlight soft
from under tree canopy, cloistered bliss
with arms pressed close while lips
drink red wine with words
the air beneath and around spread out
a perfume of unsheltered desires
the whispered wind ~ witness
and inhales the night, thrilling
abandon between rustling leaves, left
to wonder if the pool waters
will remember the concentric circles,
the ripples that still once
more to contour the shore of time
coming back to take what was
left behind, define sweet memory
It's Never Truly Over
I asked her how she
kept so strong, how she got
over it, she said she
never did. Never thought
she was 100 %, not a day she
didn't remember tears, now
each morning is a mental check
how does she feel, is something
different, to look
for some sign, some tip that
can let her know "it" has
come back
She rarely speaks about it
as if it would disappear if
not discussed, the anger,
the fear, she hides to be over
~ it
Today was different, because she
knew I wore the pin for
her, that pretty shade of pink
(for my Aunt Didi and all the survivors)
Clowning Around
Not a morning person
the day starts off slow
the sun doesn't zip to the sky
why should I
the covers are warm and
wrapped around in a cocoon
soft sunrise colors
that's what is needed
but he walks in and had
a cup of coffee, ready
to take on the day and
thought it funny
to start a pillow fight
with me, joking and laughing
much too cheerful for morning
Asked him how come he's so awake
he said he ate a clown for breakfast
Figment
I was in love with air
dancing the waltz, turns and dips,
swirling and absorbing the song,
he played into my view
and I was present and true
but only with me was he,
could he, rise to this ideal
thus always and only, I was
left balancing in ~ the air
Haiku
watching from the wings
shaking off mud and raindrops
thaw the winter hue
Kitchen Plans
Used to be black and white checkerboard linoleum
where hopscotch was fitness on the way
to the refrigerator
used to bear witness to few good times and drama
never understood, cold feet square footage
It was a Tuesday when the face lift
revealed honey colors in need of
stripping, of finishing ~ fresh start
for a much forgotten, checkered life
Dream Kiss
Speak touch to mine
essence of final surrender
found within softness
first promise of passion
Know no further destination
than lips, savor the taste
with dancing give and take
hands cradle and toy gently
with strands of hair
The air between mix
swirls of sweetness
not to be altered or undone
the crowning of unanswered emotions
Slow, sensual, progression
from the hug, circle waist
then in a minuet, suddenly
hold motionless, galvanizing
the height of shivers,
pleasures grasp
this voyage, yielding,
giving, rendering to the consuming
aphrodisiac of his kiss
to begin and end
with my final surrender
Day
(Diamonte Form)
Sun
lazy, mighty
burning, breaking, sinking
kite catcher, jewel juggler
escaping, stealing, waxing
quiet, tender
Moon
Lavender Mist
This color rarely seen
in wardrobe, on homes, for cars
little respect with it's August position
on the rainbow
fading away in that lonely region
of the Electro-magnetic
spectrum
too lurid? too saucy?
What few natural fruits taint
themselves this treasure
Mint yielding, aroma sweet and rich with
Balsamic-wood undertone
Like a purr of low, middle note
Somehow uncomfortable to view
because of it's strange intensity
overwhelming sensuality aglow
what emotion corresponds with it
Evocative? Vibrantly
suffocating, heavy with its
saturated energy
a fall midway between red and blue
Mysteriously suggestive hue
Love in lavender, find me and paint
me your pleasure
Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony
Irresistible, the force, dissolves
into formless presence yet performs
A door opens, through which
humanity vanishes and something
other enters
Embraces, caresses, as a summer brook
No defense, no escape of nature,
The cosmic symphony in neurological overload,
a personal communication
with truth
Mystery shines her brilliance
crushing with passing thunderstorms
consumed simultaneously
by unspeakable torment and
infinite rapture
Cleansing the windows of perception
offering a melody of
inscrutable promises
and then
Silence
the ghostly measure lingers
hovering on held breath
Equestrian Dance
There is a white horse, sitting on my dresser
my memories cradled in the wild mane.
A child's awe of the ceramic steed
Created by my mom, a treasure
she once kept as a centerpiece.
She would hand me paper and say, "Draw it."
Week after week, there were never enough magnets
to hold my attempts and her encouragement.
As I sketched the figurine, dreams
wrapped around and enchanted me.
No horse could compare; no book could
charm me like the brumby stallion
To touch the cool surface was to
gallop with courage, tucking away fears.
Each improved picture, a reflection
of journeys to come
Now bareback and brave, I ride
into new days ~ waltzing with a white horse
Valentine Anniversary
Ah Cupid, set down the bow
the star-crossed fate which
you would fling, side-ways
instead of straight at them
Ouch! You impish brat
cause anguish to my heart.
I pluck the arrow, ~ your
tardy target. Patience you
will try and mine runs dry
but fill me more with
love adore. Shameful archer
smiles and holds sway
he found my mate for life
this day and those words
never ran more true than on
the anniversary of "I Love You"
Turning the Pages
I was a cabbage patch girl
written into a family
of us Grimballs, just a pinch
of south with our
lovely accents
and murky muskrat wars
My Dad even had pet pigs
and those Carmouche folks
made a blood line that ties and
links the four corners
of the states, where we
all spread out
Spinning tales and tails
like a pigs corkscrew
I got to the ending
and cried, then remembered
we can find him
across the stars, because he
taught us never to be afraid
of the Night
~*~
~ in memory of uncle Larry Callen,
author of children's books ~ 1927-2008,
a man of many smiles and good memories
Colorful Bugs
he placed her there
on the pedastal
at first she was afraid
of heights
but she was cherished
he handed her brushes
she grabbed the paints
and started with
their future
and when little lies
crawled between
the cracks she painted
over them too
she painted her hand
then her arm, almost every
limb, until her eyes
finally had to see
that he was
no longer
in the picture
No Precise Moment
submerged in silence
descending beneath
where breath has no sound
in a light fading
eternity wrinkles a deep shade of
lava and ice inside curtain
trails, stitching a bond
bright rich colors
coating the mundane days
no longer lost in noise
where waiting is the hardest part
on one side of the bridge
longing to resurface
Amber Dawn
Whispers from the window
breaking midnight’s lull
Shadows playing in
honey brown hues, this blush
of hours where fairies dance
Liquid gold coats the room
in a deep caramel flavor
The taste of dawn’s delicacy
A brew of tea colored sky
Morning fragrance served
with mist laced ground
Until a scarf warms the
earth in red stretches
Lucid sigh escapes
In flaxen shades to wake
Within your arms
~ Remember Me
Some friends think it odd, that I search
Comfort in such a place, to walk where
Things are haunted, but for me, I find
Solemnity in the white stones covered with
Mossy hummocks and green vegetation,
Intertwined and curved narrow roadways
Freely rolling as landscape to the souls,
The perpetual record of yesteryears,
Chiseled names and dates, even verse
In memory of, wife of, children beloved,
Sculptured material hard as granite
"At evening time it shall be night."
Under oak tree sleeves, I walk soft on the
Lawn to see pastel petals freshen for this
Easter weekend, sprinkled around
But how sad, where the beauty stops
As if those stones from generations
Upon generations ago are long
Forgot, not remembered or treasured.
Who will bring them bouquets? As if cast aside
Left to rot. With no flowers in my hand to offer,
Passing each one, I affirm their lives through
Voice, calling out the names, one by one, a heralding,
To say, "Hear your name and feel loved"
To offer a tender recognition of unknown memories
And in the wind I felt the tombstones speak against my
Lips in gentle breeze, a quiet hush of ~ thanks
Nemesis
fog overcasts the sun
the kind that hides the front yard
and sticks to your skin
just enough sight to avoid the puddles
and broken sidewalks
a dancer of the air creating a
lexicon of phrases, blurs and obscures
to walk through and in, but ~ it
drifts indiscriminately
leaving a narrow path called
~ fate
Haiku
on ruffled velvet
poised and naked ~ harvesting
sweet dew drops of time
Kokopelli
Ancient Toltec trader, carve him in play
nothing left untouched by the mystery
of his flute announcing to tribes
the arrival in universal wandering
with a sack upon his back, never reveals
what's inside, but to earth he will give.
Casanova of the Cliff, ladies long to give
the gift of life, melting into the play
he portrays. The scenery he reveals
describes the prehistoric beat, let mystery
dance and migrate forever wandering
the rivers and lands and tribes.
"More songs, More songs!" demands chanting tribes
To warm the soil, create the rain, the earth gives
seeds of flowery delight. In his wandering,
not a solitary sight, yet conceals in his play
the scribes of journeys riddled with the mystery
of life, whimsical nature won't reveal.
Bribe treasures for his skills and seeds reveals
the jealousy of others. Fiery flights from tribes
because of tawdry affairs, vital spirit lands give
fertile harvest. Carefree, assuming mystery
as a cloak, elbows pointing earthward to play
the tunes of festive days and forgive the wandering
traveler. When his music begins, the sun wanders
out, birds start to sing and winter reveals
the seeds that root and wish to play.
Such growth appeals to the baskets of tribes
filling each and every with fruits of mystery,
captive, on willing shoulders give.
Sunk deep into the story, I give
full attention to sandstone canyon wanderings.
A thunderstorm opens to display, his melody of mystery,
plaintive and simple, native tunes plead rain to reveal
the long-vanished people, winds of tribes
to them, Kokopelli never ceases to play.
His wanderings continue, always seeking tribes
to reveal treasures and share the mystery.
Trading songs, play on, the joy he gives…
Red Crested Lover
Branches laden with April blossoms
Waiting for the courtship’s flight
Red crested lover, unburden
The nectar sweet, succulent invite
Hover over cedar top and
Fragrant honeysuckle stem
Rise and fall through quilted garden
Colors to taste the trumpet-shaped gem
No sweet songs will he serenade
But with wings a tune to whistle
Hypnotic flutters become his words
Dancing between the petals
Iridescent feathers stroke
While bathing on misted leaves
Patterns of a flame’s embrace
To and fro and around he weaves
Tilting, twisting flowers bright and bold
My spinning ruby sage will fly
Make my nest your aerial display
And share with me a piece of scarlet sky
(Sijo Form)
So you may wade calm waters
You’ll find me upon high seawalls
Heart armored against the tide
Amid life’s storms I’ll levee
Though you don’t ask for walls
Love, I build you a barrier
Memories Snippet I
I picked azaleas from the yard
in a pastel-flowered dress
we were visiting Nana and Paps
it wasn't long before
my brother and I snuck away
to dig for doodle bugs,
we knew just where to go,
along the side of the house,
garden bricks stacked
against the earth, laughing as
we pushed the stones, with rewards
of a soft, gentle
little ball of bug, so small
and wonderful to hold, the feet
would tickle our palms
my brother and I hid
them in our hands
to take back home
We used to pretend they
could race and watched
their little feet move
our parents didn't fuss about
bugs as pets and dirt and time outdoors
but our grandparents chagrined against
shuffled bricks
everything had its
"proper place" for gardens and we
changed it with tiny hands
We can’t go back there now, the house
has long since sold
but I’ll always be Dad’s "Doodle bug"
Memories Snippet II
It's one of those stories
your parents know about you,
~ you were little and don't
recall that embarrassing
memory
I'd say they made it up
but for the animation and
gusto and laughter, it had to
happen and somewhere now it
conquers some part of
my mind to create this picture,
like a toy treasure in the attic
so the story goes....
My parents left us with
Maw Maw and Paw Paw while
they went shopping
oh, my country grandparents
love their land, I know this truth
but when my parents came home
Maw Maw and Paw Paw yelled,
"Dem yung ones,
chucked da tomatoes!
Dem yung ones,
chucked ALL da tomatoes!"
Mom looked to Dad
Dad looked to Mom and
they looked at my grandmothers
"Huh?! Chucked what and what's chucked"
They were shown around the house
Plastered into the brick,
it seems, it is said, they reported that we,
My brother and I
supposedly hummed those
tomatoes, their prized tomatoes,
Hummed them like baseballs against
the house
I giggle to think this happened
but I don't recall, I simply don't,
it must have been my brother!
 |
Garden of Gourds
Attached by a thick cord, silken sack
Surrounds for growth
Living reminder of fruit all bear
Resonating the universal process
Of creation, a mirror of unique
Sculptural forms
Vessel-like qualities waiting for
His pyroengrave design
Will it be a Red Wine floral rim,
Dressed daintily where bells
begin, the organic essence stains
Hues, to dry decorated, smile
Painted on
Or pluck then a thin, long shape
Birthed by a crooked neck useful
In its spoon shape, drinking of
Simpler times and rivers of memories
Quench deeply
Umbilical chord dangling, a garden
Of gourds, the resting place of God’s
Fruit, offering prayer bowls in bells,
Shapes, designs, destiny from
A single seed, Carve the pattern
Complete the plan
~ Hollow me
Her Wish
That year she bought pj's for her boys
something goofy like Homer or Sponge Bob
her husband preferred flannels
she liked the feel of them too
Everyone got new jammies, for herself
a soft, cotton robe, warm and cozy
to enjoy that morning coffee
seemed a lifetime ago
What does Christmas mean?
Last minute letters to Santa
sweet smiles of wrapping paper
trimming the tree parties and popcorn strings
lights her children loved to see
hanging in the trees that stream
along every beam and eave
next to snow globes and bows
or manger scenes reminding the spirit
This year she left her own Santa list
just one thing she wanted....
it wasn't for diamonds
nor clothes or shoes
nothing in her home was her wish
yet it can be found everywhere
"Dear Santa"
she wanted mud
enough to fill the levees
and bring her family home
Written Word
Written word, oh you ~ beauty
where poetry finds parchment
stretched and scraped and dried
tension within the finer
qualities of material
inked emotions defy waterproof
upon verbal mockery rifts
and tears, dividing those lovely,
lovely lines, then shrinks, then pulls
skin is taut, linen threads
across the furrowed brow,
tears paste the page's edge
slowly detaching
in it's own artistic effect of
jumbled and tired letters
that will not fade
Written word, oh you ~ beauty
rogue splash of liquid create
two vertical lines, define
the boundaries between
the space
Lavender Echo
Follow ~ whispers soft unspoken
counting echoes in the rain, his voice
between drops of saffron drizzle
to twilight's sigh
unbroken
unguarded
gesture, a corner's smile reclaims
and finds me once again within
his arms that pledge sweet
tomorrow's untold
promises ~ drift the sunset silky
painting me into the dream of him
watercolor layers disrobe around
where beauty blends
and blends
Persephone Lost
lost in landscape girth
frolic longings of waters touch
petals trip forget-me-not
playing in the field
lightening veins and harvest heart
feeds her innocence
till lust takes place and
sows the bushels part
fertilize and pesticides
cost of a parent's rage
Eco-swindle of long-term
hide the seed within
the earth, no tears rebirth
time when mother and
daughter are polar placed
malnourished cries begin
Mount Olympus responds
returns to spring and thus
chain and bond burst and bloom
but she, a captive,
an imitation of dark and light
visits the shallow pool and
spies dew-laden memories,
she knows the trap
of its dark embrace
the sweet, silken taste
six pomegranate seeds
stains her belly and forces a return
nothing but a seasoned pawn
Time Captured
Precious, the time together
There it remains on the wall
Cased in solid oak, softened
By graceful arch bonnet trim
Serpentine hands caressing
A crème colored face
But cherished minutes are frozen
In a glance, not there rather
Below on a pendulum swing in
Beats per hour the clock designed to
Make Westminster chimes
No more create past this morning seven
Delicate scrollwork motionless
On an arc suspended in a fall
Cast in golden shades inside the circle
Curtains blowing in the breeze
And there, naked linked arm to arm
Greeting the morn in her splendor
In mountain snow-capped serenity
Reflections hugging, no seconds escape
Duration of an endless snuggle
Cocooned in a warm blanket
Mirrored moment on a balcony
No alarm clock, time caught to the brim
On a solid upward stroke
Transformation
Morph me into landscape lines
of liquid hues and digital light
where the red and orange heat
tension of waking moments
blinds into the afternoon sky
bidding adieu taunt creases
Cast a net around the middle
greens and purple reflections
as silvery olive groves slumber
then incline their opinion of peace
with lethargic rolls on casual hills
Wade cool blues of muscle
drifting into tumbling creeks
then cascading down delicate
Wisteria blooms, wistful of
the woody, twining vines
carrying over clay stained
pottery chiseled steps
Transform life to landscape
Sunset me over Tuscany
Facing west to paradise dreams
~ Name Her
Under mother-of-pearl sky
with swirls of clouds
Sunshine, sweet and tantalize
pours down white
mountain peeks and dare
to warm the veil
that it may drift and
reveal
bride wears snow pearls
a turquoise soul
cupped in valleys and
emerald lakes, with
gentle rain forest
bouquet
white thunder
sounds in trumpet cheers
not a whisper ripples
but secret spirits lift
tresses in the wind
to expose the eyes
there are blues and then
there is blue
that magical hue
the shade of azure,
ice-encrusted dreams
name her
~ Alyeska*
(*The early Aleuts called Alaska ~ Alyeska)
 
|
