Katrina Kaye
Every blink
of your eyes
is a sunrise at sixteen,
when you told me
you loved me
and we watched the
sun eat the black.
Fifteen years later
you cling to me,
and I let you.
With each kiss
I promise
safe harbor,
with each touch
I seek to steer
your path.
I am
no beacon.
I am easily lost
to the night,
unable to guide
ships led astray.
My hands cannot
retain heat,
cannot heal or
offer cure from pain.
Yet, there is
a light in me
that still hopes I can
lead you home.
Gina Marselle
Each morning a new bloom truly more vibrant than purple or pink, and I appreciation this God-given joy. Ungodly-100-degree-July-days defy any garden, even this petunia in a blue pot struggles reaches for water, sips dew drops with desperation just to survive. I sip morning coffee and water the garden before any heat edges over the land-- wild birds sing, eat the sunflower seed, my dog barks as neighbors walk down the alley. I watch in the quiet as the sun steps over the Sandias. Marveling at this wonder a billion years old-- and count my blessings with each flower. There is not just one bloom-- but 20-30 blessings opening in ernest. Tears spring to my eyes because without theses blooms my morning is empty, my heart is broken from every yesterday's pain.
Images by Gina Marselle
By Emily G. Bjustrom
The air smells of popcorn and spilled beer
The concrete floor sticky
The air balmy and cool
Were we in love then?
There’s something dishonest in the way I’ve dressed myself
Flattened out my curls
No jacket
Who was I pretending to be?
You look like yourself, eyes lighted
Exactly where you want to be.
Green collapsible seats, open like cheering mouths
Hopeful as their occupants,
Drunk and slurry behind, they jeer against us for the home team.
A summer ball game, a blue sky
joy palpable as water in the air
The bitter taste of a pregame beer lingers in the back of my throat.
Did you love me then?
© Gina Marselle | 5 June 2021
Sometimes it means the world to still the mind
To meditate tranquility until your heart slows
Enough that the pump of your spirit is felt
Like river waves on toes
The earth moves so rapidly
But feels so still
Minus the early June breeze lifting hair tendrils wildly
As seen on the cover of an high fashion magazine
Sometimes it means the world to still the mind
To take a moment to view the garden as it grows
Memories come and go
Lingering echoes that disappear
Like rain in the desert
Then the quiet is granted
Even if it hurts
You wait for a sign,
Some hope
As it sits in your heart
Courage to accept the answer
Everyone has to let go
Mortals aren’t God
And cannot change or control the wind
Or a person
Only self can be directed into movement or stillness
Right now, just appreciate
The lull of meditation
This moment of serenity
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Here is Sleep,
stretched on my right side,
exuding warmth and calm
so close to my chilled skin.
He is distant despite the proximity
promised by the hands of clock and
length of lingering darkness.
The lights from the street and
solitary passing car slip between
slightly parted blinds into long stripes
across far white wall,
chasing shadows to restful corners;
their claws receded.
No longer do they unfold
toward me in the lonely dim.
In spite of the vow of peaceful nightfall,
I am awake with stale breath held in chest,
deconstructing a nightmare into
a coiled grey sweater left on floor.
The simplest of terrors paralyze,
leaving me vulnerable prey to the night.
It is impossible to be lucid
in the muck of these early hours,
when the tiny tragedies of
the ever turning world imprint dreams,
causing Sleep to lack the relief
he once promised.
Indifferent to my mistrust,
Sleep breathes, soft and rhythmic,
a silentious invitation to join him,
the only sound breaking the night.
There is a ghost that claws
beneath my skin–
it grips at my lungs until I
forget to breathe,
and holds onto my heart ’til
there is no beat;
there is a ghost that crawls
through every inner room,
puts red tags on all of my things;
tells me I am failing,
falling,
crashing,
as I try to triage every little thing.
But that laundry basket is green
maybe black:
stationary
unmoving
it’s not going anywhere
and I can wear clothes out of a basket
for another week.
Last night’s dinner dishes
are yellow tagged:
they can wait until today’s dinner
is cooking.
Child’s plea to play:
red
red
red like love
like life-blood
like you can put the chores away,
red like you can soak in this moment and this day.
Red like your life depends on it
Yellow like the chimney needs to be cleaned
Green like the laundry basket
Tag it black:
if it is unmoving,
if it can wait another day,
if it never mattered anyway.
© Maxine L. Peseke, October 2020
Katrina Kaye
steal a moment
under the clutter of
ceiling fan loose
at its screws
and the breeze
from open window
advertising a night
more temperate
than the day
more quiet and
peaceful than the
rumble of mind
I have chosen to settle
I loved nights
like this when I was younger
when I spent little
time indoors and allowed
myself the freedom
and recklessness
I thought was the
promise of life
I am glad I lived it then
nights like this
making out in a car
with the first boy I
fell in love with
walking with blissful
intoxication
through a city street
driving under the stars
just outside the city
limits where the light finally rests
dancing in the dark
as I walked downtown
with someone I barely
knew but trusted completely
I wish I remembered more
I wish I hadn’t spent
so much time looking
toward the next moment
and enjoyed the one in which I swam
I didn’t take it all for granted
how many times
have I had the privilege of
lying with eyes puddled closed
feeling content with what
I have lived
believing there was nothing more
life could gift me
it continues its kindness
and although I am sometimes
clouded with doubt, I too
recognize the love
the ability
the beauty
the full gift of life
I am not one to use the word ‘blessed’
and the word ‘luck’ trivializes the sensation
I am gifted in this life and despite pain,
disappointment, failure, and setback
I have so much
I fill with gratitude
with feelings of having more
than I deserve
what more can I ask
what more is there to attain
these words are a two headed serpent
and cannot translate the race of language or
the fullness of thought clouding my mind
I will not use this moment
to make any grand resolutions
but I will allow the freedom
of heart and mind to find my peace
I am grateful for this moment
with sleeping dog at my side and
mewing cat on the shoulder of couch
the loud crank of the ceiling fan
the breeze of the night through open window
it does not tempt me to places I have once been
It merely reminds me
of a life I too often lived unexamined
I have been
in flux — a wild, wild mess
of uncertainty
inside storm-battered,
shuttered mind,
a house fire sparks; alight.
There has been nowhere
for the smoke to escape
but somehow this house
still stands.
Eyes tired, worn like
storm-battered shutters,
covering windows of a
tired soul.
I have been in this smoking house
too long.
There is a cold snap in the air outside,
but I still throw the windows open
to the new moon/no moon in the sky.
I count the stars,
name new constellations,
call them “HOPE”
And I leave the windows open at night;
I will repaint my shutters in the daylight.
© Maxine L. Peseke, September 2020
~ In memory of Julie Brokken (1959-2020)
Gina Marselle © January 2, 2021
The desert is a brutal abode
Drought-wise
Too hot during summer solstice
Too cold during winter solstice
Empty most moments
Sometimes only bees hear the echo of wing flap
So how does an apache plume awaken each morning
Stretching for the peaceful, cerulean expanse
Water-wise
Inspiring purple butterflies
Cooling quails
Well past twilight
Content to settle in the sandy, low desert
Flowering yellow-white petals
Whispering hope
This poem is inspired by Julie Brokken’s photograph: Twilight Apache Plume. It is copyright material, and you may view the image on her website: http://www.juliebrokken.com/botanical-beings.html. Please scroll down about halfway to view the image. As well as the poem, I included a watercolor I did of the photograph. This poem and watercolor are in memory of New Mexico artist and poet Julie Brokken (1959-2020).
Katrina Kaye
allow eyes to rest
press palms against
closed lids and exhale
hold breath
allow silence
release time
feel the bruises on
knees and the scab
on earlobe
trace the memory of memories
that have quicksanded
through cold hands
try to let the mind rest
try to forgive
embrace only
the breath of now
a bird sings and the sun
insists on the drag
the toward tomorrow
take time
to clean hands and
cross fingers
promise better in the
in the last moments
of today
