Tag: poem

Poetry

Unseen

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Today, as I walked, you were with me,

but you weren’t really there,

faces from the past,

old friends,

bonds lessened with time,

with silence.

I wondered what you’d say,

what you’d look like today

in the green, gold light shining through the leaves,

beneath the eaves of the forest.

I like to think I’d recognize you,

but I just couldn’t say.

My thoughts roam free when I walk.

They soar up to the up-most branches,

rooting out roosts where the owls hoot,

nestling in crooks of lightning-darkened bark,

looking down on the path below,

out of body,

out of mind,

close behind

the wandering girl

in her world of green,

unseen.

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

The Adventurers

Beth DeFries1 Comment

We live for adventure, you and I.

We live for it here,

for each step, each breath, each song

sung along to in the kitchen, the shower, the hallway,

doing laundry and dishes that have to be done.

Life is a beautiful mess with you.

The mess just means we’re living.

We wear out our shoes and our jeans,

our socks and our old tee shirts.

There’s sand in the bath, hair on the sinks, and trash in the waste baskets.

We live and it shows.

It sounds and it looks and it smells like us here,

as it should,

as we’d live it.

We crave the smiles and expressions,

the weekend mornings spent lounging,

reading books and articles,

watching shows and “content” and DVDs,

playing games about planes,

even booking tickets on real ones, every so often.

We capture little moments throughout the day

and keep the ones that stick to make us smile later on.

We savor quiet nights, cooking aromas, and sampled tastes,

the smell of sunscreen and oatmeal in the mornings,

cold cream, soap, and toothpaste at the end of the day.

We capture visions from hilltops, from mountains, 

climbing up the little bumps on the world

to soothe our hunger to explore.

We store them in our heads and in pictures,

file them away for use in our dreams, our memories.

We make shadows in the sun,

heat at our backs, giants on pavement, 

their footsteps synchronized with our own,

tagging along on our meandering journey.

We set our sights on now and tomorrow and the next day, 

only looking far ahead when it’s practical to

which, let’s face it,

you do for the both of us, oftentimes.

We are an amateur cover band with no audience, 

singing bluegrass, indie, rock, and pop

to the tiles, the walls, the car windows.

We are background noise you only get on the hundredth listen,

wandering a broad and varying soundscape.

The music is often on, it seems,

but sometimes there’s silence and we like that too.

There’s sleep 

and days full of nothing

but sitting with you on the big blue couch

in this place where we live for the adventure that’s living,

in this place where we live,

you and I.

Poetry

Hey Stranger

Beth DeFries4 Comments

Hey stranger;

who are you?

Sorry; I know that’s terse.

But I ask on account 

we don’t actually converse.

I write and you read

or you don’t-

I don’t know,

doesn’t matter;

it’s fine, either way.

I don’t dare to presume,

couldn’t possibly claim understanding of you,

no invitation to observe

the workings lurking behind your optic nerve.

I bleed truth

and I’m drained, I’m afraid.

I could use a transfusion,

a change or a break 

from the one-sided bank that’s near dry to the dam.

I could do with some sort of malfunction-

a leak or a breakthrough to stave off 

the drought of the week coming on,

posing risk to depleted reserves,

some comment or tidbit to calm restless nerves.

Could you carry the conversation sometime? 

I’d take a word as consolation, if you’ve got one to spare.

Could you narrate your mind?

Wring the sponge in your skull dry from time to time?

I could soak up your words for a change.

Would that be so strange?

Would you say something new that’s never been said?

Seek answers never quite put to bed?

Could you translate your thoughts into words?

Or is that too absurd to even consider?

Would you grant admission to your mystery’s dissolving,

what remains- evolving

into someone I’d know in a room full of faces,

one I could look on and read past the mask.

It’s a lot to ask- I know,

of a stranger like you,

So I guess I’ll just write

And you are welcome to read, if you like,

with no pressure to share,

while I remain unaware

and you remain ever a stranger.

When You Were
Grief & Loss · Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

When You Were

Beth DeFries5 Comments

You were pine scented card stock

dangling from the rearview mirror on elastic string,

packs of tissues strapped to the visor, 

and a little American flag fixed to the rear antenna-

when you were.

You were cans of Pepsi, 

cigarette butts in ashtrays all around,

and sweatshirts printed with cutesy cats, bears, and flowers.

You were snores on the sofa with the TV on loud-

true crime stories,

Irish folk songs, 

and the turn-dial TV,

bright white sneakers with shamrock laces

or American flags.

You were transitional lenses slow to adjust,

hair mousse, painted nails,

and yellow American cheese wrapped in paper and plastic from Acme.

You were egg drop soup, custard cups, and the corner store.

You were microwaved mugs of Lipton black tea, 

Oh When the Saints Go Marching In blaring on your hip,

God Bless America in light snow that February.

I can hear it now.

You were popular, authentic, and distinct.

I still remember the smell of your house,

that shelter for wayfaring family and friends, decade after decade.

It’s someone esle’s home now.

I wonder if you visit.

I still feel the icy shock of the kitchen tiles on bare feet in the mornings,

the twinge of fourteen years gone by with no new memories of you.

Still, we were lucky.

You were here for a while.

You were ours

and you loved us

when you were.

Cozy Posts · Poetry

The Dream House

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I have a home inside my dreams

amid a forest of evergreens,

with sparkling water not too far,

and skylights to let in the stars.

My forest, green with mossy bark,

from misty rain and velvet dark,

has soil soft with molted leaves

outside home’s walls and wooden eaves.

A fire set in white-washed stone

highlights the mantle’s honey-tone.

It warms the room, glowing serene,

and conjures up a cozy scene.

And when I dream, I walk the halls,

trail fingertips on gray, stone walls.

I plod upon the cushioned rugs

while balancing steaming tea mugs.

Inside, there is one thing it lacks-

a place to sleep. But why? you ask.

In dreams, I do not sleep a wink,

for that would be surreal; I think.

Instead there is a weathered chair,

its leather arms, softened from wear.

I curl up in its squashy seat

to take in a view that can’t be beat.

Windows look out on dense trees,

a wall of glass to better see

the mossy world my house calls home,

beneath the color-changing dome.

I look out at my forest grow

and know, in waking, I must go.

I savor time and stone and beams

while I’m awake inside my dreams.

Poetry

Defiance Gravity

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

What happens when you drop decorum from a skyscraper?

It’s a physics equation, on paper, or no?

Since gravity doesn’t apply to behavior,

it lands both harder and not at all.

It’s a complex figure,

inserted amid the text of some published melding of the minds,

paired with questions posed by Isaac and Albert

beside photos of graffitied translations from ancient philosophers

frescoed into tonal gray cement that stains when it rains,

or illegible neon spray painted on shiny towers of glass that, themselves, 

set fire to parked cars in the summertime.

The author couldn’t actually explain,

just uses big words that blend together

until you don’t care about the answer anymore.

But if you put it to the test,

the reality can make quite the mess

and cleaning up takes time.

So mind your Ps and Qs, my friends

and queue your peas up end to end.

Then, pop and gnash

or stew and mash;

they’re good that way, I hear.

Oh- and just remember, dear;

how you act does, indeed, matter.

See, rules don’t only break when dropped.

They can bend,

amend,

and shatter.

Cozy Posts · Poetry

Comfort on the Homefront

Beth DeFries1 Comment

A cozy, quiet evening,

swallowed early by the dark;

there’s bluegrass in the speakers

and a distant twilight bark.

Arrivals sail across the sky,

bound for Jamaica, Queens.

There’s comfort on the homefront;

it felt right to set the scene:

pumpkins by the TV,

cards upon the shelf,

socks with knitted patterns,

and a mug to warm myself.

Dinner’s fast approaching

and there’s pinot noir to share.

There’s comfort on the homefront

and I thought I’d bring you there.

Poetry

Yours,

Beth DeFries3 Comments

I belong to many-

To a man who loves me well,

To a family who brought me here and showed me what’s what,

To strangers passing by, sharing smiles and hellos,

To friends I’ve grown up with,

And friends I’ve met grown,

To a house by the shore that’s equipped with good bones,

And I understand, now, that I’m hardly my own.

Poetry

Action Sequence

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Over, under, treading, swimming

Boiling, freezing, tepid, cool,

When the thoughts spin ’round in chaos,

Throw me in a swimming pool.

Magnify the light of day.

Muffle sounds that pound the drums.

I’ll surface for each breath of air,

Then back below where thoughts are mum.

Heartbeat steadies,

Skin transforms,

Lungs retain and outperform.

Weightless feeling-

What a dream-

As pressure battles gravity.

Then back above, the volume rises,

Water droplets cold on skin-

Shrouded in terry disguise,

Wrapped around, corner tucked in.

Simulate weightless sensation

Back inside where it is dry.

Turn down overthought narration –

Headphones on so sound can’t pry.

Action precedes motivation.

Find a pleasant place to write.

Buckle down and face your fears.

You’re underwater.

You’ll be alright.

Poetry

Unwaking Words

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Conversation can be tough to tread

relying on your ears alone,

no surgeon on rotation

to dissect each little undertone.

And waking nights lend prime recall

of words you meant to only think.

They conjure spiral slides in view

that lead to pits of spiraled thinks.

And words, those writ for reading,

revitalize when vocalized.

Though some, perhaps, are best to rest

away from ears and lips and jest

to cast their shadows long in size

in silence- long anesthetized.