Thursday, November 18, 2010

Thy Windy Will

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

corrected vision
—dawn diBartolo, citrus heights

when asked if
the change in weather
had inspired me today ~
admitting that it hadn’t ~
I realized that I had become
one of those people ~

those who do not see
that wind dancing within the tree-
tops as a majestic mating
of the created ~

those that sleep thru
the changing colors of the sky ~
indigo to amber to orange and pink again ~
being only blue, remaining only blue ~

those that hear the wind-chime
of children’s tinkling laughter
and rest as cold stone upon the
unfertile dirt of the earth,
unaffected, sowing nothing,
reaping the same in return.

and then I penned this poem
so that I may see again…


if there was a you
—dawn diBartolo

(after “Packet” by Jamie Ross)

wanting to write it
like “a green light that comes
when you never saw it coming, never
heard it, felt it…”
but expecting it

at some point, genuine like
the outstretched hand in greeting,
the un-whitened teeth beaming
from between the mocha lips

of “nice to finally meet you,”
wanting to taste it
like hot cinnamon tea in
the depths of a lonely winter night

burning memories into the back
of your throat, or embrace it like
the blanket pulled up to your ears and
tucked under your chin,

wanting it to go full speed
into the night, hair whipping out
behind, scent rushing to my nose
in intimations of you…always

…wanting it to be you.


life lesson
—dawn diBartolo

yesterday the heavens wept
with such fury and frustration,
thrashing things about
like a temperamental child.
rage-fueled winds filled
the rooftops with sorrow,
spilling over onto the streets;
concrete soaked it up
like the shoulder forever
cried upon.

then today…
the sun smiled as if
autumn had no hold ~
a lesson for us all
…to just let go.


keep bleeding
—dawn diBartolo

I’ve lost myself again
in the changing colors
of the autumn sky,
refusing to be named ~

coasting into the pink,
each kiss is like the
dying sun, each
orange, an explosion
back into the rise.

I could simply give in
to topaz, but I find
little solace, no discovery
in the way things “should” be ~
are, quite regularly.

as the day sets,
I go willing with it.


the lesson of Emily
—dawn diBartolo

(after reading #131, Emily Dickinson)

days are growing damp
and short of time;
I wallow in the pits,

lost to the farce
of pantomime,
clinging to one wish.

my soul swells grey
and full of winter;
I’m longing for the sun.

yet heartaches endured
have caused a fissure,
thus, efforts all undone.

in poetry I find,
with prayer combined,
aid beyond compare:

grant me, Oh Lord,
a sunny mind ~
thy windy will to bear.


Today's LittleNip:

Whatever its nature, beauty is the treasure that we value—a pattern of qualities in harmony with our spirits, something that vibrates on the same wave length as the living stuff of which we are composed.

—Edmund W. Sinnott, U.S. Biologist



Thanks to today's contributors, and be sure to check out the huge array of readings in our area today and tomorrow, include a "first" at Logos Books in Davis and the release of WTF8 at Luna's Cafe in Sacramento.

Poetry at the Crocker:
Trina Drotar reads Kathy Kieth's ekphrastic poem
based on Wayne Thiebaud's painting, "Coastal Farms",
November, 2010
Photo by Betsy Powell