September 2013

Uncategorized16 Sep 2013 07:33 am

This is the fifth anniversary of the website.  Sadly, I have to postpone the grand posting I’ve been working on because my father died this week and his funeral is today. So I will spend the day crying and laughing and hugging people and will postpone this anniversary.  It’s a tradition in my family to postpone dates.  If we can postpone Christmas, I can postpone an anniversary, right?  I will see you in two weeks with the special anniversary post.

poem09 Sep 2013 07:40 am

The straw beneath me has already
sent up its ghosts, wisps of smoke,
to pester me like flies.
Beads of sweat jewel me
like a rose at dawn.

“What have you learned?” they ask me,
the men grim as iron.

I’ve learned that missing
his hands’ gentleness
pierces like thorns.

“What do you confess?” they ask.

I confess the flames feel
cool as snow’s caress
compared to the heat of his body.

“You pay for your sin
with your soul,” they tell me.

I paid for my wild dance
with my wild heart.

“Don’t you care for the cost?” they ask.

I remember the patter
of his lips on mine
like clink of coin,
bright as candle-flame in shadow,
how in daylight all that gold
turned to dust.

1851_Junge_Hexe,_zum_Scheiterhaufen_geführt_anagoria (1)

poem02 Sep 2013 07:33 am

The Leaf Burning

Smoke goes up in curls and ribbons;
Samuel Wainwright burns off his leaves.
He claims each one’s a page in the year,
Prophecy unfurling as they turn to light ash.

The peeking neighbor children know their leaves don’t do that.

Sam’s solemn this year as he tends the burn-pile–
Because of the wind he’s on the front lawn.
As he reads the smoke-stories, he mutters them softly
–A stranger could tell that it isn’t good news.

I bring him mulled cider as a tribute, a pledge.

“A hard year,” he says, adding a new handful,
“Of hard knocks, surprises, and very few laughs.”
I can’t read the smoke-script of old growth on fire
But it almost looks jagged, because of his words.

“We’ll have to laugh harder when we get to,” I say.

“Remember we’ll cry later, to not be too shocked.”
I blink as the sooty wind stings my eyes.
“Why do I bother?” he demands of the flame-tongues.
“When it’s never much help to know life is hard?”

“If you didn’t, you’d worry all year for us, Sam.”

He takes a sip, starts to mutter again.
I just watch his expression, his eyes behind glasses,
And am grateful for autumn and springtime and him–
The way his sharp knuckles are clenching the handle.

Something in him, and leaves, looks out for us.

I can stand years like this with that thought in my head.
We can burn off the last year, be braced for the next.

© 2005 by Tomasz Sienicki

© 2005 by Tomasz Sienicki