What Witches Weave

Take what you need and leave the rest,
I sat barking like an aged crow,
an Angel to my left asked my forgiveness for blocking what was right,
and I had to think on that a spell.

Bickering in the tongue of human nature,
ten swords offered cuts at your choice of depth.
A petty bargain to make when there is no escape,
no limbo, harrassment, or bloodletting crafty enough,
no, sanguine enough,
to purchase a passage away from the slander.

Bark, caw, pecking in the dirt like a dog unto my own errands of absolution,
I did not choose to leave peace behind,
but only picked a path through the fire,  weaving a rope of straw pickings,
Harping on the lessons you'd need,
should anyone else bless the path to freedom.

Disney's The Nutcracker and the Four Realms: The Song in Clara's Music Box Egg

     I haven't posted in over a year. This last year of grad school to earn my MSN and APRN certification as a PMHNP has been all I could handle. But I have finally finished, shy of a few minor details left to wrap up. I graduate Dec. 7th and I am catching up on all the holiday spirit. I know that this will be one of my best holiday seasons ever.
     Today I went to see Disney's Nutcracker. I really don't understand why the critics aren't liking it. It is lovely, the costumes are just incredible, and the incomparable Misty Copeland dances a few short ballet sequences. I have never had the chance to see Misty dance, so I was thrilled to see her. The camera work on her feet at times allowed us to the the incredible precision and artistry.
     Morgan Freeman makes a wonderful Drosselmeyer. I like to think he is a magician who ended up working for Batman at Wayne Industries labs later on, continuing his inventions. Clara is given a Faberge' egg type music box by her mother, which plays a song. Later her father says it is the first song he ever danced to with Marie, Clara's mother.  I knew I recognized the song, but could not call it to mind immediately. Google was no help at all, which is unusual. I did see that others are asking the same question that I did: what is the song in Clara's egg?
    There appear to be no answers as yet to anyone's queries. But I was sure I could find it because I knew I grew up hearing the song.  My mother loved The Nutcracker. We had a 33LP album of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite with cover art which entranced me, and I would play it and dance in the living room. It made sense to me that the song in the music box would be from the Nutcracker, so I started listening on YouTube.  I am sure I have solved the mystery.
     The music box is only played twice in the movie, so I can't be 100%. Leave me a comment if you think I am incorrect! But listen to this- and I think this is the song. It would make perfect sense...The Pas de Deux...the  Dance for Two.  A dance for two that she dances with her father.

I hope this helps clear up the mystery if it is driving you crazy. Have a wonderful holiday season!
Sylace

Bigger by Far

As I leaf through the pages of the swamp
the crocodiles have set their gantlet teeth in rows
and watch.
Had I not read this book a hundred times at night
through the bare threads of an aging muslin sheet,
I should be lost
to their snap, and the slither and roll to the death,
coming early like autumn this year.
But this is not my first bedtime story, and not my
first, nor second, mapping of wet leaves on cracked pavement
which none will come to repair in this life
and watching where you step is tantamount…
to nothing…
but an inevitable buildup just the same.

The frost at the edges of your mouth
bit me sorely, in times when what I needed was a whiskey, or a kiss, or
a kind word
or really by god anything with a slight tang of humanity
that one person might offer another,
much less a beloved, so shrunken and losing essential particles every hour.

Madly and passionately, I am huge now,
bigger by far than anything you never saw and never looked to see,
and I am enveloped in an unending kiss, and the intoxication of a love
I never dreamed,
consumed by sighs of relief and joy so often that
I have to catch my breath. 

In Greaves and in Armor

She would like to say she has outgrown this armor
but in truth it was never made for her at all,
sheaths of beaten steel she polishes-
a timeless ritual of women,
in thoughtless anticipation of battles to come.

She would like to say she can lay down this outsized monstrosity
and find a clear stream to wash off the dirt,
sweat of fear and unending exertion-
but it cannot be laid down, not now,
it is hers to carry even when she cannot recall where it came from.

She would like to live in her own skin,
or at least choose to make her own armor,
designed to mold to her and move like water-
responsive to her own call for protection,
so unlike this ugly ruin of mail and grief.

She would like to sing instead of cry, and smile instead of hide
as she fights and she dreams for the right,
to exist as she is, in the way that God made her-
while so many other beating hearts tell her,
that her battle is not real and her pain a cruel sham.

She would like to be unbound, and know for sure
if the armor is the problem,
after all, it was not hers-
does it work to keep her lost through the misadjusted visor,
all a trap that's sprung inside, so she never sees the truth and flies away.

Painting the Roses Red

As descents go, this was effortless.
Each foot placed in a hold
as sure as walking the pavement.
Unexpectedly Alice tumbles,
teacup over kettle,
only to find the cake finale
an indeterminate mystery.

Our hearts won't be ruled.
I imagine
it is up to us to govern ourselves
in the garden we were given, and
the games will end
when we tire and walk away.

I don't want to forget this journey,
the taking of this trip
entirely by accident, as if I
did indeed merely trip
and fall,
as if I
could pick myself up and skip away-
chalk paintings done in magic,
bleeding color into the background.

I don't look back. I can't look back.
Like the leading man leaving the explosion,
I stare ahead behind rose glasses.
Every descent is not a disaster.
Some are just epic daydreams,
where white and red are both love.

The Lie in the Candle

She bends at the waist and

Her hair is a fury- it fights like a wild thing possessed.

False sprigs of cypress curl smoke

From the mouth of the oven, the brick cherry red

With the heat.

The air has gone dry, and the eye of the ocean is open,

It sees to the floor, out the door to the north.

Paint it all blue, for the chi, for the life left inside there,

Where she cooks,

What she casts,

With those cats underfoot.

As she smiles the two smiles that she has, maybe one, maybe not,

Maybe both, it depends,

On the fire in the wood, and the blood on her hands.

But the truth in the witch is a

Lie in the candle,

A light left undimmed, whether free or kept chained.

Just the spectre of freedom, a plaid in the heather

Swept down the river, and

Lost in her howl.

The Deal

who made this deal that I would be in this skin for this life
thin lines of grease paint ran off my fingertips into the cracks in the concrete
as I sat there with my overpriced tea and orange confection of unhealthiness
overhearing, no listening openly,
to the sales pitch of an acting class hustler,
guaranteeing this poor bastard he would be a star,
dropping the Denzels and the Tom Cruise,
talking Walking Dead and Lee Daniels.
It was a great moment when he dared to correct her...
all wrapped in her uninformed costume of middle age
and he all of 20...
but he knew to correct her when she said
say the script says you play a preacher,
are you going to be an Al Sharpton,
are you going to be a Jesse Jackson,
or a Martin Luther...
he said, Martin Luther King, Jr?
Honest to God did she not know the difference between the two?
Honest to God did she not see he could play whomever he wants,
if he wants,
not just black preachers. I was appalled for him,
but that's just me thinking I have any right to think anything,
when I don't,
because all I have is this skin I am in...
but I do know better than that.
When she told you to get over yourself
about roles you said you would not take,
I had to leave
before she turned you completely into a whore.
Keep your morals, keep your dreams,
Best of Luck to you, kid.
I'll buy a ticket...
hell, I already did. It's called Starbucks.

Vintage

In ruined vineyards,
It is possible it is better to be alone,
Es possible esta mejor ser solamente uno,
hiding insecurities and unchanging lacks of judgement,
beneath the heavy hair of wanton vines,
between the sighing rows of perspiring leaves,
escaping the lucious desires of grapes begging to be picked,
mingling inside the mouth- the jaded
richness of old wine and 
the bitter sour of new wine that will never be pressed.

Nothing is beyond the imagination of tastes,
Even the dying man- condemned-
salivating his solitary last moments away
in recall of divine repasts,
and vintages too pregnant with joie de vivre
to be forgotten.

Acres of sunflower heads
dried of their crowns and beauty,
food for crows and old women,
fit companions enough for the
shadows that stalk the sunset,
lengthening their presence toward the silvered olives,
sinking low into soft chairs,
in the days when
nothing is left to be done,
all consigned to the care of the seasons,
Es possible en la nieve lavarse.
Es possible en la lluvia dormir. 

Sylace
July 2016


This was written on the train between Rome and Florence, as we passed miles and miles of vineyards and sunflowers in Tuscany, and one vineyard in particular was left in ruin...which I only glimpsed for seconds at 225 mph. But that is life, after all, going by so fast, and some of it in ruins. 

Every Day That is Left

Showered with dust
from fleet bee left-behinds-
his crop-dusting feet,
so unwitting and wild,
the field a mad riot,
sowed at last year's tea dance,
floral progeny bow to the wind
and make pacts,
to live full this one Summer,
to bloom bright until death,
to make love,
like a flower and bee-
every day that is left.


for Melanie A. and her bees

Wheel

I have bled in all the colors,
Black disaster, glory green,
Red ribbons on the church doors,
Yellow ribbons on the trees,
and Blue ribbons for the winners,
few and far between.

I have bled the same for ages,
petty highs when life was sweet,
orange shirts to mark the abject,
violet bruises on their cheeks.
One white sheet to lay your head on,
rescue comes in sleep.

Marvel

We would like to think we stride through life,
but for the most part we crawl,
dragging ourselves daily
through force of will,
seeking to generate enough lift
to overcome the gravity of our situation.

We have all flown at one time or another,
pervasive memory
imprinting us with soaring beliefs
we wear like black and white tattoos of lines,
written in the script of ferocity,
the block print of survival.
A graphical representation of times
our fathers tossed us high in the air,
our mothers hugged us near and laughed
at our antics,
and all the times we won-

The anxious battle within...
The tedious battle without...

The absolute marvel of the human mind's capacity to endure.

The Lineup of Ghosts

Childhood prepares us for this,
The wet, the grey,
The last heartbeats of December,
The sound of wind and water
through barebranch and pinetop.

It need not be said
To hold tight to what you love,
Only to be added
That we will all be called to
The lineup of ghosts,
To pick out the saintly from the slothful
and take our own place,
With only ourselves to know
Where we belong.

Lost Mermaid

It is hard not to go where the world takes you,
the blood in the water is compelling,
lustful,
maddening,
and full of frenzy to be a shark,
voracious feeding is obligatory.

I have lost my taste for chaos,
I wish I could swim for the exit,
but all signs point to the roundness of the globe.
I am swimming in circles,
making water angels with my arms,
singing songs to myself and to those
who would listen,
stroke after stroke,
mile after mile,
until my eyes fill with waves no longer.


T. Sylace
praying for all people who are threatened in this world,
may you never know what it is like to be terrorized.

Arizona

Acid tears once scoured my face
the way only water and pain can-
Deserts are beautifully dry,
alive with death.

Teeming with naked quills
you fall upon in spite of yourself,
scorpions who scuttle away
even as you run after them
begging for even a tiny sting
to remind you there was once something
so much kinder.

Even the sand is red and coarse,
my chapped hands stacking stones
so stunning, their sunset striations
fool me into thinking I am home,
when what I want is rain-
of all things to hope for in a desert-
as these blisters and burns
take the shapes
of everything I could have been,
and everyone I ever was.

Dreamcatcher

I don't know why...but I'm thinking of the amazing Dr. Libby tonight. A wonderful friend, teacher, and health care professional of dedication and devotion to her healing arts. This is for you, Libby!

Dreamcatcher


What lies we tell ourselves,
Crafted for this situation and that occasion.
What bastards we are
denying truths,
obliterating beliefs of those before us
as if we were the only ones
who ever lived here.

This place is not ours,
We cannot hold it-
only grow it-
or be buried underneath,
and THERE IS
a whole world
outside ourselves, that does not know
nor care
that we exist.

I dream of millions,
laughing, happy, enjoying the
company of love.
At peace with what they have.
In harmony with where they are.

A place where it is okay to be silent,
it is okay to know
that there is joy in everything-
even death.
And that the beauty of ruin and re-birth
are one and the same.

At War in America

I just realized that my oldest son was born during the end of the Gulf War, "Desert Shield." I got pregnant some time in there obviously, and Guy's Dad was deployed in the aftermath during part of my pregnancy. Guy was born into a nation at war again, and which we have never stopped pursuing since then, in whatever guise we hawk it to the world. Under whatever invisibility cloak of "terrorism" it is thrust upon us. It doesn't matter what you believe after a while. You just have to come to see that it's all part of some big orchestration on a global scale in which you can neither see the conductor nor the instruments; all you can hear is the music- whether you perceive it as rancorous or sublime to your ears.

Reid and Guy, my sons, have never known a world where America was not "at war" or deployed in heavy actions somewhere. Now all I hear on the radio from both sides of the media (as if there is anything but one side for the media which is the side of sensationalism and obfuscation) is how the Federal government's move to cut militarization of local police forces by limiting "surplus" military supplies and weapons provided to local forces is going to COST TAXPAYERS!! to "properly" arm our police and sheriffs.

I rarely get political. There doesn't seem to be any benefit and all it brings is hopelessness and haters to the forefront. I vote. I practice politics as an ethical, responsible citizen. But as part of my profession, Registered Nurse, I have to stay out of most fights. Love all, Serve all- as the Hard Rock Motto goes.

This time though, I just want to vomit. POLICE FORCES DO NOT NEED military grade weapons, helicopters, armor, etc etc etc. This escalation will never end. I see no end.
My son is in the military. I was a military wife long ago. My sister died in the military. Some of the most important people in the world to me are serving. I support the military.

I do not support any city or state police force belief that they need these armaments against the American people. I do not support taxation to arm our police against us. I would rather be gunned down in the street by a "criminal" than give up my freedom to feel that my police force is not my enemy. Yes, the police must be armed in appropriate, non-militarized fashion. Duh. And if you think crimes upon my person have not been committed, and I don't understand as a victim of crime, you would be terribly wrong. I have been victimized by criminals several times in shocking fashion.

I am a normal mom professional female and I can attest to you that even 24 years ago I was assaulted by a police officer giving me a ticket. He actually hit me, and he got a way with it, even though my then military husband and I registered complaints and tried to pursue the issue. I have had great friends who are police. I still cannot support the militarization of our police forces. I have to stand up against what even the FEDERAL government can actually see needs to stop. I have never owned a gun, but in two weeks I am taking training classes and MJL is buying me a weapon that I will be properly trained to use. I will protect myself, I hope, and I respect what police do and what they sacrifice. But I do not give them leave to beat people to death in my name.

So here's my poem of thoughts. A bit on the preachy side and overly rhyming, but I like it anyway.

At War in America
Wrapped in a cloak of chagrin and champagne,
a whirl and a whisper
a brief mist of fame,
old sins, new wine, just to hide what is plain.

There is no grief too deep
Nor too wide for the slain.

Aged in oak casks, rarer whiskeys are sought.
Hammer stout nails,
seal the treasure you bought.
Indispensable masks to conceal honest thoughts.

Watch your flanks, guard your rear,
You're long dead if you're caught.

When the price gets too steep,
For the bullets we rain,
Will we crumble in tears-
Or revere- what we wrought.

-----TSL- 2015

Budapest

I don't know if you all have heard of George Ezra yet. I hadn't till I saw him on Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago. Well actually, I had heard the name, but had never heard him sing. I thought his performance of his song Budapest was so unusual and captivating, even though I could not exactly understand some of the words.

They started playing the song on local Atlanta radio lately and I finally figured out the words I could not get..."I'd leave it all." And then once you understand them, it's like you can't see why you couldn't before- except to say that his English accent is so different than anything I am familiar with. I think this young man is tremendously talented and I will be following his career and music.

I have some incredible memories of Budapest, and of thinking it was really the one place besides Berlin that I could see myself living in Europe- of the places I have been. I find it hard, for all my ability to describe things, to convey the sense of being truly unseen in that city. I explored on my own while Mike took a nap, until later in the evening when we went out together. It had been a long, adventure packed ten days already. As I was wandering, no one looked at me- no one appraised me and no one was "people watching," really. The residents of Pest seemed to simply mind their own business with a focus I never encountered before in Europe. I have to believe this is the result of thousands of years of Hungarian history, being conquered and subject to centuries of oppression- only the latest being the former communist regime.

All I can tell you is that I have never felt so deliciously invisible in my life.

Once I woke Mike up and dragged him out for some nightlife, and way too much strudel and shopping into the wee dark hours, the city took on a more usual bustle and joviality. The food vendors were jolly and the huge Christmas trees came to life with lights and all the shadows and sadness were dispelled.

I think that's it- Pest that day was like a ghost town full of walking ghosts going about their business. I was just passing through like thousands of years of invaders. Just a new kind of invader, with a bunch of Euros and shopping bags.

Either way, I really like George Ezra's song Budapest, which he wrote after missing his train connection and never actually making it to Budapest.
I'm not sure I ever made it to Budapest. Maybe no one does unless they are born into it, for so much is hidden- you can just feel it. People come and people go, and the Hungarians just keep going on with their lives. I certainly tried my best to get off the path of others and make my own.

Budapest

while you slept on the river
I, alone, roamed the city
a thrift sale of garments
and music
and strudel

unseen and unknown
just another white woman
examining signs to
lose myself deeper
down the flat, narrow streets
of Pest.

your dreams were all torn, all
tossed up and muddled,
and dreams I was gone,
you were lost back in time.

My feet found the cafes, apples, sausage
with coffee, people
laughter, snowflakes-
two people just freezing
a moment for memory-
those days on the Danube,
Budapest.

Dinner Date

Beasts of desperation
assaulted her in her lilac dress,
she may have worn it to just once feel pretty
she may have worn it because she had no other,
or in hopes of sharpening her skills at tragic avoidance,
but his words came at her either way,
carrying freight and fury,
things held in too long or stories made up entirely,
from a man who never intended to love her
in the first place.

Lovely and sad and beaten down,
she ate her dinner anyway,
maybe the hunger of anger consumed her,
maybe the ages of missing were over,
with freedom displayed on her plate,
but he would buy her this last meal,
while she meditated on Ephesians 5:25,
and he broke the bread with her
for all time.

Proof of Life

Pictures are proof that memories happened,
I am in love with this picture of you.
I have so little faith in myself sometimes,
that everything must be captured.
Bubbles of fear in golden champagne
ants in the graveyard pocketing breadcrumbs,
cherries awash the ground, laden the trees.
I am so fearful I will not remember,
or worse, that I am not real at all,
nothing more than evaporating pixels
in a wasteland of selfies.
There must be more to recall than
this is where I was, this is what I wore,
this is what I ate, who I loved, who I miss-
who was there when I was present,
proof it happened,
proof of life.

Baltimore

Smash the pots, then stomp the flowers- a dozen
tired and tawdry hours, in tens of lots,
all mine,
all ours.

Drink it eat it, grow in size, one man's
detritus burdens flies, a fly's conceit
over man's demise.

Death may be blue, in uniform- or maybe
not, this roiling storm, obscures what's true,
or truth,
in any form.