Monday, September 20, 2004

A couple poems by Madrea

I'm Dying part II

The smells of fresh-cut roses,
hot coffee in the mornings,
and heavy rains
singing me to sleep.
The feels of soft silk against my skin,
hot showers on cold mornings,
and caffiene running through my viens
The sights of the sun setting on the horizon,
still waters being broken,
and beautiful people,
The sounds of the simple phrase:
"I like you",
and heavy music on fuzzy days,
and laughter that's meant.

That thing called love

Seems I can never keep it
(That thing called love)
Boredom creeps to me
or trust slips from you
Seems I'm "too wild", or
you're all worn out
Can't provide it
(That thing called love)
I'm pushing it, or
you're giving it up
(That thing called love)
You named it, and
I claimed it,
But YOU disowned it
(That thing called love)
I wish I had it
(That thing called love)
In the palm of my hand
because I would never release it.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Editor's note: I read this poem through once and then read it again carefully and slowly, taking in all of the images and reflecting on my own experiences with the visions that occur when one catches great flashes of, for lack of a better word, God or holiness in small and bigger objects that float freely around us. Asha is one of the underground's great treasures and her writing continues to inspire and awe me.


I've been up all night writing and re-writing tomorrow
watching the stars
tick across the sky
around midnight
the Big Dipper
is just beyond my window
by 3 am
only stars
no names
in the hush before dawn
when time slows nearly to a stop
I see my grandmother's dog
the one she made live outside
the entire North Dakota winter
his pleading
cold-crazed eyes
a sad
two-star constellation
they shot him in the spring.

The sun doesn't rise
the world
falls face first
into its light
finds its mark
resumes the
fiction of the day
with regret
I sense
before I can see
the holy dark dissolve
into grainy morning
here and there a bird
stirs in its feathers
before long
they are on the roof
rattling the gutters
pecking at the tiles
one of these days
they will pull
the house beam out
and the whole thing
will fall down.

If morning brings a promise
it is a simple thread
strung between opposites
a wire dance
in thin air.