Portrait: The Princess In Exile

"Maybe"—yes, small doubts there,
Even though she was born knowing. This
Ladylike creature remembers
In her bones lifetimes as a queen,
So this life feels unfamiliar,
Scanter of domain,
And somehow harder work.
          Making a silk purse of a sow's-ear situation, as
          Only the true royal can, she
          Reconnoiters a new path to a different throne,
          Affirming her nobility.

Semiotics

The languages of hands
are older
than the languages of words
The meanings are older
deeper
The languages of bodies
are older yet
Joints and skin
movement, containment, contents
have their distinct syntax
boundaries required
for discernment and sensation

You ask me to explain
my devotion (with words
     you mean)
but have not our hands already
spoken volumes on our behalf?
And have not our bodies clearly
cried joy, old friends, long parted
(ancient partners of a different sort)
in reunion?

Guest Post! Erin M. Feldman

Watching and Waiting

We are watching the emptiness fill. No,

we are waiting. Waiting

and watching.

***

We can hear the waves lapping

against the hull. We forget the man

in the bird’s nest.

He is waiting, watching.

***

Or, we are seated on the porch,

drinking tea and eating - something.

We ignore the woman

drifting closer, the woman

waiting and watching.

***

Or, we pretend the sky isn’t pressing closer,

isn’t sticking to our skin with its yellow-

greenness and moisture.

We can still breathe.

We can still wait.

The emptiness is not filling.

We are watching and waiting.

Erin Feldman works as the marketing communications manager at TouchSystems,

but her passion is to grow her writing consulting business, Write Right. She has her Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing and her Bachelor of Arts degree in English and graphic design. When she isn’t busy working at her day job or building her business, she reads and writes poetry, draws, runs, or tries to find people to go salsa dancing with her.

Guest Post! Ruth Long

ENIGMA 

Like pieces of a puzzle
you are scattered
across the room
detached, cool as
the moonlight spilling into
the window and stroking
       the line of your jaw

a cat climbs through the window
and your mouth twists
into a momentary smile
enigmatic as a falling star
dark as the midnight cloak
that shelters us
until dawn creeps in
     on stealthy paws

Ruth Long is a reader and writer who enjoys living on the razor's edge between poetry and fiction and passionately believes that the two can happily co-exist.

You can find more of her writing at BullishInk.Com 

On, Poetry Posse!

Songs of Motherhood

IV. Word

(to my mother)

To thank you enough

I have finally found my way

            (my truth, my life).

I give you this oath

(which is your gift to me):

Although for every hour by which

I have shortened your life,

I would gladly give in trade

a day of perfectest joy,

instead, I will redeem

every minute of grief

you ever spent on me.

It is my griefs have saddened you most,

and ever having saddened you is my most grief.

I will set now all griefs aside;

I will be now as happy as you always hoped.

I have known you

longer than I have known breath

from the inside, out,

and still have barely the gist of you

(curious and humble,

grace seeking grace)

who gave substance to my idea,

knit me together

from threads of your own fabric,

then passed the needles on to me.

I give you this oath

which is now mine to keep

(your gift to me)—

and every day will now become

my mother’s day.

Songs of Motherhood

III. 

She teaches love

Sprung full-fledged into being
                       at the conception of her child
             and newly created at every
                                     new conception

             She, the goddess
             She, the universe
             She, all-provident womb
                       and totality of her offspring’s
                                     first self-knowledge

             Her gaze, the first mirror
                       seen over the horizon
                       of the soft, round taste
                                     of need satisfied

             Creatrix and creation indistinguishable
                       The mystery of her generosity is this:
 though giving ceaselessly, she makes no sacrifice
             All she gives, she gives to herself
                       through her creations

Her progeny spin out, as droplets of water
                       from the ocean
At the moment they are realizing their separate being
             she is recognizing the unity
                       of her essence with them

                       Becoming one by becoming many
                                     pupil and matrix
                                                  she teaches love.

Main Sequence

High above the ground
above the orange pink lavender freesia
layers of sunset
that lie behind the black palm trees
past the languorous eucalyptus trees
and the hovering moths that flicker
and past the collage of sounds
rising from the earth the blacktop
the chanting crickets
the warm-evening conversations
the clink of glasses
the traffic sounds
muffled by years-deep foliage
beyond the indigo richness
couching the pearl of moon
beyond breath
beyond reach
and beyond
a blaze a fury
of silence
heat of polymension
thickening in the mass of time
a glitter
a pretty
a diamond
an ancestor

A "main sequence" star is a star in its prime, emitting light and heat (and like most things, 

shrinking toward middle age…)