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Cheryl:

A beautiful poem from Joss Burnel. I follow her blog, Crowing Crone Joss : She Who Walks in Beauty, and am always amazed by her words and images. She kindly gave me permission to reblog this exquisite poem, “Don’t Ask Me”.

Originally posted on Crowing Crone:

This poem was sparked by yesterday’s post I Am Awake

backyard 2

Don’t ask me where I’m from
What difference does it make if
I am Canadian or Venezuelan?
Ask me, rather, where my mind goes
when I see the beggar in the street.

Don’t ask me what I believe
What difference does it make
whether I believe in Buddha or the Goddess
Ask me, rather, if I can sit within the
silence of my heart and find compassion
for all who live and breathe.

Don’t ask me what I do
What difference does it make whether
I am a scientist or waitress.
Ask me, rather, if I have heard the call
of my heart and responded with a
passionate “yes”.

Don’t ask me, please don’t ask.
Don’t think that by logic and
deduction you can discover
who I am.

Come walk with me,
let’s pick daisies together
or sit by the…

View original 72 more words

Sometimes she finds herself
standing in the porch
watching the lake below,
feeling free, until she realizes
she is mere substance.

Grief brings the memories back
hope always last to die.
A part of her longs for this isolation,
heart tranquil, memory stirring.
Remorse alters nothing.

Sometimes she sees his outline
moving by the bed.  He had taken
his time, knowing hands,
his touch strange and soft.

The past, false-hearted, moves
along slowly, catching up in its
own sweet time.  Dreaming lies
closest to living the passion.

So much of life has been about
what never happened.
Desire belongs to yesterday.

Published in the collection, Tuesday's Child: Poems from The Blue Heron
(Piquant Press, December 2011)
Copyright © 2011 Cheryl Andrews

The form is anaphora, the repetition of a word or group of words at the beginnings of the lines. In this poem, three stanzas with five repeating, two-word groupings.

I heard the screen door wrench free of its hook
I smelled the decay of leaves ripped from the trees
I felt the cloying heat swell and cling, then plunge
I tasted the bile rising hot in my throat
I saw the umbrella dive over the rail
I knew it was going to be bad

I heard the metal chairs quarrelling in the porch
I smelled the traces of sulphur scorching the air
I felt the floorboards tremble and quake
I tasted the bile rising hot in my throat
I saw the endless explosions of whitest light
I knew it would only get worse

I heard the angry waters brutalize the shore
I smelled the musky zest of lateral rain
I felt the surge of vertigo as the cottage swayed on its piers
I tasted the bile rising hot in my throat
I saw the table bounce twice then leap off the deck
I knew the little girl scrambling under the bed

Published in the collection, Tuesday's Child: Poems from The Blue Heron
(Piquant Press, December 2011)
Copyright © 2011 Cheryl Andrews

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