Poetry
Awake
Awake– that is what I am (perpetually) My thoughts race to a finish line no one else can see »
On Reading, 1.
Perhaps I am a literary coward because I do not enjoy the works of those who describe the Human Condition in too graphic of terms, preferring, rather, the ones who may cloak it in shades of blue and innocence, fleeting wisdom, unshaded contours that are no less deep, occasional irony that sears with greater potency, who tip-toe around it as if it were sly and mercurial, a... »
There comes a time of moderation
There comes a time when even those with restless souls must rest. When they must lay aside their want to seize a golden quiet I never thought I could so clean give up the fire burning But even warmth can grow too hot if it burns the one who trusts it and the cool, if checked, that calms her down, can soothe the one who loves it. »
My Heart is a House
From December, 2010. My heart is a house and sometimes a home with memories for rooms and floors of gem tones. You took charge of the place, like a merchant or king residing there, sweetly this place as your thing Sometimes these walls forsake me. I get lost in the halls I thought to command there, having built them, myself You filled the chambers with light and with... »
But Other Days
Some days I wake up, and I’m fine. I mind such business as is mine. Nothing can hurt me; I’m invincible— Unstoppable— Untouchable. But other days, I wake up missing you. (And you can be nothing but gone.) They say you live on in my heart— but my heart’s lonely, and you feel gone. Photo by Deborah Stokol, 2005. »
The Figurehead
From 2007: Accustomed to warding off bad luck, I never thought I’d find my own. There are times I tire of salt and the sea. My eyes, unblinking, sting from too much sun. Warden, omen, object of love, sometimes I’d rather follow behind than face ahead. Photo by Deborah Stokol. Barcelona, Spain. 2007. »
Purple Midnight
From 2001: In this Purple Midnight the hours swallow me whole. like the holes they make of stars in the witching hour. Maybe it should be called the twitching hour because I can’t lie still. shiver me timbers and show me the dark I wish I could find my slumber. My eyes rove around like tourists. they don’t know where they are or... »
There are Some Days
From spring 2007: There are some days I wake up clinging to my dreams. And I don’t mean like big dreams, Or big scenes, haloes, or ‘misty mountain tops.’ But those residues that lie Only to recede when I first regain consciousness. Sometimes I dream in music. With music. Of music. I’ve played. Am playing, have not yet written. may never write. I dream in color. There... »
I Dream of You in Blue
From summer 2006: I dream of you in blue. Your eyes twin pebbles dappled with sun. Your curls form shells that make no sound when I hold them to my ear. I like that when you write You write with neither pain nor glory. Maybe things are better that way When I think of you, I am not productive. I like to travel... »
A Fiddle and a Violin
From November 2006: My friend once said, that you could play a fiddle– ‘til it got rusty let it lay low— ‘til it got dusty and that you could play it— in the sun. And that THAT was the difference with no other differences, between a fiddle— and a violin. -Deborah Stokol & Emily Adams »