Poetry
Pensive, I Amble (The Trees are Speaking)
Pensive, I amble. The Trees are Speaking. By Deborah Stokol, September 2005, amended a bit November, 2010. Based on the melodic contour of a traditional Chinese piece and emulating, in part, the style of Walt Whitman. The afternoon is still. I hear but few sounds; the eager winds rustle through the valleys of each branch. They whine. and Oh, They dance through boughs and... »
Well, At Least You Can Play With Your Words (If Not Your Food)
In Icelandic, a tortoise is not a tortoise, but a “Shield-Backed One.” As if our slow-moving reptile (not lazy, just careful) does not form the Hero of The Race but embodies a long, lost Warrior, trudging (plodding?) through our world in the wake of some grand Battle, Some tragic, ancient War, from which it’s not quite clear whether he emerged the Victor Or Defeated. ||| (I learned this small tidbit— from a Poet, a Brit, to be exact, bespectacled and mustachioed, curly-haired and mirthful, one with a penchant for sweaters and... »
With you at the Helm,
On this Rough Sea, Where each man must be the Captain of his own ship, I promote you from First Mate, For surely you are much more. With you at the Helm, I know I need never be Rudderless, Gliding toward the Poles, That once did dwell apart, But have since so Fused together, In Defiance of Our Laws, And Accordance with a Principle, Some Cosmic... »
I Want no Other–
I want no other talents, that may not be my own. and I want no other eye color– my eyes are just fine. enough of mantras and incantations, it comes with work and understanding. there’s no use wishing for things that should not change. I’ve learned to love the language I speak and even comprehend that the words I use within it, I use and choose with great... »
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. »