Poetry
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 »
Black and Gold
(Deborah means ‘bee’ in Hebrew.) From spring 2007: My heart is a bee. Cantankerous, it stings at random. But it dies each time it causes pain— while those attacked recover. Alight with flight, industrious and wild, it hovers over beauty. It yields gifts of honey from those it loves- -and seeks to woo. It is subservient. Yet majestic. Perhaps Queenly. Photo by Deborah Stokol. Bat-Mitzvah invitation encased in a... »
The Ocean at Night
From August 2007: There’s nothing like the ocean at night, It’s obsidian that returns to its molten state while retaining its color, and, of course, its sheen. It rolls in its own wealth like a dragon in his den. It lavishes the lengthy folds of crystal onto its many facets. I wish I could hold it in my hand (feel... »
The Sea and the Warrior
From Fall 2006: The Sea’s gleaming water nursed the aches of a wounded sun. It laid gentle fingers, jellied and blue, on the dying day dreams of one gold warrior whose armor lay hidden as he healed for the night. He fancied those whose bodies were neither here nor there. Who were neither fish nor fair. He winked at them, those ladies with amber eyes and amber hair. Whose fins shone nearly as brightly as their eyes... »
The Sea
From August 2006 Also appears in 2007’s ‘The Berkeley Poetry Review” And the sea. Which goes, and flows, by delicate means, of ropes and pulleys made of turquoise and pearl. Who hosts armies of starfish and coral cavalcades Peopled by folk of blues and greens whose whims know no boundaries and gifts know no end. Whose very skin—glistens with diamonds and memory. A lass with pipes that sound with... »