My Freedom Bids Me Die

Ah, Election Day night. It’s not so much the grueling media carousel and sense of impending doom (no matter who wins) that permeates the work and play atmosphere, nor the desperate cries for everything that you want in a nation to be squeezed out of one politician who is allowed to be imperfect– even worse, WRONG. What makes me want to flee tonight and wake up the next day to seek my knowledge of what can’t be undone and allows me to move on with life is not apathetic hiding, but a necessary purging. You see, my family and I can talk politics until we turn blue in the face. I’ve talked with my husband about politics until he turned blue in the face. (Did you see what I did with that color pun?) I seek rest and peace.

One of the most peaceful experiences in my life was when I visited a family in Asheville with a college buddy. We left on a whim one weekday to discover more about art, power, and relationship. The grandparents were artists, a writer and a painter/sculptor. They invited us to ask questions, oogle their newest works, and sip hot beverages to stave off the chill. Even though I had just met them, they made me feel like a million dollars. I pray to be that to others, and stop living for just myself.

“Ici, The Moment”

Injuring, frozen air fisted

its way into my nasal passage, behind

my shrunken throat, pale blue wind

on every cell-theory of my skin,

the blank assemblages of biology

trying to warm themselves in bundles

at my nearly-pink cheeks,

flickering wind-wet eyes,

ashen and grasping flaps of mouth,

while their doorbell lulls in the

coiling, fragmented, pretty, sharp

fingers and maple toes and maroon

fruition of Asheville forest.

“Come right in”, she donates her popping,

unwieldy eyes and sweet, toiled fuss.

The neo-sixties’ sunshine is mellowed

by quiet, dangerous theologies and a coffee maker.

She is slim and stunning in black turtleneck,

brief hair to trace her swan’s repose.

I follow her wild introduction to the living room,

where makeshift chairs are hungry leans into the wall.

Frames and soft rain and aging wood

replace my chill with a lecture on kinds of canvases.

Her black-white grandchildren are restless compilations too,

forever mandated by worlds of color.

I feel my predatory heart slink into reverie,

Vanda orchids descend from paints

next to Catholic publications and dust

particles cowering in the moonlight.

Everything is silver and dull,

sculpture pieces and fabric scraps

washed in an inky metamorphosis,

disjointed magazine articles married to floor planks

that creak under simple stories

or variegated evening projects

undone by this sudden bright flurry

of hosting and surprise company.

“Let’s hear your work”, he effortlessly

lifts the children and my spirit

using mountain arms, speaking easy hope.

Unmetered durability sparkles charm

throughout the farming plaid and salt-

pepper hair that both grandkids tug

at like babies for formula. The provider.

Books of his criticized verse span

the length pushing wood to the windows,

the windows trying to puff ice

over heated literature and family,

his cradled eyes slimmed by the laughter.

Suddenly my work is too standard,

a belch of petty observations masking

petty dreams in my spastic

idiosyncrasy of heart—

“stalking”, “clear”, “sunset”, words repressed.

The moon’s response warms, however,

and the faint wash of every art

in the Bomer house ignites accordingly.

With a steady night brilliance

removing itself in coolness,

early narrative has sketched my life

and we are all drawn by the words.

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About violetprose

Writing pulls me out of myself and into a world of color. It soothes, encourages, and inspires, among other treasures. I use it to love, work, and play. I pray it breathes life and shares hope.
This entry was posted in Come Read With Me and Share My Love. Bookmark the permalink.

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