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About This Author
Hi there!
I'm a grandmother, a nursing educator, an avid knitter and an aspiring writer. I created this page for family and friends who expressed interest in reading my writing. It is mostly poetry with a few short stories sprinkled here and there .
The poem on this page is one my Mom favored. The collectible trinket is from a needlework picture of Longfellow's home she completed. Mom loved poetry and was an avid reader. She and my brother, Rasputin   , inspire me still.
I have a published form modification called the Rondel Grand Modified; it is located here:
http://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/forums/topic/2842-invented-forms-found-only-at-w...
Drop me a note by clicking on the "Contact Me" link above and let me know you stopped to visit.
Happy reading and write on! |
Frayed Feisty Threads - Book IV #898524 added November 27, 2016 at 5:58pm
Restrictions: None
Smoldering brightly...
"O'er waving fields of grain", a potpourri of colors lights up the night sky. Continuous and rhythmic, in concert with the music, they rise to heights intended and flare. An invisible giant pen draws purple circles in the sky around exploding golden lights. Pausing only to change colors, the pen quickly draws red hearts. Suddenly, blazing gold and white stars punctuate the darkness, as the fireworks ring out once again on Independence Day. Celebrating the nation's freedom in traditional fashion, yet nudging us toward the next Century with a unique blend of technology and firework artistry, the display is synchronized to American music that stirs emotion, flowing smoothly from "Gettysburg" to Glenn Miller. It is a show unlike any other in the nation.
From the playful lights reminiscent of a dozen Rockettes teasing us through a familiar melody to the rich Battle Hymn of the Republic, full of splendor and exquisitely timed, the show builds in strength and intensity. Sweeping and graceful, arcing in the sky with a preciseness that must be admired, and choreography that is as playful as it is powerful, ”ooh" and "ah" are trivial descriptors for what sparkles in the dark tonight.
Sitting on a blanket and leaning into the only other human around for warmth, I watch the show through a mist of gently swaying waist-high grass. I think fleetingly of my friend in Wisconsin and his gentle urging, " It is the '90's , you know", that prompted my invitation to this relative stranger. And I think of another friend, who is somewhere else with someone else watching fireworks and creating his own sparks.
Would the love of my life have plowed through thick weeds to find a perfect spot? Would he have felt the same patriotic stirring as I? Will I ever stop looking for him in every man I meet?
The presence aside me is gentle, humorous and tentative. His eyes are gray and sad…..much pain is present there. He cautiously slides an arm around my waist. Each piece of music is clearly identifiable to him, a part of the American history that he loves so much. We move closer as he leans toward me, looking, searching, and inquiring. I lean away.
Will I ever not see those sparkling blue eyes and smile? Will the day come when someone else kisses me and I do not wish it were you? Will another's arm about my waist be as comfortable as yours? And will the shoulder I lean on be as safe and strong as yours?
A strong hand guides me homeward through the weeds and holds me up when I stumble. Laughing and talking, listening to the remnants of fireworks that were sparking in backyards and occasionally lighting up the sky, we walk, hand in hand, down the same pasture you and I first walked together.
Passing the spot where we stood under the tree, your hand on my arm and your eyes locked with mine in an endless gaze that sent electric chills through me, I look away. As if looking in another direction will erase the memory from my heart.
Turning my attention to this new man, I try to attend to the conversation. Writing tomorrow's news review in the air with our words, we meander home. I try to leave your memory in the pasture. Swaying on my porch swing, I think of you again and wistfully wonder…..Will your memory linger here, like a ghost, between us?
So many thoughts of you, so many memories…….in the woods, on my swing, sitting by the fireplace, long conversations, a trip we took…..all flood me with feelings of joy and sadness. You never knew that in the middle of the ocean, on a boat with someone else, I fell asleep wishing you were there with me. You never knew that I would have gone with you…..anywhere. You never knew….because I could never speak those words.
Moments of regret in life are many. Some carry more weight than others. And this is one of those moments. I regret not having told you, and I regret sometimes, letting you into my life. I seek you in every man I meet. And I understand now, how it came to be that you are seeking also. It saddens me to know that I will never quite be "found" by you.
Will you let me go, Dan? Let me find another and find happiness there? Will the memory of our times together fade and be reduced to nothing but a wild fling? Will the stirrings be less urgent…..will feelings no longer "smolder", fanning the light in my heart, teasing flames and igniting passion? Will I learn to love another as much as I loved you?
A moment of parting is inevitable now. Crafty, creative, and ever the conversationalist, I have darted and dodged with womanly grace and light-hearted abandon any effort to be kissed all evening. Maybe a polite goodnight kiss will suffice here. Maybe a peck on the cheek? I sigh inwardly. I suspect otherwise, and I am running out of places to move and ways to avoid my new friend's gray fading eyes, with his carefully guarded smile, that flashes from time to time.
There is a stirring as he pulls me close. Oh, what woman could not enjoy being held so tenderly by a man? There is no avoiding the inevitable any longer. With fields of grain providing an imaginary backdrop, the kiss stirs an awakened emotion. We are such creatures of habit!
The fireworks remain in the night sky. I lean against the wall for a moment after he leaves and contemplate returning to the pasture……where fireworks are trailing down on wisps of memories smoldering there.
tuc
July 5, 1997 |
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