Tag Archives: Larissa Peters

Residue

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I heard the beginning line* below at a conference, and it caught my attention – it’s from Archibald MacLeish’s modern rendition of Job called J.B. And it started this line of thought…

“Blow on the coals of my heart”*
O God.
Let not my love grow thin
when weariness wastes the withered will.
Give me the foolish courage to answer (and even ask?) the question:

“Am I still breathing?”
Fogging a mirror that reflects
Mildewed eyes. Let not ‘faith’ become a tired word
A common degradation (that offends
or obscures or absorbs).
Let me grow angrypassionatejoyfuldevastatedoverwhelmed
Hammer the fear that lulls me to sleep
Wake me with a whisper
And let me gulp the wind.

The Middle

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I can’t imagine what it’s like to flee my home as a refugee. Just a few sketched words:

Sand sifts,
brushes against the canvas tent
A small quavering
refuge
that barely replaces the once
solid house
now crushed in bones under rubble
Joy. It breaks and cracks,
Five hundred miles in the past.
The wandering is one thing
But the wondering is hell.
There’s a Nowhere in the heart.
And the soul is a worn stone, ground
as sand shifts
brushing the quavering
canvas of
refugees that barely can place
their home
now crushed
buried under waiting.
Peace. It looks away.
And hope grows in withered form here…

Turn-Over

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First iteration from one of the products of our very first monthly writing group with Halley Greene.

‘False’
reverberates through the
room bouncing through
heads and paintings of barking
animals fighting over bones…

if truth enters, it seeps in under
the door.
Starting at our feet.
and if it isn’t trampled
it may rise to the waist and if
our arms embrace it,
rising higher – squeezed up
up. up. into our eyes and wine glasses
smoking higher
diluting
penetrating
grazing soft kisses on eyebrows
relief through fires’ fear.
extinguishing like a slow suffocating
unaware but so. so. clear
up. up. in the air.
until our ears quit ringing
with the reverberating.

Consonance in the key of love-minor

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I admit, this one is purely my own selfish indulgence in my love for the beauty of words…

In light years ahead, can love be seen,
a traveling gleam from this point of view through hundreds of — fears?
And if so, is it trial or triumph?
or simply a trip:
today’s augmented reality: a Thai-fervor with exotic graphics?

Or is it a lonesome lacking
a balloon looking
(like a vagrant Valentine)
frightened of the inescapable
landscape that looms
largely
replacing the lazy longing for love?

A seeking
or freezing?
Learning love
and hating
stepping on
or via vice versa

(My toes are numb…still…)

So artful glances shoot spitefully like a cat,
hair on ends, tail straight up,
suspicious of simpering selves

Suspicious of savory sweets
Scintillating streams of swiss chocolate
thick, melt in your mouth unmentionables
(It’s impossible to talk, anyway, with your mouth full)

A string-along
a run of words
wondering at what moment it would be wise to win?

Or lose?
(A great loss can more than lengthen the lack of lackadaisical looks)

Defenses appear
Hackles instantly rise

A run-on sentence
becomes a rambling Rover of rumors,
the Pied Piper of the painful poets
Forces the English language
to match that effervescent (and sometimes frenetic) language of love…eons ago
eons and languid eons ago.

Whoever may, will
Find love
A laughable test if anyone really knows it well enough,
swelling up
full of philanthropy
Or for some: philandering
(or phallic fallacy?).
All would like to imagine that
no, it must be more than
Phileo

It’s tough, they know
complicated, we know,
but some just don’t give up trying
even when they beg to
die to
love too

It hurts
but in the end, (forgive the moral
but it must be made, you know.)
In the end,
I (amongst all the vice and voice)

Could only hope
that the words and wanderings were worth it, despite wary and wearing
Lifting
like that balloon
Searching for
(not even demarcation or demonstration)
more than decoration

maybe even for deflation
in some one’s lonesome yard.

And it is enough.
It is enough for me.

Dis-unraveling

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Could a well-oiled, put-together puzzle, complex
in its structure and solution
withstand an earthquake
of questions and doubt?

Yes. I think it could.

Could the one who created this world
setting natural and spiritual laws in motion
stand under a barrage of
angry pontification or
sobbing accusations or
reasonable considerations?

I think he would.

If we think we see a crack in our foundation
isn’t it okay to peer down into it
pick at it?
Are we so afraid that this scab
would reveal an anemic system
or a suffering of hemophilia,
gushing unfounded and diluted answers?

Sure.

There’s a sense of safety
in never questioning,
security in full acceptance
but a complete contentment
with cryptic concessions
can only in the end
be disingenuous

Could it be

daring and disturbing
frighting and fruitful
spacious in mind and moral and mystery
even Truthful…
to say
“I need to see and touch the scars”?

Reaction

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On Nov 8, Typhoon Haiyan hit the Philippines. Working where I do, we are surrounded by the news, and  it’s easy to become numb to the numbers. But today, seeing pictures, reading almost-surreal first-hand accounts of a devastated place half way around the world, a couple thoughts came to me…

Typhoon Haiyan

You know what I can’t imagine?
Waiting for that storm to hit.
Feeling like you can’t do anything else – but
pray
perhaps, if you dare,
And just wait.

And knowing that the odds are against you.
Against your whole community.
Knowing you or your neighbor will be the one washed away.
And if it’s your neighbor,
You’ll be walking by his body in just 24 hours,
Grief-stricken
But relieved that you’re alive.

Or will you be?

And so you sit and wait and only hope.
As the winds get stronger.
As the rain falls harder.

Is there a calm that falls on you, like an eye
In the middle
or right before?

Or maybe I’d want to shout,
“Typhoon Haiyan – WE SALUTE YOU! Bring your rage on!”
But it would do no good.

Bravery and death
have no correlation.
And the only question I have left now is…
Did prayers?

For updates or to donate: click here.

Released

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Just fresh off the brainstorming page…coffee is for conversation, not “to go”.

I sat still today
a dangerous split
from all things unhealthy
Wondering what I would think about
Without
instantaneouseyecatchingmobile

updates.

My tongue tasted the emptiness
My eyes – at first skittish –
averting
began to rest
stare even – to the discomfort of those around me

like a gasping fish
long dry
soaking up an unrecognizable world
somehow familiar
painted in fuchsia.

And apart from the instant filters that flicker
in and through and over
conversations,
What do I?
What do I
actually think?
The lack of voice inside my head is loud
acronyms expand
conversations wait for words
un-pre-meditated
un-deleted and unannounced

A whole spontaneous world available
to make beautiful mistakes.