Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr

  But though he was silent, his heartbreak was clear

  To those who would listen, but not with their ears

  For his was the torment that no one could hear . . .

  A room in the house, away back in the rear,

  There rests a small bed with an old teddy bear.

  On the quilt by its foot lays one golden hair.

  A bear has no feelings. It really can't cry

  For one little girl who was its earth and sky,

  But if you look closely, there's a tear in its eye.

  "The Dewdrop/The Teardrop" were really an exercise in language and perception, in that, how one perceives something (dewdrop vs. teardrop for instance) flavors our view on its significance and how using language to describe something that looks exactly the same also can affect how we perceive it. These are (as you've probably caught on by now) among my shortest poems, which is one reason they won some sort of lower level prize in a poetry contest. (Poetry contests frequently have very short requirements, some as short as twenty lines, that leave the bulk of my work ineligible.) It might have been submitted under my name at the time, Stephanie Loyd, but I can't remember for certain.

  The Dewdrop

  The dewdrop

  On the thistle

  As it sparkles in the light—

  There is no hint of sorrow

  In its crystalline delight.

  There is no hint of anger

  Or of nights of tortured dreams,

  No signs of guilty pathos

  Sing out from cheery beams,

  But, is there disappointment

  And sorrow deep, deep down,

  As the teardrop

  On the thistle

  Falls softly to the ground?

  The Teardrop

  The teardrop

  On the petal

  As it slides down toward its fall—

  There is no hint of happiness,

  No hint of joy at all.

  From those cool depths, how could one

  Find the sparkle of relief,

  Or hear the silver laughter

  From a voice once choked with grief?

  But, maybe there is sunlight there,

  Despite the cloudy day,

  As the teardrop

  On the petal

  Winks once, then slips away.

  Sometimes, I have no idea where a poem came from. My subconscious has always done the heavy lifting when it came to writing and I'm often as surprised as anyone what falls from my "pen." That's applicable to the next few poems.

  Song of the Seasons

  Waiting for the birdsong

  The first sweet sounds of spring

  That herald hints of greenery

  That warming days will bring

  Waiting for the cotton clouds

  That paint the azure sky

  That soften hazy summer days

  As, lazily, they fly.

  Waiting for the crisping leaves

  Whose crackles speak of fall

  That coat the ground, in brittle mounds,

  That hint of winter's call.

  Waiting for those fleecy flakes

  That shine like fairy land

  With crystal ice and lacy snow—

  Then wait for spring again.

  Wonder

  Tomorrow, let us hear the words

  That ring within our minds

  And wonder at the visions

  That flash across our blinds.

  The dreams that dwell within us

  But will vanish in a haze,

  Yet form again when half-asleep:

  A mist from drowsing days.

  Perhaps when we are far from here

  And age has bleached our souls,

  The wonder of forgotten dreams

  Will bloom and make us whole

  For what more can our dreams pretend

  To do than tempt our thoughts

  With mem'ries of what-could-have-been,

  What might and yet was not?

  Questions

  There are questions running through my head

  That always sound the same

  And I cannot find the answers in

  The niches of my brain.

  All the answers seem so distant

  And my love seems distant, too.

  Have I found my way inside his heart

  This man I wish to woo?

  Do I send his senses reeling

  In the way my senses reel?

  Does he feel the things I'm feeling?

  Would he rush to my appeal?

  Does he even know I love him

  Or does he wish to know?

  Does he think that I'm above him

  Or much too far below?

  Does he love me? Does he hate me?

  Does he like me, nothing more?

  Would he kiss me or berate me

  If I let him know for sure?

  Can he feel my heartbeat beating beating

  Calling out his name?

  Does he know my breath is fleeting fleeting?

  Does he feel the same?

  I wonder what he's feeling

  'Cause, to me, it never shows,

  And I wonder if he wonders

  If I wonder if he knows.

  These next two might have been "original epics" but they're really too short. Not sure where they came from either.

  The Traveler

  Tonight, he stands on the corner

  With a whisky in his hand.

  He has been on every corner

  In this corner of the land.

  They say he waits for his woman

  And travels from town to town.

  He always waits on the corner

  And she always lets him down.

  Women see and come right to him;

  They invite him for the night,

  But he always says, "No, thank you,"

  For the woman isn't right.

  Did he know her? Did she leave him?

  Did they never even meet?

  Is he waiting for the woman

  Who can make his soul complete?

  If she's out there—and she loves him—

  Surely, she'd be there,

  But she isn't; he's alone still.

  Does he know she cannot care?

  But I love him and I want him

  And I pray that he will see

  That the woman he is waiting for,

  Well, maybe, she is me.

  You won't find him on the corner

  Where the lamplight o'er him shines

  For he won't need any corner

  If he lets me make him mine.

  The Pilgrim

  The pilgrim sails a harsh ocean.

  His course is erratic, unsure

  For who can imagine his heartbreak,

  The pressures this mortal endures.

  He drifts by the isle of a Venus,

  Who knows none but herself in her soul,

  Who holds men in thrall with an insincere smile,

  Who longs not for love but control.

  He skims near the isle of Minerva,

  The Goddess of Wisdom, of Peace,

  But feels he's not worthy, not ready for rest

  For his clamoring heart will not cease.

  On his left is the isle of Diana,

  As free as the moon she calls friend,

  But he loves her freedom as much as herself

  And must leave her wild in the end.

  He knows that his life echoes lonely

  And looks on the isles with sad eyes.

  Yet he knows he has nothing to offer these loves,

  And knows that his words would be lies.

  So he sends his frail boat ever onward

  And prays that he finds what he needs,

  Prays that he finds what his Venus once stole

  To succor a self-serving greed.

  Perhaps, if he finds it, he'll sail back

  Run aground
on a crystalline shoal,

  But first, there is someone he still has to find.

  But first, he must find his own soul.

  So he sails, though the wind is not with him,

  And stares, haunted eyes at the waves

  And prays that when finally he rescues himself

  They'll be more than a shadow to save.

  This, among my poetry, is the most unique and it has an interesting story. I took a creative writing class in college that (as the professor told me to my face) was largely wasted on me and, truth told, most of what I generated in that class I tossed without regret. This poem was an assignment to listen to radio (commercials, some talk, some music) and write down everything we heard. Then, using only phrases we picked up from the hour of radio, write a poem. This is the only free verse sort of poem I've ever written and, for some reason, it appeals to me anyway, even though it is far more cryptic than I usually am.

  The Old Dilemma

  The future has a way of taking strange twists.

  What do you do? What do you do?

  He wants to take from me—

  Take control.

  I get nothing out of it.

  I was never quite sure.

  Maybe he didn't mean it . . .

  "You were meant to be with me . . .

  You must have come from my imagination . . .

  Now, I know what lovers always knew . . .

  I'll never hurt you . . .

  Make sure you never have to cry again.

  I want you;

  I love you . . . "

  Maybe . . . he meant things like that.

  Then, you get married and it's like they realize you're a possession.

  "I saw you looking at him!"

  What do you mean?

  He says he just wants a woman who's honest.

  I'm not a bad person! Not a bad person

  I remember . . .

  "You make my heart sing."

  Create heat

  To the beat

  To the heartbeat,

  A working throb.

  You make me sparkle, too.

  He loves me for what I am.

  I found someone like you said would come along.

  Something is very right . . .

  "I saw you looking at him!"

  Who will not judge?

  Who will understand?

  -What if something bad happens?-

  "I saw you looking at him!"

  The first time it happens

  You say, 'Something is wrong here,'

  You say everyone deserves a second chance.

  "Just want a woman who's honest."

  Once it happens, you can almost be sure

  It will happen again.

  "I saw . . ."

  It happens more and more often.

  " . . . You looking . . . "

  After, it persisted and persisted.

  " . . . At him!"

  No!

  -Anything you're afraid of?-

  I was afraid to let him change.

  "With or without you."

  What happened to make you change?

  You really care, don't you?

  "Leave me alone."

  Don't you?

  A chance to grow even closer—

  Rather love than fight.

  He wanted me.

  Please!

  Save me!

  "Make your choice."

  Reach out!

  "We're out of time."

  I'm so afraid.

  "I saw you looking at him!"

  I can explain!

  Innocent!

  I am.

  You really care, don't you?

  I remember . . .

  "Not any more."

  Try again.

  Please. Try again.

  Why won't you try?

  I can't believe . . .

  -Leave-

  I have to get out of here.

  "Get out."

  I'm leaving.

  -Just leave and you'll be OK-

  I can't.

  It's that boy.

  -You can't live in misery.-

  It doesn't have to be that way.

  -There'll never be a better chance.-

  I think about him all the time.

  Let me explain it to you.

  -I can't think of any reason why I should.-

  He took me to town and married me.

  He is father, mother, lover, husband.

  I don't sleep.

  I can't eat.

  He loves me for what I am.

  A chance to grow even closer.

  -What if?-

  The first step . . . One step at a time.

  A little longer.

  Make it last a little longer.

  -Does it hurt him?-

  We could do more.

  -Does it hurt him?-

  You'll never know what's right for me.

  I'll never hurt you.

  I'm not going anywhere.

  It really does make a difference.

  -You need a good reason to make the choices you make.-

  I think I love you.

  That's why.

  I love you.

  This is one of my most recent poems, written maybe two years ago (unlike the bulk of this poetry that is 2-3 decades old). I had it in a file called "whining."

  Disillusionment

  When I was young, I bought the fairy tale

  I think you know the yarn,

  Where the girl who's really special

  Is awakened to her charms

  And the years she went unnoticed,

  Was dismissed, ignored or used,

  Were worth the happy ending

  With her chrysalis unloosed

  I used that through a childhood

  Where I always came up short.

  I used that through a loveless marriage

  'Til I left, a last resort.

  I knew most didn't like me. I confused them,

  Rubbed them wrong.

  I took that as the price I paid

  For singing different songs.

  But I believed that I was "special"

  No matter how I was dismissed.

  My faith was like a talisman

  To lead me through the mist.

  I held it when I found the man

  I loved like none before,

  And knew, this man would cherish me

  Appreciate my core.

  But faith can't stand 'gainst data

  At least not in my mind,

  And decades of the same facts

  Have made that dream unwind.

  If all perceive me one way,

  Nothing special, nothing grand,

  Perhaps they see a bitter truth

  I chose not to understand.

  Perhaps there is no magic,

  Not for me at any rate.

  Perhaps no happy ending,

  No fine deserving fate.

  Perhaps they really see me,

  Know all that I could be.

  Perhaps the dribs and drabs of love

  Are all I get to see.

  I ask myself what is the truth?

  With facts I've gleaned since birth.

  Do they not really see me

  Or do I have little worth?

  Silliness

  I mentioned (and you've probably seen ample proof) that the vast majority of my poems are pretty serious, even tragic. But, every once in a while, I get hit with a fit of silliness. This first one, "A Fairy Tale" was actually inspired by a short-lived silly show called "Wizards and Warriors" which tickled me for some reason.

  A Fairy Tale

  Long ago, a princess lived who was both young and fair,

  With eyes of such celestial blue and long and golden hair,

  But this day, there was sorrow as the castle heard her wail;

  The tragedy again today—the princess broke a nail.

&n
bsp; Her promised was a handsome prince much loved within the land,

  And all there hoped and waited for the day he took her hand,

  'Cept one who wished Prince Dar to ne'er take Lila off the shelf

  And who could wish this awful wish but poor Prince Dar himself.

  Indeed, he thought her lovely, with an angel's face and more,

  A body built for Venus that sent perfume from each pore.

  All made such a woman as the best man dreams to wed,

  Except, for all her beauty, she'd not one brain in her head.

  Her temper, though, was golden, and she wasn't really vain,

  Although, with her appearance, she took more than average pain.

  She knew the people loved Dar and she loved him just the same;

  In fact, she near adored him, when she could recall his name.

  He thought he tried to love her, but the princess made him yawn,

  For what, besides her beauty, was his love to be based on?

  Yet, he was far too fine a man to love her for her face,

  And edged around a wedding date (with a Deathpill, just in case).

  At night, though, he would dream of her, of Lila's lovely smile,

  But dreamed a maid of braver mold, just made in Lila's style,

  Who wouldn't speak of clothing or thought her face too pale,

  Who'd face her fate undaunted even with a broken nail.

  This day, already mentioned, was a day of Lila's strife,

  And, before the sun had set, this day had changed her life,

  For another soul had longed to have young Lila in his care,

  Though he dreamed of her father's gold and not that in her hair.

  Magician Krantz, a wretched man who rode a mended broom

  And snatched the sleeping princess from her silk 'n' velvet room.

  As one might guess, sweet Lila screamed to wake up in that place;

  'Twas not him peering at her—she'd no make-up on her face!

  "Oh, God, don't gawk, you peasant! Just send to me my maid.

  And, look, this gown is filthy! Not you! Do as I bade.

  At least it was a new gown I was wearing to be caught

  And thank God I was sleeping, might have torn it if I'd fought.

  Oh, no!" she cried in anguish as her blue eyes filled with tears,

  "My God, I've lost a slipper, oh, the worst fate I could fear!

  And you! My maid! Go fetch her!" and Krantz left her at a run

  And searched for half an hour 'til remembering there was none.

  The castle roused in fury when the word came she'd been seized,

  Her father wept with sorrow as he sobbed, hiccupped and wheezed,

  "Oh, she must be frightened for what tortures might she find?"

  Alack, Prince Dar thought glumly, all that clothing left behind.