Thursday, September 1, 2011

Comforts ... Poetry

There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits ~ Robert Southey

We all have our things. Comforts -- things that make us feel like we're at home within ourselves. Mine are warm fuzzy socks in the winter, black and white films, Frank Sinatra, the smell of dryer sheets during a walk on a crisp fall night, cheesy romance novels, a teaspoon of crunchy peanut butter, graham crackers dipped in hot chocolate or tea, a glass of wine (white when I'm feeling happy or creative, dark red when it's been a hell of a day), and hot mugs of most anything (though tea or cocoa are preferred). If I bring out the warm milk and honey, you know it's been a rough week. My mom used to make me warm milk and honey as a child. That one pulls out all the stops.

<3 Compliments of Sandy Ward <3
I also have an affinity for water drops. There is something peaceful about raindrops on a windowpane or against the leaves of a tree, plopping on the asphalt, tickling the gutters ... but if there's no rain to be had, I find comfort in letting the steady waterfall of the shower head pelt against my neck and back. Oftentimes, I'll sink to the floor of the tub, bury my head in my arms and kneecaps and block my ears with the sides of my forearms, just so I can internally hear the individual drops hit the crown of my head, patter against my neck and along my shoulder blades as though I'm listening from the inside out.

That's where I found myself tonight ... and that's when the poetry finally came:

 White Noise

Noise filtered through the cracks of my brain
Wedging into every grey nook like endless prattle
Off in the distance, I could hear tall reeds sighing in the wind
Bending back and forth, but never breaking

The moon's silver stream poured into the bathroom window
Casting an ethereal sheen upon every cold, hard surface
The restless clatter on the edges of my conscious begins to scurry
As my soft hands slowly turn the knobs, creating a piercing sizzle

The muddied noise clamors once more before dying on a whisper
Thousands of searing water drops drown out its last remnants, branding me
I slowly sink within my own skin, folding over each layer, down ... down
I feel the slight change in temperature, the cool ceramic fighting steam

The blathering only temporarily muted by the blinding, high pitched waterfall
I lean forward on my haunches, pressing my forehead against the silver knob
It's chilled touch, a paradox to the heat harnessed beneath it
I dip my head lower, bringing my forearms against my ears

Suddenly, the cascading static is muffled, propelling my mind inward
My eardrums quiver, separating each droplet -- its echo, a soft caress
My steady pulse faint against its thrumming heartbeat as I listen from within
The water glistens against the moonbeams, flickering and dancing down my spine

Nothing exists 

But me

~ C ~

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