Photo courtesy of the marvelous land of Costa Rica-a place time seems to have nearly forgotten
Going back through some previous years of writing poetry and journals, I ran across this piece which I wanted to share with you.
It is from what I refer to the as the “passion years”. Now do not mistake that passion no longer exists for me. It is simply no longer the ruler of my steps or decisions as it once was. There are many passions we can know in this illusion of living; and all will provide some form of satisfaction to the one experiencing them. Passion for life, for our craft, for our job, our country, our family-all wonderful emotions, as long as our passions do not override our sensibilities.
The passion I speak of here you will recognize. It is the first arrival at the party of newly awakened attraction. It is that demon which haunts every moment that we breathe once it has been nudged into being. The very thing which gives you life when you are with the object of your desire, but which turns to desolate longing when you are apart. Tormentor of souls, wounder of hearts and granter of wishes, Passion is what reminds us that we are alive. Better to break it like a wild horse in time, if you do not wish to be trodden beneath its less than empathetic hooves.
by Cheryl Pennington
Somewhere, deep in a dark wood, lies a thicket of cool grass and leaves,
spreading beneath the branches of an ancient oak, limbs bent and clutching the silent air.
I trace the lines in the thick bark with my fingertips;
it feels so strong; its vibration thumping beneath my touch.
Gentle breezes blow across my face, caresses soft and cool-
It is you, your fingers touching my skin; and as rain to a parched land, I drink you in.
No words, only the deafening silence of the night-
the wind in the trees, the branches grasping-
your hands in my hair.
The eyes of the night looking down at me.
Paralyzed beneath your gaze, drawn into pools of blue
I am drowning.
The ground is cool and hard, leaves and branches scattered about.
White cotton leaves and denim branches, strewn carelessly.
The wind rushes in and out of the trees playfully,
lifting me to Heaven.
Somewhere an animal screams!
So close it seems….