The Root of Your Words

Like the wind tosses 

autumn leaves,

sorrow has strewn 

my memory--

it's spotty at best.

But if I close my eyes,

I can still feel your hands

caress my hair as I slept--

they’re even softer, gentler

in the darkness.

And sometimes

I see a glimpse of you 

in the mirror. 

I see you 

behind swaying curtains

and swinging doors; 

I know you are there, but 

I can never find you 

when I look for you; 

and I choose to run away 

to a place that is safer than this.

But when the spring lilies bloom

their stems sprout

above the root of your words;

I know them all too well. 

They tell me that

your God has not left me.

They tell me that

your God is my God.

And he will be good to me

as he was good to you.

And that one day, 

I will find you

when I look for you.

© 2012 Helena Malheur

For my mother (Dec 1942- Apr 2006)

Maybe Someday

I shall not hold you.

Instead, I’ll watch you, your hands
and the unusual gestures of
your long fingers and arms.

It used to puzzle me;
now, I find it intolerably charming.

I forget to breathe in
each time I hear your voice.

I am mesmerized by every word,

every inflection; and yet,

I stop listening the moment we lock eyes

and it feels impossible to move.  

I shall not kiss you.

Instead, I’ll let my lips caress your name

as yours do mine (even though
you mispronounce my name);

It will have to do until someday.

Maybe someday, you'll know me the same way. 

© 2012 Helena Malheur

D.O.

Is this love sung out loud? / Est-ce l'amour chanté à haute voix?

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Is this love sung out loud?

I hear his heart beating,

from here.
I smell the rain on his hair --

his cap to the side,

his eyes on his guitar.

I listen to his words

and the sounds

rolling off his tongue

like gentle waves at my toes;

I know them

as if they were mine.

his melancholy notes

stretch and recoil;

I step closer and closer,

inch nearer and nearer

to his thoughts

until he is too close

and the melody quivers

as it leaves his throat --

it surges through my heart.

Is this love

seeping through

my skin, my core?

Is this what love sounds like
when it is sung out loud?

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Est-ce l'amour chanté à haute voix?

J'entends son coeur battre,

à partir d'ici.

Je me sens la pluie sur ses cheveux --

sa casquette sur le côté,

ses yeux sur sa guitare;

Je l'écoute de ses mots

et les sons

rouler hors de sa langue

comme des vagues douces à mes orteils.

Je les connais

comme si elles étaient miennes.

ses notes mélancoliques

étirement et de recul;

Je fais un pas de proche en proche,

pouces plus près de ses pensées

jusqu'à ce qu'il soit trop près de moi

sa mélodie carquois

quand elle laisse la gorge,

surtensions dans mon cœur.

Est-ce l'amour

qui s'infiltre à travers

ma peau, mon cœur?

Est-ce ce que l'amour ressemble?

Est-ce l'amour chanté à haute voix?

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© 2012 Helena Malheur

J'ai écrit ce poème en Français à pratiquer l'apprentissage de la langue. C'est un travail en cours ...

Yes, the all familiar "I'm practicing my French" speech in my broken french above! 

un autre cliché à nouveau

fortunes sont venus et repartis

l'amour est perdu et retrouvé

et a perdu de nouveau,

mais la vie continue comme si de

rien ne s'est passé

personne ne reconnaît la vérité

personne ne vit à regretter

personne ne dit rien

l'air stagnant s'installe

dans une salle vide

les gens vivent ensemble,

mais ils se mentir à l'autre

et ils à accepter le mensonge -

un moyen de vie

ils ne peuvent pas faire sans

et c'est la vie, parfois

mais Je me refuse à l'accepter

Je veux être une solitaire

une amant, une errant folle

qui connaît le droit chemin

et je ne céderai pas

et je ne vais pas attendre

pour devenir un autre cliché à nouveau

© 2012 Helena Malheur

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J'ai écrit ce poème en Français à pratiquer l'apprentissage de la langue. C'est un travail en cours ...

Vacancy

There is silence in the things I collect. I know each one.

Each has its use; it outlives it and is replaced.
There is freedom in silence, in perfect desolation,
isolation from noise and the imposition of others.

There is a narrative of the past, a quilt of love 
and loss, a heart covered in a web of stitches.
There are empty spaces, shallow depths,
a vacancy that desperately seeks a lodger.

There is a strength that holds me firmly to the ground –
a hurricane cannot shake me, move me, touch me;
and yet, the slightest breeze from his lips sways me.

There is a world of fantasy that intrudes on my thoughts
and when I let it in, I travel without ever leaving.

I travel to a place where the stars dance upon the sky
like a hypnotic chorus line crafted by a master magician.

There is a wondrous string of presumptions, predictions
and delusions woven like a dream-like-scene –
a phantasmagoria of motion and light –
rehearsed in my mind like an act from a Shakespeare play.

And there is a man, his fingers poised over tired strings
I wait for him to strike the first note; but when he does,
it is like he’s tuning an instrument with tone-deaf ears.

Still, I have not forgotten the reverberations of love;
the melody is stuck in my head, repeating over and over,
and the words are on the tip-of-my-tongue.

2012 © Helena Malheur