poem and photo by @musings_by_gina
January 01, 2023 | Sunset
“Look at the sky / It’s the colour of love…” ~Sade
Setting in firecracker fashion, she bursts wide. Orange glow burns—life is her philosophy since time first wandered over desert seas like an eagle soars looking for prey. Sun’s watchful eye sees New Year’s Joy for some. Heartache for others. Hear the saxophone blues play one note at a time.
Katrina Kaye
I am mule.
My bay, an obnoxious yap
from graying muzzle,
as I move from under master’s whip.
My velvet ears twitch
with distrust for the acts of man.
I will not be owned
and have grown impatient
with the repeated deeds of
those who claim to know what’s best,
so I become obstinate
with mud to my knees
rebelling by standing still,
immovable in open stall
despite the whistle on the wind.
I want only a gentle hand, but deny
those offered me as though
their compassion was insult or pity.
No longer do I hold plough forward,
but I long to safeguard the moments
as they are gifted: one sunset, one thoughtful word,
one cube of sugar, one kindness at a time.
Surely, this perseverance
will lead me to dry pastures where only
the occasional fly distracts from
solitude and peace.
-Gina
I marvel at these old cottonwoods
Some with gold and brown leaves
Few still with green
Branches misshapen
Broken
Scorched
Age has only made this Bosque
More engrossed, tangled, wise
Small shoots regrow, becoming
Reaching for bird and sun
I cannot filter the trees into perfection
I can only wonder at their time in history
The chipmunks and squirrels who have
Made their home in the hollows
Of these old tree bones
Worn with time
My feet walk the path unseen
Comforted by this space in nature
This Bosque along the timeless Rio Grande
I stop to feel the grooves of a downed tree
I too am as worn
Wrinkled
An age spot on my right cheek
Gray hairs have rooted
I am fortunate to have reached this age
Still standing
Still becoming
Reaching for bird and sun
(C) 2022
Photo by my daughter, M.J.M. | “Becoming” | Taken in the Bosque
it’s not just buildings and bars,
coffee shops and theaters,
it’s a realm of memories,
of interactions and greetings,
a changing out of rivers
and how they relate to the land
and to the sky. The loss
is of voice and gesture, who you are
in a place, a hum of who you once
were, of what you still cling to.
It’s a walk down a street
you once knew, but that doesn’t
seem to remember you now,
a new pizza parlor, a boarded-up
building, that catch-up period
between friends who haven’t
seen each other in a long time
that begins with a question
about who you are now when
you’re not exactly sure of the answer
in this place anymore. It’s your heart
in your feet, holding steady
to two worlds, one you knew once
before the losing, and one now.
-Liza Wolff-Francis
Katrina Kaye
Mine involved boys and alcohol,
late nights, loud music and bonfires,
a little red dress I bought on sale.
I balanced on platform shoes,
etched black eyeliner around lashes,
eager to be a little more than what I was.
I used to smoke cigarettes.
It was an excuse to make
eye contact, slip away with someone,
discuss poetry — or was it
philosophy? — share a strawberry flavored
kiss, and whisper a secret or two.
There was a summer I danced
on a block at the Pulse nightclub
to Siouxsie and the Banshees
almost every Thursday night
in that little red dress with the open back
and side slit, neon light and billowing smoke.
Everyone has a summer,
but there is no reason to be dismayed
when the fall comes.
Even in autumn months,
a night or two may recapture me
to a place of little consequence.
There are still late nights
when I have a drink too many,
kiss the boys on the patio,
kiss the girls on the neck.
Smoke a cigarette from
the brand I quit years ago.
But then I watch myself in mirrors
shadowed with soot, see my city lie in dust,
wondering who else feels the chill in the air.
I’ve grown past the green of my prime,
and, although I wilt, there is a young woman
with a too loud laugh wearing a red dress
who still exists somewhere in the pit of me,
because giving in to the animal
until the sun rises can be so breathtaking.
poem & photographs by Gina Marselle
What I love about birds
is that sometimes they travel alone on a Path
and sometimes
there’s a whole flock.
What I admire most about the bird–
it’s singular.
To survive:
Each morning he begins with his Song.
Sometimes only heard
inside the whisper of God’s tender breath.
By each evening,
the golden hour
comes flooding with light upon the earth.
More quiet than a bird of prey hunting.
Or a mother bird nestling before the night comes;
she hides her chicks and song from all to hear.
Perhaps, it is is I who is lonely,
perhaps, it is I who is depressed,
perhaps, it is me who fights–
it’s me without song,
without flight,
alone.
I envy the bird when he’s high above
floating between clouds and rays and stars.
Stillness on this earth as it moves around the sun.
Wind in my hair.
Stealing breath and time.
There are more fish than birds,
more trees than stars,
more tears than laughter,
more hope than despair.
Did you know: “It may surprise you, but there are more trees on Earth than there are stars in the Milky Way. According to a study published in Nature there are about 3 trillion trees on our planet. This far outpaces the “measly” 100-400 billion stars estimated to exist in the Milky Way.”
If I were a forest, I would breathe
right now, while there’s still time.
I would spread my leaves
like a lusting after sky. I’d reach
my shapes, my shades of green
and gray to blue and cloud,
to light, to illumination,
to all we dream this life to be.
If I was a river, I would call
to snow down the shaded land,
welcome it to my body,
to my frontier of wet and quench.
I would sing a hopeful melody
into tunnel of tongue and throat.
If I was the earth of Earth, the soil,
dirt, sand, or loam, I would sift
through the air, fly whirlwinded
to river, to lake, to ocean.
I’d be unafraid to take space,
to move with the breeze.
I would remember I too am nature
and nature is of me, my body
of water, the dusty dirt shedding
of my skin bark is part of the song.
-Liza Wolff-Francis
Stop trying to be strong.
You do not have to make vows or resolutions or promises.
You do not have to put on a brave face.
You do not have to be patient or kind or tough.
All you have to do is allow the reality of the events to wash over you.
You will have the rest of your life
to learn how to live again,
to become the person you used to be,
or a new stronger version of your former self,
for now, survive, in any way you can.
The days won’t stop,
no matter how you may wish them to do so.
Time doesn’t stop for a broken heart,
although we wish it would,
although it feels like it might.
You do not have to listen to their
sympathies if it does do not suit you.
Be silent. Be alone.
If conversation doesn’t provide comfort,
let the calls go unanswered.
You have nothing to prove.
Let the coffee grow cold in the mug.
Look for him in the familiar places.
Reach out to his side of the bed.
Collect the pictures, all of them you can find.
Leave the television on so that you can chase off the silence.
So you feel less alone. So it can lull you to sleep.
Your armor and shield have been taken from you.
Feel shock, feel helpless, feel overwhelmed.
Feel nothing at all, if that is what it takes.
Your world will not be rebuilt in a day,
A week, a year. It will not be rebuilt the same.
It will never be the same. Nothing will.
Learn how to breathe without him beside you.
Learn how to speak to a man who will not be able to answer.
Learn to walk on your own.
There is no rush. The world will wait.
There is time.
For now,
grieve in whatever way suits you.
Survive the day, hour by hour,
survive the hour, minute by minute,
second by second.
The world will continue.
All you must do is survive,
survive, survive, survive.
Miraculous
colors crashed
into the horizon.
Fire ablazed
and the sun burned.
The air was silent.
It’s stillness
perfectly
held my heartbeat
between God’s hands.
Goodnight, Sun.
Until next time.
I have been inspired by the sunsets lately and inspired to write
tiny odes to each.
Remembering 9.11, then on Monday, 9.12.2022, I learned of a colleague’s sudden death. On 9.13.2022, it was my mom’s one year anniversary of her death from a battle with breast cancer. I also learned my cousin is battling cancer this week.
Today, I wonder why I am so tired. Grief is exhausting.
Be kind to yourself, and today is precious.
Poem and photograph by Gina Marselle
Published, September 17, 2022
Silence sat
still on the
corner of
cheekbone
and 12th street.
It goes unnoticed,
defies the wind,
flits the skin,
begging recognition.
It is the same
silence that
barricades the
veins with oversized
platelets causing
the heart
to cease a beat.
Creating a moment
of complete
stillness between
our bodies until
with the tip of finger
eyelash is removed
and with pursed lips,
blown away.
Saturday's Sirens 