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Kristin Reynolds Poem
I am Alive Forever and always Essence Rebirth Renewal
I have earth to ground me I have wind to move me I have fire to cleanse
my spirit I have rain to quench my thirst for growth
I have sun to enlighten me feed me I am my own mother
and an extension of the whole I am Earth wind
rain sun fire I am as old as life and I am as young
as time I am shelter to those who seek me I am a bird a flower and the breath
of the earth itself I am exactly where I want to be I am life
I am first and last the beginning and the end I am one from many
I am what I am I live I grow and I die. I am Reborn unto myself
I am the great circle
My limbs know no
Boundaries; while
My leaves whisper
The one truth of the
Whole through the
Seasons changing
Colors that I wear
Upon my heart's
Sleeve, I'm home
To Earth Mother’s
Melodious Life; I
Sing for the whole
World to hear - trees
Are Earth Mother's Song
Blowing 'round the leafy
Globe; eyes of the world song
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{ Of the Mother breath of the living soul of the earth }}}}}}}}}}}}
***Senses evoked here are: Touching, Tasting, Hearing, Smelling and Seeing
***Elements evoked are: Water, Wind, Earth Metal, and Fire
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2008
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
The farm
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
orange dawn.
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
from corn
to wheat
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
never kissed.
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
dripping sideways,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
being heard
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
can grip.
Night sounds come in floods
of mauve,
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
unsung,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
to form,
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
lived.
The girl turns to face
the enormity
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
exhaling
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
open mouth.
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
See the woman.
See the face behind its age.
See the beauty of her form.
See the way her way becomes her.
See past her once taught skin, as it was
when it enflamed many a man.
See the way she holds her head;
the tilt of her neck, the ease
of her being.
See the strength that binds her jaw,
unrelenting in its flex.
See her hurt displayed, as shadows
fall like night upon the earth,
eager for rest and resolution -
retribution,
for the one she could not save.
See her darkness. See it very well.
See it shatter like glass, glinting,
when she giggles like a girl.
See her shine.
As the shades of dark days rise,
See the years that grace her eyes,
like rays of her own sun
exponentially shining forth.
See forgiveness in her patient hands
as they weave memories with a touch.
See the breadth of her breasts,
unapologetic,
for they have quenched her children’s hunger,
soothed their frantic cries,
and became the safe haven for her beloved.
See her empty, scarred abdomen –
round and perfect in its imperfections,
once holding the essence of all things;
carrying creation within –
see the divine home of God.
See the innocent baby,
the impetuous youth,
the voluptuous woman,
the devoted wife,
the selfless mother.
See the wisdom of the grandmother –
the epitome of every moment lived
for someone else, and the realization
of the circle.
Hear the acceptance in her sigh.
See the gifts she has given –
see the woman!
See the goddess!
The beginning and the end!
See the infinite that bares the name,
Woman!
See her for all that she is and isn’t.
Smell her scent and know you are home.
Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.
Hear her experiences like your own.
To touch her soul is to touch perpetuity!
See her face in your mirror.
See the tears that fall proudly
upon the woman you’ve become,
and hope yet to become
in time;
when you have lived through all that has been
set before you –
tasted each woman’s tears as if they were your own.
When you enter that perfect union,
timeless ancestry;
when you become,
when you come
full circle;
you will see yourself in all things,
and your journey, will see you back
home.
*Reposted for Chris's Get Your Rebel On, Contest! This was written with my Beautiful
Grandmother in mind. She saved my life in more ways than one. love you, Gran. This one's
for you. (and every woman, and woman lover, here)
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
Walking alone past the reeds blowing lace,
Stroking the oak by the old wooden gate,
Guided by trust to my lovers embrace,
Pouring my heart into leaves as they bate
Wind into dancing as feet hesitate,
Just long enough to find rhythm, I trace
Patterns in air as the pollen creates -
Fair is the face of the Lords given grace...
Sky paints a picture for moon in dark space,
Vast driven oceans of life demonstrate
Love for the mountainous deserts displaced,
Each born anew, by the wind to its fate -
Seamless infinity’s natural state,
Is seeing your eyes on another’s kind face
And Finding forgiveness for those who breed hate,
Fair is the face of the Lords given grace
Out in the sun as light seeks out its place,
Faith comes to breathe as it encapsulates
Bodies of men where his truth is encased,
Dreamers whose dreams become true and innate,
Their journey is hard but rewarding and great
Where love can be found but cannot be replaced
And words that when written just right captivate,
Fair is the face of the Lords given grace...
Each breath I breathe makes me appreciate
How beautiful life is, how rich and how chaste -
Nature’s perfection is light incarnate,
Fair is the face of the Lords given grace...
copyright Kristin Reynolds 2008
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2008
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
The screen door droops lazily, slightly ajar
Crickets croon lullabies, heard from afar
Kid’s sticky faces, betray ice-cream bars
All on a summers eve
Legs peel off chairs, from the sticky, wet heat
Rocking chairs sway, creaking out restless beats
Mosquitoes, they feast upon my grass-stained feet
All on a summers eve
Young lovers strip down, kissing perchance to swim
As jealous moon watches, and sunset grows dim
The sand dunes heat up, begging for skin on skin
All on a summers eve
Bold daisies flirt, nodding their modest heads,
Ivory faced roses blush, burning them red
Tiny seeds toss, and then shoot from their beds
All on a summers eve
Butterflies tease, as they flit-flutter by
Somewhere a windowsill holds fresh baked pie
Magic is born within jars of fireflies
All on a summers eve
Wild, woodland faeries dance in faerie rings
Children will grin, picking flowers to bring, to
Their surprised mothers, whose thankful hearts sing
All on a summers eve
Fishes gaze warily at worm-hooked poles
Marshmallows roast above fiery coals
Keen mother horses watch boisterous foals
All on a summers eve
Impatient winds blow, making love to the trees
Zephyrs entice; then enrage the calm seas
While lilies and hyacinths bewitch the breeze
All on a summers eve
Love will be found, and remembered, and made
Peace is a book, an old tree and its shade
Summer to me, tastes like cold lemonade
All on a summers eve
So, come with ye, summer; be gone snow and sleet!
I long to feel grass on the soles of my feet
And jump in the river as suns rays retreat
All on a summers eve
Shared 2nd place winner in Karen Neary's Summer Enchantment Rhymed
poetry contest. Thank you!!!
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2008
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
Can you see them run to me – arms wide and laughing,
calling me, Mama: keeper of the stars, moon and hearts?
Can you see them kiss away my pain, healing every hurt
that’s ever marked me broken, dead or dying?
Can you see them hurt me? When they curse me, flay me;
ground me with their unformed anger and bravado-uncertainty
until they fly behind doors, crying over what they’ve said –
wishing they could take it back?
O’, does that pride HURT!
It stabs the chest and holds…holds…holds.
Can you see them behind doors and feel their wishful hearts burn?
Can you feel them loving me through it all?
Love is not something easily hidden. Love like that breaks down doors –
sees through them.
Can you see my tears; feel the weight of them on your cheeks?
They are yours.
Where you are (past the furthest/closest door) can you see me in them?
Can you see the love I kept hidden in my dark and painful dungeon?
You never knew what he did to me – but deep down, I blamed you anyway.
There was only you left, you see; always you.
Can you see, I'm just like you?
If you can see me, you know.
And if you can hear me crying through this God Damned pen (all those notes –
all those written sorry’s slipped beneath doors - you must have known that
even at 37, I’d write you my heart in a note!)
You, Gran/Mother, are my one and only regret.
That for 7 years, I treated you like a burden, a bother, and a barrier.
I treated you like you should have treated me – an unintentional intruder;
like something taken, not given.
But worse than that, I treated you like an acquaintance.
Knowing how badly that must have hurt you, makes me want to be kicked in the face
until I am unrecognizable; to the rest of the world, and myself.
But life’s not like that, is it? No. You knew that, too.
My baby boy has your nose, ears, and eyes.
Do you think that if I whisper in his ear tonight while he sleeps (between you and me –
at the doorway), you could hear me?
Tonight, I will whisper love in his perfect ear (pressed up against heaven’s door) -
maybe you will hear me say,
“Indy…Gran, I’m so sorry. If you can hear me, please give me a sign so I will know
you’ve heard me. I want to see you smile again – just one more time…please…
let me know that somewhere, behind the door, you forgive me…”
And in the darkness of his bedroom; the moonlight covering his small face
like an angel’s kiss, the baby boy in her likeness, smiled.
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
*Inspired by Nathan Leccese's Diamond in the Rough, contest. :)
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
in this silence
the respirator breathes…
we did not know
his heart
was
still
*Inspired by Brian Strand's, Indelible Impressions contest. This was written the day after my
Step-father-in-law passed away...he passed while we were in the room.
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
Is it not enough that you’ve hung me beside
myself from your fraying rope - tendered by
graying wooden clips with rubber fingers?
Must we really soak on dry until we are sepia
toned under-developed photographs, left on fix?
Why is it you still feel the need to marinate
my every flexed tendon in formaldehyde?
Is it the slow bumping up against red glass
that turns you on; that you relish? Or simply
the come-hither thrill of the bottled hunt?
Watching our developing forms (and by ‘our’,
I mean me and myself - I left the party half
cocked and ready for more long ago) submerged
beneath the red tinge of shadow forms split at
the wrists - dividing one truth from the
next - your tapping, impatient, ready to dance
fingers drumming my convoluted tumbler to
halves; throwing tomatoes, cabbage and micro-
brewed beer bottles at my smiling face as it
develops, appearing as every God damn thing
you never could do; slowly, quickly emerging
hung on the next pin over.
O’ how you hate that photo!
The one where I’m smiling and you’re not.
The one where I know who I am, and you
don’t. The one where even though there are
two of me; there are, (at last count) 10,000 of
you. And if you could see your own face through
the wide V darkroom dusk looking back at
yourself, you would see that sometimes even
the best photographers get it wrong. Sometimes,
all there is, is shadow covering up the best parts,
leaving no room for light meters, fixer, or dull
graying clips clutching white Mickey Mouse fingers,
forcing the image still.
© Kristin Reynolds 5 7 09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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Kristin Reynolds Poem
Winter spirits rise
Released from snow they dance, warmed
Weeping tears of mist
copyright Kristin Reynolds 2008
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2008
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