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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
My toes squirm
like fat little worms
through this moist soil
they let go of their convolution;
disconnect from the brain that tells them
each day
what they are
and are not.
Here they are just so.
My hands grab
like the beaks of birds
these golden blades of grass
let go of the rocks they carry;
wipe clean the slate of crumbs they leave
each day
their way home
to evidence –
now left just so.
My lungs burn with life
a crisp morning air
razors through them
ecstatically.
My eyes caress such
fine tendrils of light
called dusk and dawn and
mystery.
My ears collect an orchestra
of locust song and wood
bursting forth in a crackling
warmth.
My mouth kisses a
saturated breeze impregnated
with ocean and pine and flirtatious
berries.
Their juices stain my chin.
These feelings stain my skin.
And draw out pricks
from parched follicles
with neural fingers
that trail over
and into
and through
my being
“this is it”
My breath whispers carelessly
in an ice-shackled cloud
that veils my face
with its truth.
A maternal gesture
of nature
towards itself.
For it is I
and I surrender
to this sensory onslaught.
“this is it”
Being alive is a wondrous
wondrous
thing.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
Beautiful things break
as readily as the brittlest rock
The quake rattled me;
your seismic words
unearthing the foundation
of this thing we’d built
Beautiful things shatter
like fragile china under feet
The tempest tore through me;
your rumbling thoughts
flung through the air
shrapnel slicing cartilage
Beautiful things ignite
as swift as finest kindling
The flames engulfed me;
it was your carelessness
doused in abandonment
setting our souls alight.
Beautiful things sink
like anchors of pure Osmium
And here it drowned me;
in a depth unknown
a depth I’d never thought to see
the deepest, darkest depths of me.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
Rest
Ice
Compression
Elevation
It doesn’t work for a heart.
I rest it –
Make it lazy.
Deprive it of any exertion.
Force sleep on it.
Like a little baby confined to its crib.
Where I forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I ice it –
Make it cold.
Deprive it of company or care.
Expose it to the elements absurdly.
Unguarded and uncossetted out there.
Where I forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I compress it –
Make it small.
Deprive it of acknowledgement.
Squeeze it into a little nook invisibly.
Where I disregard its existence
And forget it;
as one does with a broken thing.
I elevate it –
Make it forgetful.
Deprive it of silence and reflection.
Fill its days with spectacles of distraction.
I entertain it.
And it forgets me;
as broken things do to us.
Rest
Ice
Compression
Elevation
It doesn’t work for a heart.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
The secret tugs at my sleeve.
A child looking for attention.
It is not a big secret.
But it is not the only one either.
“Strength in numbers” they say.
For they are many.
Many little things that – together –
weigh tonnes.
And take up space.
And are quite noisy.
The way that only a lot of whispers can make noise.
And they follow me.
Little secrets
of omission, desire,
and denial.
Of indulgence, hedonism,
and exploration.
Of peeves, passion,
and deep-seated fear.
Little secrets
of despair
and
disrepair
and
prohibited thoroughfare.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
I think of you from time to time,
yet timelessly and untimeously
my mind stumbles upon some remnant of you –
You and your lips and all the drizzle of thought
that had littered them…
in jest or mere whisper
And so time-trained you crash
into my recollection
You intrude at ill-timed hours of the night
when stars abound
and the moon filters through that
dark cloud
Or when my passions ought be fascinated wholly
elsewhere
Or when my thoughts ought be occupied with
wise doctrines;
You thus impose upon my mood
not caring if you should
A whirlpool of what-if’s roused from their slumber
That forthwith my wit and peace encumber…
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
I lay in your hands
like coins
jiggling before a
fountain toss.
“What is your worth?”
you ask.
Without asking.
You weigh up the risk;
mull me over in your mind.
Extrapolate the terms
for the term of usefulness.
“What is your worth?”
you ask.
Without asking.
Your eyes calculate
the circumference of my waist
the bounce of my breast
the pout of my lip
the thrust of my hip
Calibrate my voice
Weigh up your choice
For there are suitable dimensions –
one must be sure.
“What is your worth?”
I wish you’d asked me
asking also.
I could have reciprocated
this mental melee;
measured your manliness
deconstructed your youness.
I could have righted your formula
for wear and tear –
incorporated Newton’s clause
for relativity of ownership.
“What is your worth?”
you ask,
in breathy whispers.
I can barely make it out
thus I carry on
shrug it off
for you would have asked.
And time moves on
Like a season
Like a snail
Like something slow and natural
And it moves in
and it moves through
and between
the me and you.
And I try to recall
that whisper.
“What is your worth?”
you ask me
so finally.
But I do not grasp
the accumulation of this question
the anguish it’s piled
the anger it’s amassed
I do not see
the mechanics behind the math
or the permanent berth
where it’s docked for years
I do not understand
the infinity of the solution
or the ever-changing variables
which infest your weary mind.
“What is your worth?”
Had you but asked me first
Granted me insult
Homoured me with worthlessness
Given me the freeing power –
of derision under your division
And if asking then
I’d have have answer, once only;
that the question
makes me worth the more.
“What is your worth?”
Beg – ask no more.
Please, ask no more.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
It was like a pouring out
The thing my soul did that day.
And you –
I knew you felt its soaking
Like torrents
Of neverending retribution.
And you –
I knew you felt its heaviness
Like weights
Of unfulfilled absolution.
And yet you took it all.
Without qualms or queasiness.
You took it with a strong and determined nod.
Thank you for that.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
The night’s crystal silence
commencing from the cliffs
Crisp, cool, calm surrounds
the cloudless climbing moon.
My back to descending darkness
Faint light dares the distance
Driving through a dressed milieu;
dewdrops pave the way.
Canvas etched in endlessness
extending before my eyes.
Exquisite escalating sun
encouraging an epic… end.
Flying past the fleeing wheels:
fawn colours of the fields.
Feathered rays are filtering
through fading hours of fear.
Goldencrusted mountains guard
the ground for travelling guests.
As ‘guilty journey back to grace;
God’s hand, itself, the Guide.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
There’s a red circle on the calendar
It marks the day that
Someone compressed
Your chest
To divert
The squirt
Of blood back to your heart
It didn’t work, of course.
You never quite cared for
Defibrillation.
Or feeling tied down.
Or being needed.
That is why
There’s a red circle on the calendar.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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Adelheid Manefeldt Poem
I’d orbid any suns with you,
or earths.
Together casting shadows,
Proclaiming insignificance
of light or night or day or
time.
Silently swooning weightless,
airless.
Compositions of magnificence
crashing through stars
and holes of darkness.
Big, bold balls of deafness
with graves of blazing fire.
Nautical pilots of our sky
orbiting each other.
Copyright © Adelheid Manefeldt | Year Posted 2015
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