12 Minutes
The weight of her past encumbers her goals.
Time moves on and moves slow.
The magnitude of the moment is now difficult to grasp.
Tracing her way back down a rooted path,
stumbling, losing her balance,
and falling down an abyss
lined with images of people, deeds, and mistrust.
Continuing to fall back to the needle's point
where the tear began,
ripped wide with fear,
left with frayed edges that shattered her innocence.
"They're just children, you say.
Lack of guidance, an excuse
"Do no evil," forgotten
Torn apart again and again.
Now there are shreds of a girl
who turns inward and grows small.
The weaver, now in her fifties,
after the moon, hears God's request
to go back and find the moment
when she lost her true self.
The moment that fractured a most tender heart,
the kindest of beings, an easy smile and laugh.
She was poked and prodded
to the point of giving up her morals.
The day opened the darkest door
to a self-deprecating path.
At this age, she has come to the realization
that it was an act of violation and not her fault.
Grief came over her because she shaped her
existence around that one traumatic assault.
The needle, now rusted
with lack of use and poor storage,
will now attempt to weave back
the worn blanket of her life
and mend a heart lost in embarrassment.
However, there is still time.
There is grace in the acts of years lost,
the growth of a soul that values
forgiveness and love,
and a need to move on and
learn from the guidance above.
To cherish that there is a reason
to preserve the child that was lost
for her young and their children to come.
So, she reclaims her luminosity, her wonder, and joy
by creating beauty, sharing wisdom,
and growing with her children, that teach her more.
She is molding new dreams,
knowing the edges will never be smooth again,
but the jagged thoughts have softened
and her world is expanding within.
There are many more years and
the light in her eyes is still bright,
knowing she deserves a great love
while dancing with the shadows of distant moonlight
and searching for a future that appreciates
a beautiful kind heart.
By Daria Pardue
Ancient Rhythm
Ancient music calls deep down in your soul.
It brings forth a light that burns your fears
and makes your heart never sleep.
It beckons a scent only an animal can follow
a need from the beginning of time.
It conjures a touch from inside your bones,
released through the prickly shafts of hair in a shiver.
Do you leave it all behind?
Do you jump off the vessel with the cracked hull?
Do you save your life from the fickle wind
that sucked all the honesty and joy out of the air?
Or do you stay and become a martyr
for the honor and loyalty of a promise?
Promises broken and reestablished so many times,
the wolf now cries
And the boy never becomes a man.
The strum comes from faraway lands,
a journey through pain and wisdom.
Its soft strings turn into pounding thoughts.
It refuses to be silenced or sent away.
It refuses to be forgotten.
A stirring in the dark once thought to be dead.
Lying awake willing, the longing away
turns into a battle between wrong and right.
Do you walk away from the years you grew too apathetic to leave?
Or do you stand by “for better or worse”
and sacrifice what is left of the second half of life?
The gift of love and touch one day only to hide
among the dark crevices of a cave the next.
Do you continue to play the game?
Or do you walk away from the cat even if he kills the mouse?
The power of an ancient man won’t wait forever.
It tempts and sends out a gravitational pull so strong
that even the purest of minds can’t resist.
A primal love that never dies but lies,
waiting until she decides to live and not repent.
Do you break a heart to free your spirit, even if
the ancient light dims and fades away?
By Daria Pardue
In Response to a Smirk
At the edge of the world is a rich pink sky
speckled with dust, an occasional feather
and drifting black insects
Messengers of annoyance and fear.
The vastness mocks our smallish thoughts
and encourages us to jump into the abyss
or a possibility.
Only the jumper can make their intention known.
Only the jumper can believe in the electricity of the open air.
Not jumping, one stays teetering on the edge a
mass of indecision.
Dendrites fire off and argue with synapses.
A brain at odds with the heart.
The body morphs into a stump holding up a never-ending seesaw
of a warring heart and a dream-crushing brain.
Or maybe the edge is too far off,
the mudslides are too slick and convincing
that drudgery beats the shit out of both the brain and the heart
and even the soul loses its way.
The pressure of the edge of the world closes in
squeezing from the inside out.
The ideas are sweat on the skin for a feather to float by and swipe them up.
It floats into the universe and waits for the bravery of a decision.
It is stolen. Gone.
The feather catches an updraft, the feather dances,
the insects have a ho-down on the feather.
And the jumper slips!
The insects laugh, they whisper, they conjure.
They think the jumper will never believe the heart.
But one day, the jumper will smash all the insects
And use the floating feather to mop up their broken pieces
and stir them into the mud and make clods, pies, and balls
And let them bake in the sun
Resting in possibility.
By Daria Pardue
Lake Garret
Early morning sunbeams paint muted
reflections of bare oak branches and the needles of pines.
They reach to the other side,
trying to close the circle
they have been holding in time.
A splash disrupts the stillness
as the basking grey shell
of a turtle falls in for a swim.
Ripples of light now play tag
on the bark of the mottled Alder
while a sparrow starts to sing.
Flecks of mica flash down the rooted path
guiding the way and conjuring memories
of children collecting buckets of gold.
The frog and the honey bee
are still deep in their dreams.
But the peaceful slumber is no match
for the restlessness of undergrowth
and the changing sun.
Introverts slither to warm their scaly skin.
Geese honk and flap in their quest to create new life.
And squirrels punctuate the air with the flick of their tails.
Soon the parchment leaves will stop their shivering
and be pushed off by the daggers of unfurling green.
Apart from the evergreens and the cloudless sky,
the world is still beige and grey.
Empty acorns litter the spongy ground
and tall, tawny grass bows to the still crisp breeze.
Further down the wooded path,
There is a flash of buttery yellow
where beaver work has opened up the canopy,
making room for daffodils to sing their late-season song.
And just like that, winter is gone.
A Crack in the Sidewalk
Jump over the crack; this one is too big
An investigation is required a meticulous dig.
The waves appear bigger when squatting down here.
They distort the concrete garden and red water stumps,
making sweat dampen the napes of small necks.
The child focused on bent knees
and dirt-encrusted fingernails,
sifting through the rubble of small pebbles and sand
while lost in scenarios of collecting treasure in distant lands.
Useful items stuffed in pockets
to be displayed on a breezy sill;
a cracked button for an eyeball-hole to fill,
worn from past wishes, a copper coin to complete a roll,
fuzzy yellow yarn to decorate a loose ponytail,
secret codes ripped in half with words only adults know.
Roly-poly bugs hide in a jar
with a dandelion flower for food
and some broken sticks, and a discarded straw.
The afternoon fades into a sterile glow.
The smell of fried fish, boiled broccoli, and baked bread,
a signal to go home soon,
where a bath awaits, as well as prayers and a pillow to rest one’s head.
The moment has shifted,
and bikes now jump over once-mined holes.
The waves are a mirage,
a mystical destination where riches are coins
for the local Five and Dime;
purple rock candy glued to a stick,
layers of Gobstoppers lasting all month,
boxes of Lemonheads,
and orange Creamsicle stains adorning worn-out white Keds.
Treasures are now scratched forty-fives,
a few matches, worn caps,
pictures torn out of adult magazines and shoved under beds,
dogeared baseball cards, and swiped blue eyeshadow.
A cuss word whispered to a buddy,
a mouth too old to be washed out with soap.
Pushing the boundaries, an exploration of youth.
A change in perspective;
Time is of the essence.
The cracks are now trenches filling up fast.
Bagging groceries and tossing papers, burgers, and fries.
Every buck earned and tucked aside
for wheels and a ride.
Friday slow dancing and seeking a kiss.
Sipping Boones Farm, blowing smoke rings,
and holding hands under the desk.
Grounded forever, no telephone, dates, or trips to the mall.
Weeks filled with weed-pulling, fence-staining,
wet pillows, lost love and lost time.
Secret notes slipped into lockers, whispers, and sneaking-out plans.
A shift in the atmosphere and the moment departed.
Pacts and promises for tomorrow.
Time ever moving on,
Leaving that beautiful crack in the sidewalk behind.
Racing toward the wrinkle in the city,
the world is shrinking, the itch settles in-
And our state of mind has been altered yet again…
College, careers, marriage, and moves.
Your first house, your firstborn,
and the passing of a parent much too soon.
Retirement parties, downsizing, grandchildren.
New adventures, hobbies, golf-cart spins
and long lunches.
Building and building until the light is joined
with the moon and transforms once more.
Reflections, cherished moments of joy,
love, forgiveness, and grief,
All memories of the past…
How do you begin again?
How do you make time last?
By Daria Pardue