*NEW POEM* Looking Forward & Asking Questions

Seventy-Two Inches

by Judith Cullen

© 2021

 

Smiling is useless,

a flex beneath

filtering layers

expressing nothing.

Trying the eyes

results in odd

bulging twitches

like transitory gas.

One hundred and

eighty two centimetres,

seventy two inches

of cavernous void.

Our beings long for

rituals of comfort in

a frightening world,

stretching out.

 

*NEW POEM - Waiting for Magic

It's been a while!  I have been diving deep in that other major creative realm of mine, the visual.  A few poems cropped up in my head. It's hard to think when they do that. 

Here's one for fun. Enjoy! ~ jdc

Beans in the Yard

by Judith Cullen

© 2020

They got dropped there on Christmas Day,

The casserole gratefully rescued;

The food still good, still edible.

I should have raked them back then,

whisked them away - disposed.

I was curious. What would happen?

"Do not step on the beans!"

Eight weeks later, they are still there.

No giants are roaming the streets,

Harp music does not waft downstairs,

and the front porch is entirely bereft - 

no burnished fowl or its progeny

squatting in fabled expectation.

I was diligent. I looked.

Maybe the barbecue sauce blocked

all the enchanted potentialities.

Perhaps onions carefully diced are

an antidote to storybook creations.

Some have turned black, while others

grow mushier from rain, snow, and frosts.

Surely one of them might have been magic!

I should have raked them away,

whisked them into the trash.

But I was curious. I wanted to know.

##

SHOW OF HANDS - A New Poem

Okay, seriously . . . a show of hands: how many of you can relate to this?

Tough-Talk Monday Morning

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

The alarm is the first to speak up,

klaxon of Monday's dawn arrival.

Could another 30 minutes be stolen?

The voice of commuting cars nearby

confirm time will not, cannot wait.

I want to stomp my foot, to rage.

I want all the little things to inflate

to insulate against things that matter

the things that hurt, wound, frustrate:

despair, anger, and disappointment.

My aged inner voice says, "grow up!"

wild, childish passions of the weekend

are banished, rinsed away in the froth

of cooling lavender scented soapsuds.

Then standing, fully rational and adult

I face the chill air of a brand new week.

##

IN DEDICATION to "Calendar Girls"

Like the Trees

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

It is happening now, the first bright accents

tipping the leaves, portents of change.

Undeniable inevitability calling forth,

trumpeting the arrival of Autumn.

Soon the trees will be ablaze with Fall:

red, orange, golden and ranges in between.

They've lived the innocence of Spring blossoms,

endured the long labors of Summer.

Now they vibrantly erupt, a brilliant flare

inconsiderate of the looming Winter.

One glorious, joy-affirming exultation

before the great sleep that comes to all.

In my Autumn, I will be like the trees.

I shall courageously dress myself in flame,

Tossing the years of happiness and sorrow

around me proudly - a shawl of experiences.

Not for me the dull dimming of the day,

consignment to a faded ghost of endurance.

I shall burn bright at the waning, in celebration,

then crumble to dust with the satisfied sigh of life.

***

This poem is dedicated to the cast, crew and staff of Tacoma Little Theatre's 2019 production of Tim Firth's Calendar Girls, directed by Vicki Webb.

POEM: A Brand New View

Finally from the Inside

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Quite ordinary, this couple:

she was not a breathtaking beauty,

he was not ruggedly handsome.

Not dressed all in the mode,

shoes showing some common wear.

They were not blushing youths,

but had not reached the middle.

There they were, resplendent

in their normality.

Little things gave them away;

how they dropped off the prescription

together, speaking casually.

Their rapport steady, not constant.

A gesture by way of direction,

the closeness of their walking,

a momentary grasped hand.

It was an effortless, comfortable,

apparent easiness.

POEM: Priorities Are Important, in Love.

This one, for fun ...

How Do I Love Thee?

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Sitting together on the hardwood

the box slid carefully in my direction.

Cautious question, and "just open it!"

I lift the lid, part the tissue, and sigh.

They lay in a cushioned delicacy,

dark as midnight, and gleaming.

POEM: Everyone Has Their Own Little Phenomenons . ..

Public Domain
Peter Newell illustration from 1902

. . .  here's mine!

My White Knights

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

How could I fail to love them all,

clad in shining good intentions,

loyalty, truth, and studied courtliness.

They bow with dignity, holding

a hand when steadying is needed,

a door when access is required.

When a perceived threat draws near

they lock arms, eyeing each warily,

stepping into the breach before me.

It is touching, in its way, being

the recipient: beloved and dearest,

held high at gracious arms length.

I feel a certain felicitous luck

attracting such quality consideration,

a relief after the disappointments.

OH THAT INSISTENT CRESCENT MOON! ~ New Poem

Fantasy Art Winter Moon, Public Domain, publicdomainpictures.net

Lunacy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

The poem was waiting when I awoke

curtains reflecting the night's depth,

a beckoning glow through many folds

of lunar transit shifting soundlessly

from one to the other window.

What if I cast back the drapes, letting

the moonlight shine on my skin

as it drinks its way across the stars;

elixir of imagination, natural magic

conveyed in airborne beams.

What if I moved beyond the confines

of this definition, and that certitude;

allowing myself to drift without limits,

absorbing the languid enchantment of

a clear winter sky at three in the morning.

##

SOMETIMES Poetry Becomes Real . . .

I've been trying to get out of the habit of commenting on my work - somehow explaining it in advance.  The work should speak for itself, yes?  But I do want to say that this poem was inspired by a real devil of a week, and a real late afternoon nap where I dreamed like I had not in well over a week. In that magical dreamworld, two dear friends came to me . . . 

Dream Therapy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Dragging the week behind,

doubt, fear, sorrow, and pain

thudding at each labored stair,

an accumulation of fighting

weighting every step, till I drop.

Subsiding into dreams, expecting

more monotone wanderings -

tears unexplained, unshed and

more steps, more labors till

somehow the fog would clear.

FIRST POEM OF THE NEW YEAR: "Welcome to the Light"

Come to the Light

by Judith Cullen

©2019            

"Come to the light," they implored.

While I, blackened fog, lurked uncertain,

wrapped in blankets of complacencies,

familiarities, and chilling sufficiency leading

to the same inexorable cycling.

Reaching out from beneath the comforter

hands touch mine, "Come to the light,"

they repeat in chorus, "We miss you, join us."

They cannot pull me bodily from my gloom,

the impulse must be my own.

NEW POEM: Straight Up Without Explanation

Hubris

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

Don't try and explain,

to those trying on

life like a new suit.

Full of knowledge

bursting, seeing what  

is right so very clearly

from their new shoes.

Don't fuss or worry.

In six months all

will change to new

fashions, discoveries.

All will be the correct,

proper garb for the

very righteous.

IN A LIGHTER MOOD: "Signs & Portents*

And now, for something slightly different ...

The Milky Way galaxy with the constellations Cassiopeia and Cepheus.

 Original from NASA. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.  Public Domain.

Signs and Portents

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

Cracks and lines in the pavement

have no actual orthopedic import.

Stomp as you will, sidewalks are not

an avenue for parental retribution.

Just because Mom hollered out the window

"Stop it!" in 1972, and the snow ceased,

Does not mean she controls the weather.

So you can put that telephone down.

Yes, it began to rain that summer day

while you worked with your friend.

He is not lucky, like a jade Buddha.

You certainly may not rub his tummy.

In a seemingly random universe,

teetering between control and chaos,

we grasp for meaning where we can,

hoping for a hand hold on surety.

Whether it actually exists or not

we find comfort in the occasional,

embracing cosmic import in the

fortuitous fidelity of coincidence.

##

NEW POEM: It Took a While, But I am Learning

There's a beauty in being at ease with someone - of NOT feeling the necessity to be connected every moment.  Seriously, I was not a big dater in my youth - being notable for a different type of popularity: being well-known and respected. (*makes "gacking" teenager sounds*)  At a time when my contemporaries were bumbling through the early trials and errors of couple-ness, I was planning the dances and special events they would attend.  I'm still kind of that way.

So I learned how to "be" with someone late. Really late. I won't call it "love" because I am too old for that presumption.  But it does still have some of the trappings - getting excited when you see them after several days, knowing all the correct buttons to push for fun, comfort, or calm.  Knowing someone well enough to know when to just "let be" without carrying that residue with you afterwards.

I am grateful for the lesson that relationships, good ones, are not about two halves making a whole - they are about two complete persons keeping each other in balance.  And for however long they are destined to last, they are to be treasured.

Keeping Company

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

Wisps of ivory lace, black trunks.

It all seemed so frantic before you,

the crazed heady rushing,

near desperate uncertainty.

The compelling, the potent,

overwhelming exhilaration.

Gentle caress, your finger on my arm.

The stark difference still jolts,

of two who drifted together,

slow moving magnetic forces,

two planets easing into

soothing conjunctive orbit.

A POEM EXPERIMENT - "Lavender in the Moonlight"

I love the scent of lavender.  I had a "dream pillow" for years filled with it, and it was one of two scents of Crabtree & Evelyn® products that I used regularly back when I worked in a hot and humid part of the country.

The other day I put out some virtual lavender  plants in a couple of locations in Second Life ®, and I was amazed how clearly the memory of the scent came back to me, and how soothing it was.  I haven't been able to smell actual lavender for over a decade, due to industrial asthma.  But I sure remember how it smelled, and how crisply clean I felt after a shower or bath.

I have also been doing a lot of video and audio work lately, and I found myself a little curious what it would be like to deconstruct them in a presentation.  It's an experiment.

***

Lavender in the Moonlight

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

Unquiet sleep.

Subsiding conscious thoughts

without the succor of actual repose,

and she rises.

FINDING A POEM by Opening a Cupboard

This was definitely a first. I opened a kitchen cupboard and saw a humble tin of Bigelow Russian Caravan Tea, and it all came flooding back.  Memories of one of my favorite college instructors who was not in my major area.  Magda Schay taught Russian, and along with Choir Professor Dr. Wallace Long, are two of the non-theater faculty that I remember most fondly and who had the greatest impact on me.

Seeing that tin of tea (bought by my parents because Magda served up a cup of Russian Caravan Tea that was without equal - we all remembered it) reminded me that some of the most profound influences on me in my university education had nothing to do with the doctrine or academics.

Magda's Tea

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

So many lessons compressed,

four years of discovery, challenging

everything that was my known world.

So many openings of eyes

to a greater composition of cultures,

thoughts new and exciting.

Yet among so many revelations

a summation would be the completion,

or so one would think.

Lecture and practice, love and sex,

politics and religion, art and philosophy,

were not all diploma-equated.

It was the tea: Magda's Tea.

Spicy, rich and voluble of

foreign lands and exotic histories sipped

from the safety of her porcelain

A rich Russian Caravan that emboldened,

tasting of exploration and sensual delight,

amidst the whispering pines on her deck.

I would happily journey there once more;

from innocence to tingling rapture, a universe

beckoning from Magda's tea cup.

LISTEN HERE to this poem, read by the author.

##

*NEW* Poem: One That Almost Got Away

Okay, you know how they can be!  Poems that demand to be written, usually revealed in moving vehicles, the shower, or other places where neither traditional nor electronic writing utensils dare to follow.

This one started itself and then took a four day weekend, the brat! I knew the draft was missing something: too many thoughts? too few?  Were the ideas that were important ideas still there? Finally back from its holiday, I wrestled it into final form while it was too tired to battle me. Et voila! 

Painting Friendships

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

"Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend."

~ Proverbs 27:17 (King James Version)

The same sensation

part invitation, part intimidation,

the unsullied canvas

where everything waits

for discovery.

Brush, palette poised,

washes, lines, and strokes,

suggestions of character,

shades of intention,

and hope.

THIS WEEK: A Poem as Reminder to Self

Yeah, Valentine's Day has not been among my top holidays, and it always seems like my feelings of being left out are greatest at this time of year. It's not just about romance. It's a sense of "me also" that creeps into different sphere's of my life until I suddenly sit back and go "what am I doing? Why am I so vulnerable?"

So while working on what was supposed to be this week's story, I had to stop and slap myself.  Out came a poem as a reminder.  Almost every time I get in this mindset, I end up disappointed by what I thought I wanted.  So much of our current culture, through social media, is infused with "look at me!" (she says just before she pushes this post out on it - gack!)

Still, writing the poem was cathartic. It was a good reminder that at the top of my Valentine's Day list should be remembering to love myself, and check that proverbial glass - remembering to note the part that is full, not just the other bit.

***

Reminding Myself

by Judith Cullen

©2018

A conversation,

a convocation,

a somewhere that you are not.

A conflagration,

of contemplation,

you should be there, without doubt.

THIS WEEK: A Poem Inspired by Virtuality

I have been active in virtual worlds for nearly a decade now.  They are great palettes for creativity, a great way to extend your reach, meet new and different people, play, laugh.  And they have saved my sanity more than once in what has been a pretty challenging ten years.

But like any online experience, there are pitfalls: not everyone is what they seem to be, and not everyone has the same ethical standards. You tend to color the outline of who someone is from your own crayon box, which isn't always relevant to who they really are. Some people are outright frauds - people who are actually role playing without warning you that it is a game to them.

In many ways it is everyday life, distilled and intensified, with a convenient (but not terminal) log out button in the upper right hand corner.  Because while the following poem was inspired by my virtual experiences of the last decade, I have also met people in everyday life who are not what they seem, who play a part, whose ethical standards are not the same ones I hold.  It's just harder to maintain the illusion in the cool, clear air of reality.

The Rules of Roleplay

by Judith Cullen

© 2018

There are always rules,

for any given role play:

specific points for specific play.

These clothes, but not those;

Roles can do this, but not that;

I know her, but never him.

There are always rules

to the way you role play:

Public is always "in play";

back line is for personal,

the private place for real,

for stepping aside.