poetry

of cherry blossom trees

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pure white
or pink as blood
not quite soaked through
cherry blossoms
in branch brook park
cling delicately
to graceful trees

in early april
caravans of people come
from all around
to this oasis in the urban desert
to wander in row upon row
of blossoms

in their glory
the miracle
of cherry blossom trees
reminds some travelers
of their mother japan

for others
the vital colors evict
the harsh northeast winter
from their bones
gray days are forgotten
the overused space heater
in a cold apartment
is left behind
thoughts of sales quotas
and work brought home
are pushed to a safe distance

but as april turns to may
when the pink and white petals
are shed and windblown
into branch brook lake
giving way to
ordinary green leaves
everyone’s thoughts return
to their narrow concerns

as the trees remain mindful
of every minute
of every day
accepting how each moment
changes them

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IMG_1741Poem and photos by A. D. Joyce

©A. D. Joyce, 2015

the butterfly psyche

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breaking through the cocoon walls
with nothing but small feet
and powdery wings
this is the power of a dream
from safety
to the unknown of flight
this is the self in the making
there’s a universe of air
so why do butterflies
go it alone
fluttering crazily
from flower to scent
to knee deep in nectar
exposed
beautiful
and expectant

©A. D. Joyce, 2015

you slay me

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when i say
you slay me
i mean
you lap my soul of steel
with your razor tongue
sending flinty sparks flying
until my body
catches smokeless fire
then you
put me
out

and when i say
out
i mean
Jesus

my eyes
crying
cold
air in my lungs
and your

name
your
name
in me
drowning

and
who am i
when i give in
to you
and what
does it mean

i want
my candor back
too late and
you laugh at me
wondering
if I could get
lost
in your eyes

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

Small Talk

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Nice weather we’re having
Not that I can see beyond your eyes
But it must be warm
Light sweat all over me
Mouth as dry as the Vegas strip
Not sure what I’m talking about
But you’re smiling so it must not matter
It doesn’t matter to me
I’d stand here with you in a violent storm of hail
Giddy and bleeding

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

The Beginning and the End

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In my early memory,
You were there

And then you were not,
I think.

And after you left,
The space you occupied
Was invisible
Except for a smell
Much like
The inside of a freezer
When there is nothing in it.

Your space smelled like
The cold air with–
I think–
A hint of aftershave
Hovering over/erasing
The faint aroma of something unsavory
(I’m not sure what).

But coming from that space
Was a smell that left me catatonic
(A state that is not quiet nor still,
But thunderous and quaking with
A single thought flapping
Faster than a hummingbird’s wings–
Too fast to form meaning into words).

My thought was a question
Winging so hard
I could not move from the spot
Next to your empty space.

With each flap,
The rift between heart and soul
And the rest of me
Widened and deepened with the knowledge–
I was too young to understand–
That you did not love me
The way I loved you,
That, in fact, you hated me,
And your aftershave covered
The stale smell of
Cigarettes and alcohol,
A smell so permeating and near
It seemed to come from me.

The weight of your smell
Was shame covering me
In a manner I can’t recall.

All I know is,
Everything begins and ends
At the point where
You left your cold spot empty
And I was lying next to it
Loudly shaking
In unmoved silence,
Disillusioned and transformed
By a father’s drunken violation,
Wondering what had just happened,
What for, why me
(Who loved you).

From my e-book, Like. Love. Hate. available at Amazon.com and Smashwords.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

object permanence

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from the
let’s not talk about me
let’s talk about you
school of thought
she’s a grown-up who never learned
object permanence

with a focus on you
she plays peek-a-boo
with her tongue as she dresses you down
and turns a lazy eye away from introspection

never wondering why she can’t feel her life
and why her body is not her own
and why it matters that everyone like her

her skin is dry to flaking
but she sweeps the dust
under an empty bed
and never says a word
to her shrouded mirror

oh what a world
what a world
where nobody loves us the way
a mother should

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

An independent love

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Even on a good day
it’s hard to describe what I am
or impose upon myself a metaphor.
To say I am a projection or a hologram
presumes I really know what those things are.

I could say I am the gelatinous goop
of butter and spices hanging off
the leftover chicken in the frig.
But that would be too solid.

I could say I am a shadow leading my shadow,
or at best, a visitor from an
alternate world, separated
from everyone else
by the thinnest of transparencies,
pretending I live among the people—
that is, assuming I know myself well enough
to impose even that hint of a shape.

But I don’t, not any more than
I know how to explain this love I feel,
having accepted the fear
that there is no turning back,
whereas everything else is open ended
and this is complete.

I used to know what an apple is,
but now I don’t.

And what I once thought was love
was only its metaphor,
an approximation of what it could be,
words connected by varying shades of gray,
satellites to this love, which is independent
of anything else that has ever existed—
independent of the words for it,
living in its own universe of absolutes
where there is no such color as gray.

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

Incarnations

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In another life, I think,
I must have
Stood upon the highest ledge
I could find and in the
Final moment, dizzy, breathless,
Thinking of you,
Learned how to fly.

In another,
My blood trailed from your knife
And I was glad it was yours.

I have died in your arms.

Died wishing to have
Your arms around me.

Died not knowing you
But knowing something.

 

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The Suicide of Dorothy Hale – Frida Kahlo (1938). Courtesy of Frida Kahlo Fans

©A. D. Joyce, 2014

 

 

Near to dawn

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(revised)

I dreamt that I woke up
with you lying beside me.
You told me I was dreaming.
I cried myself to sleep
and when I woke up, you were still there.
You had been watching me sleep
and you said you would not leave.
Then the alarm clock went off.
I hit the button and just lay there,
the sound gone
but the buzz still coursing through me.

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©A. D. Joyce, 2014