Only the Moon
Can translate
Words from me
Like the tides
It tries
To draw out
From lips and pen
What really needs to be said
But speaking, writing
The true plateau
Defies me and many
ASD’s*
Words tumble about
Defying gravity
Leaving out
Important meanings
Making us so misunderstood
But the Moon is patient
If only you learned from
The Moon…
*ASD = Autism Spectrum Disorder
© 2020 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Shon/Moon
Time often interferes with the truth
Certain words cannot be spoken
Until the time is right
Safer to lock truth away
In a climate-controlled
Storage space
Until time catches up
To the truth
Or becomes a lie
Be a warrior
Do not frighten the living
Keep the secret
Denial is a good coping mechanism
But be sure to plan for the survivors
This is why music crowns words
Words are animated by music
Words are like zombies
Hated by some
Sneered at by others
Untidy corpses slouching mindlessly
Through streets of
Misunderstanding muck
Add music, though
And the flesh-dropping bodies
Become angels of light
Whole, holy, and so right
Magically
We now understand the words
And all is all right
Whether they be
Truth or lies…
(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Zombie Attack Guitar Wrap Skin by AxeDecals.com
Last night I
Over-the-counter-drug-dreamed
My return to Falika Falls
It was dried and gone
Fifty-foot unwatered wasteland
Of dead rocks , pulse quietly faded out
In my trembling hands
Once greedy grass glowed but now burned
As I see predator birds, Brown and Gold
Color awakening a long-gone junior high song
Flitting around my mossy memory
While more owls
Than in a Harry Potter novel
Converge on burnt-out trees
Where was the water?
Smoked air clawing at me
Chemically fumed
Want to escape
Nowhere to go
Which way
My autistic compass needle
Uselessly pointing south, then west
Old Harley boots crunching dead earth
Which way is out
And then in the distance
Slowly approaching
Black denim jacket ragged with blood
You in a windy dirt flood
Tarot cards raining down
Broken amulets of chakras
Fall from my pockets:
Wolf for Protection
Moon phases for Emotion
Crow as Power and Mystery
Art for Healthy byways
Music of Secret Communication
Archangels of Arcanic Ascension
And a Universe as above, so below
We sit on a petrified wood log
Discordant music assaulting the ears
Until it sorts itself out
As another memory of school assembly
Assails me, playing Ferde Grofe’s
Grand Canyon Suite
“Suite”
How I’d loved that word
Eagerly checking my dictionary
So many meanings
So I hold onto the words
Words are the key
To free me
From this dark dream
The word “word”
Word, world, wild
Wish, wander, wonder
The free association
Strengthens me
And suddenly
The falls are no longer dry
Water thunders down
Grass grows green
Drumming vibrations of rocks
Rhyming, connecting our pulses
And you and me
Reach out, grasping hands
Your pen appears in mine
And I write…
(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Chakra amulets
Women!
Don’t toss your bras
At musical concerts
Fling those books
Of poetry
You spent time writing
Revealing your agony
Of love and life and fantasy
That rarely, if ever, comes true
Toss that lacy, black book
Of rhythmic suffering
Or cast that hard-living
Denim tome
Of your broken heart and home
Aim those pages
Potential songs
Maybe they’ll like your words
Maybe they’ll use their
Talented fingers
To set your soul to
Music seducing you
But be strong
I’ve done it before
And I’m quite sure
Those men up there
Prefer bras flung
Because the words they sung
Were never mine…
(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: My bra, books & guitar
Shakespeare covered
Every human emotion
In existence
Turned them inside out
Shook them over the
Straw-strewn floor
And we learned life from him
Woolf and Joyce revealed
The constant stream of consciousness
Speeding through our brain
Tunneling like a dark train
Finding form in summer fields
And we learned thought from them
Plath confessed it all
Words tinkling against
The cracked bell jar
Climbing the bars of poetry
Hearing Shakespeare’s
Be true to yourself
She was
And we learned about the fine line
Between fiction and reality
From her
Ginsberg and the Beats
Howled all over the world
Shoving ugliness down our throats
As they ushered in love and peace
Bleeding all over in City Lights books
Ideas never in print before
Overcoming obscenity trials
Changing the word itself
And we learned emotion from them
So what is left to teach?
What can we writers do
To make life easier for you?
To make you see
That we, like you
Suffer and love
Cry and sing
Hurtle through life
Slowly uncoiling
Writing:
A lifetime search
An outreach
To teach
And learn from you…
(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: My notebooks & guitar
*scroll down for a YouTube video*
“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes quattuor”
Only Latin offered at the junior high school
I’d wanted to learn French or even Russian
But here we were, with a dead language
Can’t remember what the book looked like
Hardback, small, all in Latin
But the first lesson was
“All of Gaul is divided into four parts”
And the words seized me
Black letters on white background seduced me
I needed to know
What was its meaning
As I marched with the Centurions
Proudly carrying a flag
Emblazoned with huge letters
SPQR
“Senate and People of Rome”
Words opening a new world
Togas and bloody gladiators
Pounding their chests
“We Who Are About to Die Salute You”
Pre-AC/DC days who sang
To my delight
“For those about to rock we salute you”
And now, so many decades later
When I can’t remember
Where I put something
Or what I was saying
Five minutes ago
I still see Mrs. Layton
Who brought life to the dead words
I still feel that book in my hands
I still remember sitting in my bedroom
Memorizing Latin vocabulary
I still remember the magical days
Of learning and
Being part of the Legion
That would conquer the world
A mere year or two
Before I’d be carrying signs
With a new–English language–flag
Reminding us all that
War is not healthy for children or
Other living things…
(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Wikipedia Commons
https://youtu.be/8fPf6L0XNvM AC/DC YouTube video
Working
Mothering
All the usuals
Happiness
Sadness
All the emotions
The real me
Kept boxed up
Until one day
Retirement
What to do?
Collection of boxes
Containing nothing but
Sparkly dust
Poured a bit into my palm
A sonnet appeared
Oh, sure, not Shakespeare-worthy
But each day it grew
Until there were twenty-two
One for each symbol
Of the Major Arcana
Then there were twelve
Terza Rima
For each Zodiac sign
And each box
Had its own lines
Until there was a
Rima Royale
Of birds
And a tiny box of Haiku
Slightly larger box of Tanka
But in a special box
Of the loveliest cloisonne
Shone silver Moon dust
Mixed with golden Sunlight
And Stars of blue and every hue
They whirled above me
Then gently drizzled down
Covering my head, lips, shoulders
And as I grew older
I became bolder
Free
Free at last
Poetry that had no use for rhyme
Stream-of-consciousness
Confessional
Memoirs
Gutter talk
A touch of erotica
Words made up
Words spilling from a box
Filling ten books
Of words hidden inside
For decades
The real me
Then one day
Those magical boxes
Were empty
I’d open the lids
In the three A.M. shadows
Whispering, “Where’d you go?”
So, I bought more boxes
My collection growing
And one cloudy morning
Something sang out
From a new box
And there
As I hastily opened the lock
Was a different dust
Sparkling? Not quite
Sparking!
Like electricity
And poetry melded
With musical chords
And songs were born
Euterpe with her magic flute
Pushed open the lids
Danced with her sister
Terpsichore
And I wrote
And strummed
And sang
And hummed
But I see
The magical dust
In my box collection
Is once again disappearing
And so I say
Today is the day
I shop for a new box
And begin an unknown
Collection…
Pens, pencils, keyboards
Revelation through your words
Moon, stars, sun
Message could be for anyone
Such mysterious intensity
Daily affecting me
Doesn’t matter who is meant
I can still enjoy your intent
Words have their own music…
© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: my newest musical challenge
*scroll down for YouTube video*
Disembodied voice
Dictates captivating words
Real or robotic?
© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: The Secret Keeper, Mystical Floating Words
https://youtu.be/r5kmCgVhADY The Who, Who Are You, YouTube
Oh, the outcry
About Dylan’s lack of
Poetic language
Since when
Has HOW something is said
Become more important
Than WHAT is being said?
Beautifully-crafted words
Versus
The convocation
Leading to freedom
Perhaps a national trait
At least, since 1776
What good are Wordsworth’s words
About Daffodils
If they are poisoned by
Monsanto?
For biblical fans
You’ll understand
There is a time for beauty
But also
A time for action…
© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Troubadour (thuleanperspective.com)
poeturja 