Category: Poetry

A Spanish Dance

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

You will find her in a garden,

in Andalusia,

Dancing the dance of Spain.

You will find her absorbed in the breeze,

Where the scent of the orange blossoms reign.

With sensuous fingers and hands,

As if grasping a ripe pear,

Gently, they trace her curvaceous form,

Moving high, into the air.

The arm undulates, to the ground.

Invisible fruit is released.

Mournful eyes of the dancer follow,

As her head inclines.

This is Flamenco,

A Spanish dance.

TiffanyCreek

Dedicated to my friend María, from Galicia,

who TRIED to teach me to dance Flamenco.

 

“When I am dead, my dearest” by Christina Georgina Rossetti

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

Twilight

“Twilight” Photo by GRB

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

Christina Rosetti

The Beauty of Imperfection

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

In my youth, I made this calligraphy, “Dust of Snow”.  My mom guided me in the process. Her love for the poetry of Robert Frost naturally influenced my choice of words. Having saved the original, she handed it over to me later in life.  I cherish it for posterity. Beautiful in all its imperfection, it reminds me of who I was, and the person I grew to be today.

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TiffanyCreek

The Cistern

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

I followed the force of Love…

to the cistern,

Sitting high on the hill.

Underneath the windmill,

Which creaked in the breeze.

Its stone and brambles,

And eerie depths,

lured me in like a child falling into a well.

A place, where sticks and leaves fall to dwell.

Upon walking through snake infested weeds,

Plucking flowers on my return,

I made a bouquet for she who loved me.

No matter how far,

no matter how near,

no matter how often…

I climbed the hill to the cistern.

TiffanyCreek

You do not ask…

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

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Why do I not question,

Why do I love you?

Because you do not ask the wind, why it blows

Or the sun, why it rises and sets.

Or, why the dog barks, in the middle of the night.

Why do you laugh

As I wonder, or consider that

You may, or may not even hear me?

With Love, Lizzie

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

As the train sped away to Minnesota,
Her message was loud and clear:

‘Crete,

I left, too sick to say goodbye.

With Love,

Lizzie’

The 20th day of July,
in 1870 she died,
at 37 years.

Lost letters, and diaries, her story they tell,
They say, ‘Lizzie’s body, lies here’.

By TiffanyCreek

Baptist, another view DSC_4436

Photo by Dave Dreimiller

Lizzie Atwood was best friends with Lucretia Rudolph Garfield. (“Her worries, Crete took away, Lizzie loved her, until she died”). Lizzie married Arthur Pratt, and had two daughters named Mabel and Cornelia. Her mother and father were Elizabeth Yeatman Garrett, and Edwin Atwood, of Garrettsville, Ohio.

Marsha

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

Between light and shadow.
Between light and shadow.

Your green eyes

with golden sparkles

glisten like diamonds

In the sky.

Your vulnerable soul stands

Between light and sombra

As sun shines through

The panes of glass,

behind which you stand…

Waiting for luck to come…

A prince from the Russian forest

Maybe…

Bearing the gift of love,

to fix your broken heart.

Yet,

the fat scowling man,

Shirtless at the top of the stairs,

Peers downward to the street, blowing toxic smoke

At us, in a sinister way…

Makes me afraid for you.

I want you to be safe;

And to know I love you.

TiffanyCreek

Without Friends

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

Summer's Secrets
Summer’s Secrets

Summer’s secrets

hold much in store…

frolicking, playing, and more

Sadness, and storms, with thunder and lightening,

Keeping one up

it’s quite frightening.

Life and death are fare game…

Without friends

it wouldn’t be the same.

For my friends by TiffanyCreek

Proportions

~ TiffanyCreek ~ Leave a comment

Morning LightA person’s life: width of a hand
I have heard it said
I look at the early morning sky:
from star to star
even less
The happiness that you wait for,
something that
cannot be measured, only possible
if not measured.
At sunrise small birds, without bursting,
sing out loud the morning dew,
the bright sound of countless droplets.

* * * * * *

Anselm Hollo

1934 Helsinki, Finland – 2013 Boulder, Colorado