An old poem

I wrote this one a few years ago and rediscovered it tonight.

Birth of a Star

By Emily O'Malley

When a wish takes form

It breaks free and ascends

To the boundless cosmic expanse.

The hopeful seed nestles

Into a cloud

Embryonic

Until it rises from the haze and

Glows

Nourished by moon's milk

In a celestial garden.

The stars hang from their stems,

Waiting to be picked

By those who plant them.

Once Upon a Recession

I wrote this yesterday.

*   *   *

There was an old lady who lived in a shoe
Slung over a telephone wire
With all her expenses and bills overdue,
She could not afford to retire.

Her dear friend Peter Pumpkineater
Had a wife and couldn't feed her.
Residing in a pumpkin shell,
They knew their home would never sell.

Old Mother Hubbard lived down the street
Disabled, she dwelled all alone
Her kitchen cupboard held nothing to eat
And no one would throw her a bone.

In this mass Plutocracy
They had such meager means
Because the aristocracy
Spent gold on magic beans.

The king did teeter dangerously
Atop a great stone wall
He'd built a castle in the sky
So it was doomed to fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men
Could not put the economy together again
But Peter, Peter Pumpkineater
The lady in the shoe
And Old Mother Hubbard
Knew exactly what to do.

Apart, they each were small enough
To live in boots or shells
But then they all united
And stormed the citadels.

They occupied the castles
They occupied the gates
The guards all tried to stop them
But it was far too late.

Millions had joined them
Reaching fever pitch
Demanding fairer wages
And taxes for the rich.

It was no easy trial
They had to persevere
The process took a while
They did not yield to fear.

After strife and labor
They won their due reward
Each man and his neighbor
Had lives they could afford.

Peter and his lovely wife
Moved from their pumpkin shell
To an urban condo
Where they fared quite well.

The little old lady who lived in a shoe
Finally retired.
And Old Mother Hubbard filled up her cupboard
With all the food she desired.

So if you think you're much too small
To have your rights upheld
Remember those who changed the world
Stood up
And rebelled.

Barriers

A poem I wrote last week.

*   *   *

If only I could freeze my reflection
And step into a mirror,
Watching passively behind protective glass
As traffic whirs by
And the sun hitchhikes on the wind,
While my world stands placid and still.

At night I slip behind the computer screen
Into a glowing dimension of vicarious adventures,
Or
Numb mindless clicking and waiting.
I want to stitch my own words
Onto the technological patchwork
But they boil beneath my surface,
Encased by a thick sheet of ice.

I even keep friends enclosed
In glossy mental snapshots
Afraid to dial their numbers
Lest I disturb the frames.

Instead, I nestle into my old chrysalis.
Last time, I'd hoped to emerge with vibrant wings,
Fluttering from one endeavor to another,
Sampling the nectars of success.
Instead, I became a pale moth
Who haplessly chases flickering lights
And dreams of touching the moon.

I wrap myself tightly in this cocoon,
In stasis until the sun
Peeks through my layers
Once again.

For my late aunt

Whenever I see a wine bottle with a past year printed on it, I feel as if the year itself is contained within that bottle. If it says 2005, I feel like it's still the year 2005 within the confines of the glass. When the bottle is uncorked, the old year spills out along with the wine and the past converges with the present.

I was reminded of this at my grandparents' house yesterday. My late aunt Mary took a glass-blowing class at college, and she had made some beautiful glass balls. I found one in her old bedroom, and thought of the bubble inside it. It contains air that she once breathed; air from the time in which she formed it. That moment was frozen inside the bubble. The ball contains a moment in which she was alive.

Every few years, I write a poem for Mary. This is the one I wrote today.


Orb

I hold the air you once exhaled
In a glass ball
Crafted with more care than hands could grasp.
The orb embraces your breath.

A drifting bubble held your world,
Popped
But still intact.
The winds spread you out,
Carrying the whisper of your ashes.

You are no longer at the mercy
Of capricious breeze.
You could never be buried in body or spirit.
Your footprints cannot fade.
Ground grows fertile where you walked.
Colors and music bloom in your steps,
Watered by memories.

No element could divide us.
Fire burns away the barrier,
Leaving more ashes in its wake.
My scorching grief is quenched
By the flow of your gentle words.

I write you letters in the sands of time
Messages delivered by tides
Sweeping your words back to me,
Washing away regret.
I swim in our shared inspiration.

A bubble slowly ascends.
It's swayed by neither wind nor waves
Not fragile like your glass,
More steadfast than the earth.
It holds your world
Full as a mind pregnant with ideas.
It rises
A new circle
Endless as your love.