|
Cover photo: 'Mandala' taken by author
|
Yogic Truth
It’s hard to do breath meditations
because I have sinus problems.
It’s hard to do breath meditations
because they tend to bore me.
It’s hard to hold the poses a long time
because they hurt my nerves and muscles.
It’s hard to attempt the balance exercises
because I have terrible balance.
It’s hard to let go of my thoughts
because my thoughts are untamable
creatures in a jungle of cerebral overgrowth.
In other words—
yoga.
|
Distraction
Lying on my mat, I look at my teacher
for guidance, but I’m distracted
by the flaming orange stained glass
flower mandala behind her. If my teacher
is lucky, she’ll be distracted by raccoons
dancing on the skylight above her.
“Come back to your breath,” we’re told,
when the mind presents us with thoughts,
but stunning symbols of creative energy
and transformation, and performances
by masked dancers—tiny gifts of joy—
are distractions I welcome
with open cactus arms.
*
Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
|
Feeling the Burn
Nothing triggers my pain like yoga;
nothing relieves my pain like yoga.
It gets worse before it gets better,
unlike other things in my life
that get bad before they get worse.
*
Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
|
|
Click title to download microchap
Cover image of 'Amy' high tops
•
|
Waking Up
You were up all night singing,
watching videos, playing drums.
The neighbors complained;
you went to sleep,
and never woke up.
I remember the next night:
Already sad, I came home late,
and saw the headline—
Singer Found Dead,
and I knew it was you.
I slept poorly,
and when I woke up,
your earthy contralto had seeped
from the edges of my dreams
and filled all the space in my heart.
Cherry
Sometimes I wonder
what happened to you—
were you given to a friend,
or do you sit on a shelf
in her father’s house?
Who would dare try to play you?
Whose fingers could touch
your strings and hear anything
but the minor keys of mourning,
the plangent chords of grief?
|
Background Music
“Valerie” always plays
in the grocery store,
the shopping mall,
the doctor’s office—
and people continue
shopping and waiting,
as if nothing happened,
as if you are only a soundtrack
for the spaces between
the mundane tasks of living.
Ten Years
A decade has past,
and I imagine you
as you might be today:
Perhaps shocks of pink or silver
would replace your beehive,
maybe you would tour with Tony,
maybe you would go to rehab.
It’s a blurry image, dimly lit,
but I see you—
still fusing words and music
like heaven’s cheeky magician,
still devoted to the Shangri-Las,
still able to rip the seams
of the fragile fabric of my soul.
*
Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
|
Shattered Dream
I always thought that, someday,
I would see you under a spotlight
on a stage, and I would barely
be able to contain my heartbeat,
or control my tears.
I would soak up your voice
like a balm that would penetrate
every membrane of my body
and soul. But it wasn’t to be.
You never woke up,
and I am left with audio
and video and photographs,
and with feelings that you can
no longer sing back to me.
We are all left with recordings
that will last forever,
but what we want is you.
Inside the Shell
Oh, to have been in that church in Dingle,
where you performed an acoustic set
to such a small crowd, and the scallop shell
of St. James enveloped you, as it envelops
all of us. We all struggle to find our way
to the center; you wrote our struggle,
you made it a song, you sang it,
you lived it.
•
Diane Elayne Dees © 2021
|
|
Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover collage by JanK
•
|
Revival
Through my well-worn mask,
I breathe a fog of anxiety
that smothers me
like a weighted blanket
of despair, threatening
to crush my last vestige
of joy, but then, out of nowhere—
perched on a wooden fence—
I see a shimmering azure
dragonfly, drenched with rain.
The New Physics
In these pandemic times,
my house is now a gym,
my house is now a library,
a coffee shop, a first aid
station, a yoga studio.
My house is now my body,
with boundaries expanding
and contracting
like a forgotten figment
of Einstein’s imagination.
|
Wartime
My mother carried buckets
of sand to catch fire
from bombs, spent hours
each day inspecting
soldiers’ hats, and forgot
what it was like to buy
more than one can
of her favorite foods.
To be required
to simply wear a mask
would have marked her
as a woman
of uncommon leisure.
Modern Medicine
My doctor dresses
in a plastic costume,
mask and helmet;
she is at war,
but will never see
a promotion, a star,
a Purple Heart, a parade.
Post-war carnage—
the rubble of ignorance
and greed—can never
be sanitized
from the landscape.
*
Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
|
Makeover
This is the summer
of colorless toenails,
which followed
the spring of raggedy hair.
Deep red, luscious brown,
rich coral, bright blue,
pearly mocha—all replaced
by a dull layer of isolation,
a dark gray top coat of fear.
•
Diane Elayne Dees © 2020
|
|
Click title to download PDF microchap
Cover photo by author
•
Download every microchap
for free from this website.
(Set printer for landscape)
|
Protection
My tiny house is some distance
from the beach, but I don’t mind.
To rattle around in a sleeps-six
rental cottage would be like ripping
shells from the fragile organism
we call loneliness, and throwing them
against echoing seawalls of sorrow.
I want to feel enclosed, like a hermit
crab, able to see but not be seen,
and to walk slowly and silently
through these beach days.
|
Admonition
Do not squander your sorrows
is painted in blue under the glass
on the table where I take my seat
at the little seaside cafe. I want
to believe that it’s a message,
but if it is, has the warning come
too late? Have I merely collected
my sorrows like so many seashells,
so that I can put them all
in a big glass bowl and admire
them while—day after day—I taste
the ocean salt of my tears?
Coastal Religion
I saw a giant angel carved from an old tree,
casting its heavenly golden glow onto the sand.
I saw a black Madonna in the middle of town,
and I saw Love Is the Greatest painted
on a big rock next to a birdbath filled with blue
marbles. I saw crosses and Bible quotations
on chains and bracelets in the little seaside
shops. Then I saw the eyes of a Monarch
butterfly who stopped by my tiny house
on its way to Mexico to taste the nectar
of a red hibiscus—and that was all I needed.
*
Diane Elayne Dees © 2024
|
Blue Illusion
Toxic blue-green algae ravages the Gulf,
and I am afraid to set my feet in the water.
The ocean, a deep cerulean, looks cool
and inviting, not at all like a repository
of illness and misery. I trudge through
the sand, knowing that I, too, look fresh
and serene, though a toxic grief flows
through me, its waves lapping over
my every thought. I keep a safe distance
from the water and walk on, hopeful
that the warmth of the sand and the rhythm
of the surf can keep me a safe distance
from myself, if only for a little while.
•
Diane Elayne Dees © 2019
|
Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press). Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.