Love Grown Old

At night...

I feel your breath, warm
on the back of my neck
your chest is moving
against my back.
My breath falls
into the rhythm
of yours, slowing
and deepening
as we fall asleep.

In the morning...
my head on your shoulder,
still sleeping,
I feel your breath
quickening, stirring
my tousled hair.
Your arm tightens
sleepily around me.
Your awakening
stirs my breath.
My heart beats faster
as we waken.

All of the nights...
all of the years...
breathing together
sleeping and wakening—

If you were not here
would I be able to breathe?

© 2006 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.

Red Paint—a true tale

George was a short, stout man,
Glasgow born, Clydeside bred,
older and slower of body,
but not of mind.

Our peaceful harbor
was invaded by
hard men from the city.
They were having
a relaxing day by the water
harassing an old couple.
Our Jimmy and Jeff decided
to run them off, feeling that
the two of them easily
outnumbered three ruffians.

But Auld George yelled,
"Wait for me!" and they did,
shaking their heads at each other.
They thought they
would need to protect him.

Jimmy had a pipe wrench, Jeff
had a marlinspike. George
picked up a broad paintbrush
and dipped it in a handy bucket
of red paint.

George stumped out ahead,
puffing a bit and trailing
carmine drops, and the heavies
laughed and laughed and laughed
at the fat old man with
the dribbling paintbrush.

From five feet away, George
suddenly
flicked his brush
and filled the face
of the foremost laughing thug
with stinging scarlet—
giving a new meaning to "red-eyed."
The second hooligan
rushed him, shouting. George,
casually stepped aside and
reached up to slap him
across the face with the
still-dripping brush.
Eyes and mouth afire,
he howled too.

Two down,
one to go. But...
that one was running—
he may not have stopped
until he reached Glasgow,
where people only attack you
with knives and razors and clubs—
and there are no
mad old men
with crimson paintbrushes
and happily fiendish grins.

Walking back to our boats,
George glanced at Jeff and Jim
with a sapient eye,
"You laddies need help again,
chust let me know. Nae bother at all."

I was there, I saw the whole thing. Jimmy and Jeff and I all learned something that day:
A true Gael thinks outside the box.
A man of experience is canny.
Nature provides.

© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.

Crone

Her wise, old wizened face
grins up at me, laser-bright eyes
holding me. Like a bird before a snake -
I am fascinated, transfixed.
And she says, ‘You don’t think
I got to be this age
by playing it safe,
do you? I’d have died
of boredom long ago!’

© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.

Mother's Day

The First Night

It is dark in the desert
tonight. The stars are distant and cold
and the moon is dark, her face
turned away. But in an ancient city
bombs fall and bright fire blossoms
on the ground. Tracer bullets
make brilliant streaks in the air.
'Like the fourth of July,'
the newsman says. From far away,
I, too, sit in the dark, listening
to guns firing. I light a candle
and place it front of Kwan Shih Yin.
By its light I see tears
on her face.

***

I wrote this during the first night of bombing Iraq in the Gulf War. Tonight, on this full moon years later, things there (and here) are only getting worse. As I write this people are dying—mothers, sons, daughters, fathers—we all belong to someone, we all are kindred and there is no one outside the family cirlce. We all belong to each other.

© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.

Gateway to Avalon

Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I know where the gateway to Avalon lies
hidden in the mists.
You can't get there from here . . . unless
you are guarded, unless
you are guided, blind through the mists,
by Those Who keep the Way.

Their touch is so gentle,
their whispers so faint—you have to be watching,
you have to be listening,
you must be awake and aware.

You can only go blindly, journey in darkness,
beset by shades that chitter and slither,
touching you here and there. Surrounded
by memories like blood-hungry dragons, we travel.
And yet, all the while,a sure hand guides us—if we trust it.

I know where the gateway to Avalon lies,
hidden in the mist—in the curl of a leaf,
or the touch of the thorn,
the pattern of stone,
the arch of the hill—you have to be watching,
you have to be listening,
you must be awake and aware.

I have to keep watching,
I have to be listening,
I must stay awake and aware.

© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.