To gain access to the secret
vault of my heart
search not
for key
or magic word, even
I know not what it is …
Published on Medium: P.S. I Love You for Poetry Sunday
Find the complete version here.
:
©2020 Christine Kelly
Photograph by the author
It’s raining, a drink of water after parched days. The ground was littered with odd drops, scattered randomly, before the thunder came and the heavens opened.
The rain always stops me in my tracks. I wait. I watch. I wonder. And my heart aches with some unfathomable feeling that soaks me to my core with a haunting want.
He is the one I think of when the rain falls, shattering itself upon the pavement. A Saturday morning with nothing but the sound of rain, and thunder in the distance. It’s always him I think of — sitting end to end on a couch, reading. Or, notebooks open upon laps, jotting down something that comes to us, dialogue or a poem. I think of laying in his arms, just listening to the rain, not saying a word. I think of the intimacy of the moment and how completely I want that. I think of how this will never come to pass.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, original source unknown.
The older I get,
the more I realize
how like the sea I am.
That liquid expanse of horizon –
always blue to me,
melancholic with longing,
a churning, churlish mass of feeling;
everything happening beneath the surface,
much like my own insides.
A soul at turns calm or chaotic,
but as quickly as it is stirred,
it bellows forth, a tempest of emotion
releasing and gentling itself.
Changeable tides,
ebbing and flowing as response,
some inner metronome
keeping a steady beat
like my heart.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced
Midnight blue ink
an extension of her soul
dripping secrets
from her fingers
her pen spoke louder
than her voice
with a whisper he moved
closer
to hear, her sweet accent
echoing
within the chambers of his heart
with words
that gave voice
to unspoken desires
intimacy
in simple things
he found the key
to unlock
what had been imprisoned
within his soul
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced.
There’s a lot said about grace
and letting go of hurt and anger,
but they never tell you how to manage that.
One day you’re fine and the next day knocked senseless
by yet another wave you didn’t see coming.
.
You start to wonder if the lies told about you
by someone who should have known better,
who should have known you,
were told to another
and now that person looks at you differently,
treats you differently.
.
When does this end?
When does it stop stinging?
When can you truly move on?
.
You know you will never get any recompense or apology,
and truth be told they probably still think they were right and justified …
but is it ever justified to speak ill of another when you can simply talk to them?
.
It is their own wounded pride talking,
you were just the fall guy for people who wouldn’t be straight with you.
You tell yourself you are letting it go,
you’ve chosen not to pursue it or make your feelings known,
it’s water under the bridge.
Only it’s not.
Because suddenly the current picks up and washes that fragile structure away,
and you are reminded of all you tried to forget.
Your attempt at grace feels flat
and the flavor left behind is not one you want to taste again.
.
Yet you do,
because the repercussions of this act reverberate
and it becomes a wound that never quite heals.
The place they held in your heart becomes a mess of scar tissue you run your fingers over, reminding you to caution yourself,
because when push comes to shove
.
with some people
.
you think you have a place by their side
but you’re about to be thrust off a cliff.
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved.
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
A heart wide open
with nothing to buoy her
amid crested waves
falling beneath the surface
to drown of her own volition
in a sea of empathy
a relentless tide that spills
over her
pulling and pitching her headfirst
into the deep
the darkness feeding
her exhaustion.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
The older I get,
the more I realise
just how like the sea I am.
It was always blue to me,
that liquid expanse of horizon.
Melancholic with longing.
A churning, churlish mass of feeling,
everything happening beneath the surface,
much like my own insides.
A soul at turns calm or chaotic.
But as quickly as it is stirred,
bellowing forth with a tempest of emotion,
it is released and gentles itself.
Changeable tides
that ebb and flow as response,
some inner metronome
that keeps a steady beat
like my heart.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from White Noten, unsourced
I am not made of stone.
I have been told
That I wear my heart upon my sleeve
That my writing tells all.
While my writing is imbued with
My thoughts, my feelings, my desires
I write only what I want known.
I am a world of private thoughts and feelings
Pain and joy
Mine to share
If I desire.
You will not find me crying publicly
But that does not mean I don’t hurt
It does not mean that the tears I shed
Don’t run hot down my face
When I am alone.
I am not made of stone
I get confused and frustrated
I have feelings
I have pride
I can be hurt by unkindness
By insensitivity
Especially when it’s unwarranted
Though you’ll never know how much.
No, I am not made of stone
I am made
Of heart
And soul
:
*Not a new piece but always relevant, always me.
©SirenSong1208 ~ 2015
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
Entrusted with a skeleton key
No ordinary key
It fit the lock around one heart only
There was nothing to identify where the key would fit
But he knew instinctively it was hers
Precious as her heart was to him
He kept the key close to his own
Photo taken from Pinterest
Her heart was gentle
And when she loved
She loved deeply
But it was the rare guest
Who was allowed
Such propinquity
To her and her heart
Photo taken from Pinterest
Siren Whispers 