We pack things into
this keeper of castoffs,
treasures fallen from favor,
things no one wants
to remember or forget.
Letters and cards,
photos of the loved, departed,
clothes that no longer fit,
traces of money earned,
then lost or spent,
yellowed magazines, books
we’ll surely read again,
and those no one will—
manuscripts that didn’t sell.
Seasons in a box come out
to shine each winter
from the back of the house’s mind,
barely accessible memories
obscured most of the year by dust.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
* * *
In case you aren’t aware, my other blog is Mystery of a Shrinking Violet. Today you’re invited to attend the Dance of the palm fronds.
Truth doesn’t come in a pretty package
tied up in wrapper and ribbon.
Truth comes in a flash of insight,
in words left unspoken.
One might pray for truth yet never find it
until ready, stretching, in a desperate,
humble moment of surrender.
Truth doesn’t enter the writer’s mind
while she waits, pen poised to capture it.
Truth comes in the dark of night, in a dream,
or from the mouth of a child. It comes
in a glancing ray of sunlight breaking
like a fountain through clouds,
barely glimpsed while fighting morning traffic.
It comes in the patter of rain,
after the lightning flash, after the thunder.
Truth is corruption still in the making,
unseen by the faithful,
veiled in lies, covered
layer on careful layer.
The scandal is never as naked as the truth.
Copyright © 1990, 2007 Barbara W. Klaser
When I’m invisible,
I watch people go on
living all around,
unaware that I watch.
Dropping their guard,
they dance and flow and sing,
full streams of clear
water, bubbling.
Only as long
as I’m silent, apart,
not a part of their lives,
never entering their hearts.
For when I begin to interact with people,
and my cloak of invisibility falls away,
I am revealed; and all that was real in them departs.
People drift away and fall apart from me,
withered rose petals loosened on a winter wind.
How I long to catch their warm, soft scent again.
Copyright © 1990 Barbara W. Klaser
Written in my journal in 1990, from feelings of shyness and otherness. I started to edit this for the blog, but I’ve decided to just post the original because it captures who I was then and the feeling at the time. If I edit it now it will be another poem.
A gray morning.
First the quiet, then
the quiet deepens.
The only sound is
drops pattering,
dampening
each surface,
wetting each leaf.
Spring rain
begins with
a sudden hush.
Even the birds
sit in awe.
Copyright © 2005 Barbara W. Klaser
