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Ellen Conserva 


Sad Joy

I have gathered 
Those colored pieces 
Of you 
and laid them into 
Myself 
Like pressing flowers
In a book.  
You are there. 
You always will be. 
Pressed into me. 
The sad joy comes
When I flip my
Pages
And a fragile flower,
Saved long ago,
Slides down
Into my lap.
Gingerly I cup it in my
Hands
And marvel at how beautiful
It remains.
Preserved in
Me.
You
In 
Me.
Still beautiful.
​

The Daunted

All heads down
Heels clicking and scratching dirt.
Waiting for danger
To leave unrequited.

They face the cold winter
Huddled in their woolen wraps
And never slant an eye
Toward the frosted pane or
The dunes of door snow.

The unbrave shivers when
The wind blows hot and
Drips sweat during winter storms.

The weak of knee press on
As their hearts keep a steady beat
Neither rising or falling
Nor racing or missing.

They count their steps and refuse
To forward on if there are
Corners or dark hallways.

Cowards choose to stunt themselves
And never grow
And stay the same
And live life safe.

They are like leaves
That turn yellow and then
Fall to the ground
Before letting their
Beauty complete by turning
Red fire.

While the courageous and
The unafraid
Bravely go forth
And die glorious deaths.
Again and again.

Anchors

Though my table be laden
With all heart things
That slake and fill
One gust will
Cause crash and flings.
 
Smooth stones
On corners four
Are the saviors
The friends, the victors,
Whom I adore.

Synthesis

Early Spring
and Early Fall
Come together
And make warm days
Full of color
And aromas
And the need to
Lift the head
And feel the breeze
Through the hair
And to the bones
 
You
and
I
Are thus
And when we come
Together
Our seasons
Melt
and Embrace
Into our own
Time.
And it feels
Like
The Perfect Day.
 

Fall Fashion

The sentinels of the wood
Have put on their party clothes
In defiance to the damp
And the wind that is
Wandering  and howling
Limbs raised
To the heavens
As their costumes are hoisted
And shred from their fingers.
The parlaying back and forth
The leaning and the loosening
Cloaks cascading and falling
To the rotting blanket below
Naked to the blows of winter
Proud and poised
Spindly and worn
Waiting
For the runway show
From the Spring Seamstress
Already at work in their veins.
Spinning
A new set of splendor.

Water

Your banks are dry and brittle
Deep grooves in the bed
Sticks and stones
Dusty alone
Lifeless leaves spread
 
Your wind is hot and yellow
It blows from east to west
Cloud and dirt
You sting, you hurt
In skin you press
 
Your vessel fallen on its side
Nothing there to slake
Hollow and hard.
Throat charred
Thirsty ache
 
In my flowing tears
Surging spring
My rain, my wet
Sweet sweat.
Fullness I bring
 
I fill your cracks
Your deep grooves
And empty spaces.
In all those places
I meander and move
 
I fill your clouds
And breath
And wind
With mist.
And kiss
Your death
 
I empty myself
To fill you up
I take your shame and shape
Redeem the rape
Become the cup
 
When I am present
Your wind is gentle rain
Your chalice full
Ripe for a pull
Your self I will sustain.
 
Invite the water
Beseech the swell
That pours you over.
No seeking cover
Drown in my well.
​

Found Wanting

Come closer
I’ll push you
Away, say I’m pretty
Your honey is lovely
But sweetness is pity.
Say whisper words
Ones that can heal
I will hold them
In my hands
But refuse
To fist capture
And own them
Their softness
Their silk threads
I see them as binding
The raw wounds I have here
I’m scared of you finding
Me wanting
Me lacking
Me running away
Tell me you love me
Then I cannot stay
Your lack of all guile
And your magnet of draw
Cannot hold me
You see me
The birthplace of flaw
I want you
I loathe you
I love what you say
I hate you for feeling
For getting to weigh
The measure of me
The me that you know
You only palm half
Just the ebb
Not the flow
Your wind how it wants to
Blow open my door
But my foot is a stopper
The dirt on the floor
Of my heart
Which is broken
In thousands of shards
That have wounded
And left me with
Nothing but scars
You placate
You stroke
You touch me down deep
But the pressure
Your hands
Make my wounds
start to weep
Come closer
Much closer
And you will see all
Of my heart
Of my soul
Of my folly
My fall.
Run while you can
Run quickly away
I am much more than
These beautiful things
That you say
About me and my inside
And me and my hurt
But you love me
You want me
And I cannot turn
Into her.
Can’t be wanted
Or measured
Or found to be had
For I’m wanting
Found wanting
So good and
So bad.

​
Picture
Picture

Ellen Conserva's Profile
Go to page 2 of Ellen Conserva's poetry

Thin Ice

You are like
A fickle week in winter
Warming up
Then freezing out
You fortify your pond
So I can skate.
Then you thaw
And crack
Under my feet.
Warily I walk,
Along the slushy surface
My eyes cast down
As I solicitously step
Because you can’t
Make up your
Mind
About me.
Will you hold me up?
Or will you pull me down?
Another day
Another change
In your temperature.
Please, I beg you.
Be winter.
​

The Inventor of Hugs

The inventor of hugs
Was someone I adore
For their bravery
Shamelessness
Passion galore
 
How did the first hug go?
I must wonder
Was it awkward
Or forced
Or all full of blunder ?
 
What words were spoken
As arms were entrapping?
Imprisonment
Panic
All in one grappling
 
I am thinking again
I feel in my heart
That the one who was given
The hug
He was smart.
 
He had the power
To push Hugger away
But surely he whispered
Stay
Stay
Stay
 
Hugging takes two
The starter is one
But the taker
The stayer
The one who won’t run….
 
He is the hero
The one I admire
If he didn’t hug back
We wouldn’t have
Fire.
​

Blood Lines

One side
Fair and simple
Easy lines and tight knit seams
Equally divided teams.

Open spaces
Warm and sheltered
Lush green and dark loam
Frothy oceans, creamy foam.

One side
Bitter and jaded
Empty jars and broken vases
Holding wilted flowers
Milk that sours.

Closed expressions
Squints and furrows
Breath held in afraid
Lives to trade.

One side here and
one side there.

Be the bridge.

Summer Gifts

Outside my icy window
Silent snowflakes falling fine
Rocky rows which once held cotton
Now, just barren angry lines.
 
Summer in the distant future
Fields of cloudy cotton dreams
Waiting for the hands of harvest
Cotton threads and cotton seams.
 
Nature tries to trick my senses
Make me think of summer heat
When the air smelled fat with honey
The growling gin, the handle's beat.
 
That spin in winter morning
The swirling, darting snow
Wants to take me back to summer
And the air all full of tow.
 
I press my nose upon the glass
And I shutter with surprise
For my winter self awakens
And I recognize the lies.
 
Waiting for the blazing sunshine
Longing for the smell of rain.
I pull my cotton quilt around me
Arms across the windowpane.
 
Summer gifts are used in winter
August pulling, bags in droves.
Balls of fluff that grew unselfish
Wrap my shoulders in repose.


Go to page 2 of Ellen Conserva's poetry

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