Ellen Conserva - 2

---

Deep Thaw

Beneath the thin sheer line of ice
Below the horizon
In the cold
Are waving ferns and bobbing greens
In the pond depths of my mind
It is winter
And the outside realms are cold and dry
Shifting low shadows that last not as long as summertime
But the currents beneath the mirrored sheet
Are strong and moving
Constantly
Chillingly
Hiding secrets that only emerge
When warmth arrives

Are you my thaw?
Are you the hot breath that blows on my surface?
Your pursed mouth exhales with hope
Longingly eyeing my depths
Hoping for a glimpse of my soul
The silt at my bottom.
The rocks that hold my secrets.
Are you wanting to sink into me?
Lower yourself and allow my twigs and branches green
To brush against you
Feel beneath you and around your slick skin?
Are you brave enough to walk across my thin shell
And hear the crack as the ice breaks?
Will you raise your hands above your head
And surrender
To all that is within me? 
​

Residual

You say you want to
Let me
Forget you.
As if the not remembering is
Done easily
By erasing
Or removing
Or washing 
As if you are a sad stain
On my shirt
On my heart
On my soul.
 
Indelible are you
And no matter how much
I soak
Or try to rub out
Or rinse in warm water
You will remain as a remnant
And a reminder
Of something sweet that landed there
Right there.
I see it
I trace it
With my eyes when I look
In the mirror.
 
I will always wear you.
I will not fold you tight or
Put you in a drawer
Or use you as a paint rag
Or when I change my oil
Or wipe up spills on the floor.
 
You have marked something
That I thought was just okay
And made it beautiful.
You make me beautiful.
I have been wonderfully stained
Forever
By you.
​

Tangled Up

Tangled Up
The weight of an arm around my leg
Or a cheek upon my shoulder
Sends such pressure 

Straight to my soul, and I feel older.
My limbs are bruised.
So much depends on how I wait
And how I huddle the hardness

And the determined push
Or the pull of my soul’s harness
My heart bemused.
I am a tree that sits or stands

And whose branches bend
With the weight of desperation
And of wrongs to amend.
My roots are fused.

Cupped Hands

The verge is where I lived today.
That precipice where the salty liquid
Begs to be allowed release
Down my cheeks
Off my chin
Onto my chest.

Looking through watery glasses 
Crawling along my familiar road
Becoming vapor in my own heat
Melting away the me I am
In my soul
Off my feet
Onto the brittle grass.

The verge is where I will stay
Until I find a safety place
In my every day space
I hold my tears back
As I am unsure 
Where they will fall.

Will you hold your hands out to me?
Will you catch my tears in your cup?
Will you take them to your lips and kiss them?
Will you taste them with your tongue 
And let my sorrow into your own body?

Or will they drop to the dry ground
One after the other
And be stepped on, and twisted
Into the earth
By the ball of your foot, as you pivot and turn away
Making a small circle of mud there between us?
​

​Ellen Conserva's Profile
Go to page 1 of Ellen Conserva's poetry

---

Flowers in My Bed

A cactus nub
Among the neglect
And disarray
So carelessly, I tossed it
In the earth bed
And forgot.
I found
The red buds
Among the spray
And dark green spikes of
Pointing fingers in the dirt
And remembered
I am not in charge of anything.
I said a word
Among the pain
And wrapped it
Lovingly into a gift
And placed it
In lonely hands.
And remembered.
I can make a difference
In anyone.
Careless tossing
Taking root
Making flowers
In my bed.
​

To Foster

Was given a
Plot of land.
A space,
Not taking up  
A big place
In this world.
 
Was given a
Task to turn
And hoe
And break up
Clods and churn
The earth,
The dirt with care
So someone else
Could kindly
Come and plant
There.
 
When my task was
Done,
The rain and the
Sun
And the seed bearer
Do their work
To sow
And tend
And weed
And cry
“Look how you
Grow!”
 
 
Was given a
Life,
A hole
To fill.
 
And
I love you,
So.

Note: Ellen Conserva fosters orphaned children in Thailand from shortly after birth until they are given to adopting parents.

Protocol When Trees Fall

A tree falls in the woods.
If no one is there to hear it,
Does it make a sound?
 
Elm is afraid that there was a disease
Weeping Willow waves her limbs to flag down help.
Oak reaches out with leave-like hands, to catch.
Maple too busy being industrious under her bark.
The Pine and the Evergreen are too proud to watch.
Birches are terrified and turn even whiter.
Saplings are often in the line of fire from the fall, so they cringe.

The question is
If a tree falls in the woods,
Doesn't each ask
Who is next?

Silver Footprints

I take steady strides
Unaware of dew on pant cuffs.
Bending grass and flowers both
As my feet leave silver footprints
Which disappear and give no sign of how
I shall return.

The sun is on my nape
And the breeze arrives in time to spur me on.
Taking steady strides.
Dew on pant cuffs.
Sun and breeze.
Silver footprints.
I shall return.

Done

The paint was always stained, 
Where he hit and missed the light switch
And felt along the wall
Up the stairs.
Hands grubby
Because of all the bar tops
and lamp posts
and dirty whores he touched
As he staggered home.

Keep your hands to yourself.
I am tired of repainting.

        ❧
​

Go to page 1 of Ellen Conserva's poetry

Comments?

***