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Diana Matisz


I too have sat vigil at bedsides...

Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz / Poem by Reka Jellema. Click photo to enlarge.

Street Lamp Child

12:38 am.
Tell me child,
how did you get here?
How did you find yourself
lying in an alley on your back
blows raining down on you
from the fists of other children.

Ragged freeze-frame images
of angry little faces
baby fat of childhood
clinging to sharp angles
of impending adulthood
your dark eyes
staring up in fear
haloed by a street lamp.

Children dying
world imploding
and yet,
in the safety of a quiet town
they fight and scream
kick and pummel
and for what?
Jealousies and slurs
or the unforgivable:
lack of love?

Sirens shatter
what's left of night's peace
as twenty children scatter
in a game of hide-and-seek
no longer an innocent race.
I watch as you stumble away
to a home where no one cares
and hope you sleep well, child.
I won’t.

Distance is a Greedy Bitch

Picture
Photo: Diana Matisz
she's slight and sly
cowled in a cilice of stolen hours
loose threads of conversations
unraveled from lips of lovers
before the needle can mend the tear
she walks a crooked path
to best conceal deceit, zig-zagging
along perimeters of lush and
fertile hearts, seeded with tender
shoots of burgeoning affections
her skeletal fingers claw to ragged wounds
the soft carapace of vestal passion
the pain of her wet and dirty work felt most
in moments before the onset of need
the thrum of it in bloodlines
her call to feast voraciously
and so, there is no recourse
but to strike her dead
or at the very least
lop off her legs
to cripple her stride

Ma Bell

sitting there
she taunts
pristine
cold
silent
vocal cords
taut
coiled
her refusal to speak
a victory
against the need
screaming
in my head
but when she sings,
oh, when she sings
her soprano trill
steals my breath
chills
enchant my skin
i reach for her
press my ear
against hers
and hear
the melody
i've been
anticipating,
my inamorato's
murmur

The Music of a Captive Heart

i say shhh
can you hear it?
how can you possibly
not?
i can't write
or read
or think
can't shut it out
nor turn it off
don't tell me
you can't hear
that beautiful
terrible
melody
harmony
of stones
skipping
over rivers of tears
be still, listen
you might catch
the soft staccato drum
of a woman's footsteps
in circles, searching
stop talking, listen
to the a cappella rustle
of owls in pines
low moan adagios
of tidal estuaries,
eastbound trains
hold your breath, listen
to broken chord murmurs
of a beloved voice
a virtuoso
reaching for the highest
notes
if all else fails
press your ear
put your hands
upon my back
pull me tight
stay there, listen
can you hear it
now?
​
Picture

​Go to page 2 of Diana Matisz' poetry

Diana Matisz' profile

I Wonder

i thought about her today
and wondered
where she'd gone,
that magical
windswept creature
braving the gusts
of an ancestral spring
on a two-tree hill

i remembered that day
and the ease with which
she held herself
once they could cajole
her into actually looking
at the camera
clasping her own hands
as proof of her comfort
in her exotic singularity

i recall she was a dreamer
lost in worlds of knights
on white stallions
and sword bearing
princesses in hennins
easily distracted
by leaves
clouds
the haunting poetry
of a whip-poor-will

she hadn't a care
in the world that day
not one
there wasn't much of a past
to remember and the lumbering
weight of her future had yet
to settle on her shoulders
she was living in her moment,
that day

i thought about her today
wanted to take her
by the hand, run
up the two-tree hill
and hide away,
just the two of us
but i was too late
by the time i'd found
my way back to her,
she'd gone ahead
into our future,
never once looking back
for me

Sudden Storm

Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz. Click photo for a larger view.
sudden storm
my resolve
in puddles
​

When the Bough Breaks

i am
a passerine
perched
on a fragile bough
quivering body
hunched
tight
hard
before the Furies
eyes closed
head tucked
into feathered
nape, vulnerable
weary
of storms
of the effort
to hold on
tight
hard
against
capitulation
listening
for a robin's trill
beneath
the keen
of winter
singing,
sway
breathe
draw deep
the zest
of ice and pine
feel the bite
the lick
the lash
of pain
for this
is living

now,
fly

Remainders

walk
stumble
straighten
walk
into his house
first thing noticed
his sneakers,
right where he left them
where he always left them
his collections
his music his son his wife
his favorite chair
but no him
the air thick with his absence
heavy with the silence
of his laugh
clouded with the dimming
of blue blue eyes
sneaking glances upstairs
round corners
listening listening
straining
for something
of him
leaving his house
crippled with sorrow
bent into older age
by the weight 7 -1 = 6
burying my wet face
in the sleeves of my coat
fragrant with Stevie's smokes

[For Stevie, beloved brother and friend]

Birthing

tangled hair
ragged clothes
haggard eyes
weeping contradictions
i stand on the precipice
of this dark wing dream
fingers clenching tidal mud
to stuff in a mouth, agape
staunching the rupture
of untapped love, seeping
vaporizing into air gravid
with fat sodden tears
of a dying winter
and as i lay panting,
this wasted joy
this sanguinary birth
of loss
drifts, ghostly,
up, up through
red nipple buds
of trees in labor
rising, nestling
beneath blue heron wings
this sacrifice, disappearing
in the whispering static
of wings and watershed moments
​

Go to page 2 of Diana Matisz's poetry

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