What lies beneath?

What lies beneath?

Emily H. Sturgill

5/7/15

What lies beneath

this porcelain glass sculpted hand?

this enigma of uncertainty

What lies beneath

a broken body / a shattered soul/a splintered mind?

What lies beneath the rug

so often pulled right outta of me?

What is hiding there in the corner

beneath the waves of sleep

i’ve been missing

and all the hopes and dreams

I am pretending?

What lies beneath a blank canvas

which calls out for you,

for anyone who

has the courage to

create

a single black mark?

Am I the blank canvas or

am I the mark?

I haven’t decided which

but i will back up

and just

call that part

Art.

Abstraction caught in a bottle:

Abstraction caught in a bottle:

Emily Sturgill Jan 5th, 2014

Abstraction caught in a bottle,

like a dream crashing

upon your shore

a crumpled piece

of poetry

you unwrap it

to read words

clearly not there.

so abstract, so random, so unreal:

as you unfold its contents

tumble out

senseless in their

mathematical useless algebraic

equations it reads in part:

Hell Kisses

Twilight brown toned hostess

hope is a fantastic Lake & did you

know that,

A Crimson peace sunshine filled

Foo Doggie

is

a Poetry Hope Cashier

who is cashing in on

bright brick trees.

It senses the

Ginger Ale

serenity of

me.

DCFN0063.JPG

Ode to Red

Ode to Red-

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

Red is the color
of Anger
of Vanity
of Love
of Lust
of Sex

and all the rest.
love

Red is
the color of a new day
beginning to dawning.

Red is the color
of rubies
of jewels
of revenge
of Power

of kissing

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Red is the color of Birth.
and Red is:

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Red is the color of Birth.
Each day that we awaken,
we are born anew.
we are struggling
with only
the re-birthing process

like caterpillar to butterfly
Each day we change and become
something re-born, something mighty, something
as large and lonely
as Hope.

Each day we shed our sins
we shed our snakeskins
and begin again with the coming
Dawn

and the color Red.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Cold Coffee

Cold Coffee-5/23/14

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
thinking
Bold…
Color combinations upon
a broken painter’s palette.

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
feeling old…
nothing is so fleeting
as Life is Stealing
years and years from Us All,

beginning each and everyday
the thief of time
steals of years away.

but I regress…
Coffee’s getting cold.
Black liquid velvet dripping
into a cup, a cup that holds
love.

This coffee cup
from which I sip
once belong to my long-dead
Mother.

I treasure it because
it was once hers.

But Coffee’s getting cold,
as I just sit here
thinking
drinking black coffee
thinking my life away

piece by piece
word by word
poem by poem

a whisper in
the wind
lies unheard.

but…

Coffee’s getting cold.

My Mama when she was young

My Mama when she was young

Grasping at straws

The infertile piece of my mind,

where the words refuse to root and grow-

where the sentences become silence

and i fight to find words-

in fact I am grasping at straws.

 

Unable to summon an image,

or two,

like a old black and white Polaroid picture-

developing slow.

 

I take my time

try to beat out a rhyme.

 

Why do we write?

Why write something as old-fashioned,

as poetry?

I ask these questions to my soul,

wondering what words

will fall next

across my page,

 

as I am just mutely

in a deep dank daze.

 

somedays the right words,

they never come.

other days, i am full of verbage,

full of riddles, full of phrases, half-baked imagery.

 

Being a poet is never easy.

Though there are some, who make it look so.

The roar of the fan, in the summer morning heat,

Like a quiet Lion, never missing a beat.

 

And my mind soldiers on empty.

a poem left incomplete.

grasping at straws,

longing to say

something significant-in some kind of way.

 

Mirror-Song

writing on auto-pilot,

flying on a wing and a prayer.

words flow like water here,

but hence-force,

once they start, they stop making sense.

and i

just observe the clitter–clatter of my key board keys,

on my broken -down lap-top

right here in front of me…

wondering why,

do I even try to string together,

sentences like pearls or strands

of fabulous, fantastic beads.

This garnish of the random-

word-parsley on my plate.

Writing on automatic, it’s so hard-

to articulate. A feeling. or a Moment..

I grasp this beaded necklace-

of my words, and dangle them dancing

by and by

my ears,

yet they fall silent

upon retrospection.

I gasp aloud at my reflection.

 

If i might

If i might, if i could, just run away

and take flight, i would pack up all these 

silly nonsense sentences and fill up

suitcases of them,

brimming with words, unspoken half-truths

and utter falsehoods, complete lies.

If i might, i would run far away, from myself,

worse of all, i would try to escape

all the thought-tinkering, the jingle-jangle, the fragmented

sentences, the broken bits of poems, the lost semi-colon.

if i might, if i could just run away, to become,

someone else for a day,

someone easier, someone who did not scrawl

her every thought onto a wall.

Somebody new, who did not do,

the things i do…but i can’t

its complicated, and i am afraid i am

unable to change,

i scribble, scrawabble, whatever, i think,

without any advanced planning on my part

to edit out, to tear/ to cut

out my bleeding gushing heart.

Automatic writing

have you ever written something automatic,

where your brain, has jumped the airplane,

and you’ve lost your co-pilot. And the passengers are all screaming, bloody hell, because obviously, no-one is there to fly the plane, or in this case plan the paragraph/All your left with are dangling oxygen masks/ and screaming sentences,/running amok all over the damn page/ like random automatic/ auto-erotic/pieces of torn pages/of science fiction,/seldom read/very moldy pages peeled back/ to save that page from ten or twenty years ago/when you swore that you would finish/ reading “I robot”./never giving it a second or even a third thought/as the brain rot settles in/why is the point?/ and on and on you go/ onto the tilt-a-whirl/throwing up/commas and periods/blankly/vacant/a writer/sometimes-seldom/writing on automatic/without a parachute/without a game plan/with a topic sentence/making english teachers everwhere/very very very /much un-ease/in a flow of random/ stuff that leaves a / awful taste in the back of your thought/like heartburn over/too much or/ too little coffee/automatic/writing/like speeding down/an expressway/when you haven’t got/any brakes./help.