Lace Curtains

At dusk, through the open window,
a breeze stirs the lace curtains,
and stirs a memory
of you...

***

From my window I could see you
waiting, you were uncertain,
fingers raking your hair,
deep breaths,
sighs...

I held the delicate lace to my face,
watching you from above,
smiling at your shyness,
hoping you would
knock...

In the night sky, from my window,
the stars appeared much closer,
shimmering through the lace
like millions of
fireflies...

Your hand passed before my eyes,
your breath, warm and sweet,
whispered words of love,
asking which star
I wished upon...

The curtains lifted and danced in the breeze,
billowing over us like a sail at sea,
my lips tasted your shoulder,
damp from lovemaking,
salty...

***

The lace curtains still as the breeze dies,
your arms find my waist,
and find a memory
of you...

Lora Frikken ~ 11-9-03

My Mother

My mother told me all the things I never was,
then she wondered why I couldn’t be
the way she thought I should be.
My mother told me what she thought I should be,
but she was always disappointed
in me.

Her facade was one of loving kindness,
always caring, always remembering.
Her facade was just what she intended
it to be, a way to hide the coldness,
a way to keep from others, all that she pretended
to be.

I listened to her stories, her years of growing up,
and I envied some of the times that she had.
I learned to listen between the lines,
for what she could not say, for what had made her sad,
for what would eventually undermine
her world.

My mother believed in perfection,
something she felt I could learn to understand.
My mother taught me about rejection,
without even realizing why she took this stand,
without even wondering if this might cause harm
to me.

Even knowing all of these things, I wonder why
I still regret the distance, the false generosity.
Even knowing she had somehow failed to try
to love me, just for who I was, not one to pity,
but one to treasure for being born to be
just me.

By becoming a mother, I learned much more;
I learned how little my mother had really cared.
By becoming a mother, I could show my children
that I knew how to love; I wanted to stop looking for
her approval, her love, and to stop being scared
to be me.

My mother left me a difficult road to travel,
a long road with many wasted, regretful years.
My mother is not to blame for what I have become,
though the marks she left are known by my trail of tears.
My mother hides inside the world she could not overcome,
but I have promised that will never be the world
for me...

Lora Frikken ~ 10-11-03

Primordial Winter Sky

The sky is heavy;
the clouds are low:
great heavy clouds
darkening the sky
in deep shades of gray.
Still, silent, slow,
yet comforting,
like cuddling under a warm quilt.

They must have seen them,
from the earliest days;
They must have known then,
winter had come to stay.

Sitting in the soft chair
pushed up to the big window:
watching the sky
hovering so near,
wondering when
it would begin to snow,
wanting the dull landscape
to become crystalline glitter.

They must have gazed out
from blanket-wrapped warmth;
They must have known about
winter’s first storm.

Like a butterfly emerging at dusk,
in the dim afterglow:
slipping from its cocoon
and opening shimmering wings
to reveal the pale sky behind;
the movement creating an undertow
as snowflakes swirl and dance
between earth and sky.

They must have reached high,
up to the heavens afar;
They must have touched the sky
to catch the first falling star.

Lora Frikken ~ 10-26-03

Thirst and Hunger

Sadness moves throughout the day,
Wistfully stopping here and there;
A Soul, a Heart, is turned away,
As sadness moves on to find despair.

Despair becomes an aching hunger,
The longing for a simple touch;
Recalling days of being younger,
When truth never mattered much.

Truth now catches us unaware,
Pulling us down headfirst;
Finding us alone and unprepared,
Unable to quench life’s thirst.

We thirst and hunger for a sign,
Some sensation of being whole;
Forever walking that fine line,
Which balances our Heart and Soul.

Lora Frikken ~ 10-27-03

I Don’t

I don’t see it anymore
I don’t see the dreams
the hopes
the fantasy

I don’t have forevermore
I don’t have moonbeams
the stars
the mystery

I don’t feel the desire
I don’t feel the need
the love
the fury

I don’t know how to inspire
I don’t know the creed
the life
the memory

I don’t
care
I don’t
I don’t
I don’t

Lora Frikken ~ 11-8-03

By Virtue Of Music

It is definitely music,
sometimes a simple tune,
oftentimes elaborate,
or disappointingly jejune.

What may begin as ringing
might turn into banging drums;
I seem to have no control
over how the music comes.

In dreams it finds me waiting
for that first familiar note,
longing to follow the melody
wherever its magic may float.

A simple word might send me
flying into a favorite song,
recalling emotions savored,
or those kept hidden for so long.

If I could command its beauty,
my life would be complete;
its rhythm entering into me
would dictate my every heartbeat.

It is definitely music,
washing over me like the rain,
warming, enlightening, sustaining,
each and every melodious refrain.

Lora Frikken ~ 11-17-03

Ghosts

Now you see them...now you don't,
Flashing glimpses of eerie mists;
You should peek...but know you won't,
You'll leave the spirits to their trysts.

Do spirits dance in every graveyard,
While they sing their haunting tune;
Causing you to keep on your guard,
Underneath their ghostly moon?

No footsteps will you find to follow,
Though you will surely see their signs;
Shattered remnants of a scarecrow,
Pumpkin faces that no longer shine.

You hurry home to await the dawn,
Doors and windows shuttered tight;
Ghostly images will soon be gone,
Burned away by the morning light.

Lora Frikken ~ 10-18-02