until sunrise.
Broken
Tossed about by wind whipped seas,
bashed and battered,
smashed and tattered
on razor rocks
she lay impaled
—broken.
Once she’d balanced on ocean’s crest,
her laughterr echoing the vast expanse
as her frail ship bounced
from watery mountain
to fathomless deeps
that now are gone
leaving only harsh rock and stone
that rip and tear
her fragile flesh
until she is beaten down to bits
of nothing
like sand upon the shore
that is carried by wind
and drowned by sea
in the depths of unknown
and—broken—
she rides their angry storm
and somehow survives.
Rebirth
In solitude,
in the quiet space of day
the broken one found peace.
For one micron of moment
she breathed in the chill air,
smelled the death of summer
in the dry crumple of leaf,
saw the absence of life
in barren branches
of mossy trees,
heard the stillness,
the nothing,
and knew she was not alone.
For one brilliant, gleaming second
she and the world were one—
one in death
one in stillness
one in sleep—
and in that single moment
of togetherness
a spark of life flared
hope sprang forth again
and together
the winter of soul and of canyon
looked to the spring
for rebirth.
Sea of Words
Lost in a sea of words
that toss me about
like drift from wreckage
torn
by pounding rock and surging surf.
Waves of noun and verb
wash over and spin,
twirling me round the depths of sound,
and I,
a mere fragment of something more,
have no hand to pick or choose.
Embittered,
desperate,
I search for one,
just a single adjective
or special noun,
but the wave of words push on
throwing me where they will
and I
a mere scrap of life
am powerless
in the force of their course.
Then,
just as I cave,
give in to the whims of sea and word,
the sand rises
and welcomes me home.
At long last
I can see the battle
was never lost
that in fact
there was no fight
but instead a union
a joining of word’s power
with my meager hand.
The sea knew its way all along.
The words tell their own story
and my job,
my only job,
is to listen
and become part of their whole.
Yearning
Hidden beauty embraces
in the coldness of winter,
fingers of wood huddle for warmth,
naked in the howliing winds,
barren in the snow,
and they,
just like I,
hold hope for the spring
when wind dies
and warmth comes again
and we can finally uncurl
and sprout safely
and grow our wings
that reach for the sky
to carry us on floral breeze
to safety.
We are one,
these trees and I,
for our spirits both long
the same—
For the newness and birth of spring.
The Great Salt Lake
The pregnant sky gives birth to the moon
while the silver lake, salty and still,
records the memories of life upon her shore.
Barren, spurned, cursed and shunned
she weeps her tears through the rain
—and yet she watches.
The antelope and deer do not drink from her shore,
never nurse from her breast—
and yet her face carries the reflection of life around her.
Today she shows me the golden lining of evening clouds
and the copper hills that guard her bed.
A lapis sky and opal moon, gulls swimming in the air,
held captive by the wind on strings of spider silk
while her skirts of sunset swirl
in hues no painters pallet can appreciate.
Tonight I stand at her shore and drink her in;
not the bitter salts of her body,
but the essence of her spirit,
the mirror of her soul feeds my own.
Her breath of night wind tugs at me,
caressing my hair, drawing me in
like a lover’s kiss.
Her scent is earthy, ripe with life
and the memory of death.
I breathe it in and choke—yet drink it deep
as her sky of passion boils and brims
with lightning waltzing across the waves.
Her face darkens and the reflection lies
broken within the storm—
and now I stand in awe of this barren lady
as she records the memories of life.
The pregnant sky gives birth to the moon
—and the rain begins to fall.
Karen E. Hoover has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. Her favorite memory of her dad is the time he spent with Karen on his lap, telling her stories for hours on end. Her dad promised he would have Karen reading on her own by the time she was four years old … and he very nearly did. Karen took the gift of words her dad gave her and ran with it. Since then, she’s written two novels and reams of poetry. Her head is fairly popping with ideas, so she plans to write until she’s ninety-four or maybe even a hundred and four.
Inspiration is found everywhere, but Karen’s heart is fueled by her husband and two sons, the Rocky Mountains, her chronic addiction to pens and paper, and the smell of her laser printer in the morning.