The world, although incredibly intimidating to a child, seemed safe enough to observe from that old Maverick. Traveling from my home to visit both sets of grandparents involved roads that cut deep into rugged hillsides, moonlit nights capable of stealing your last breath away, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Much of my poetry reflects the people I remember from years gone by.
My travels have exposed the reality that wealth is not measured by the amount of green backs in your bank account. I've learned the hard way first impressions are not always correct. I'm continually amazed by the potential that lies within each individual, in both good and bad ways.
Being a wife, mother of six children, an artist, and a teacher also grants to me many reasons to write poetry. I'm still fairly sane, even though I must somehow raise six teenagers to become productive adults. Writing poetry allows me to bring to light observations and acts of injustice which deserve attention. Since it seems I think too hard and long about everything, I suppose I'll be writing poetry for decades to come.
Some publishing accomplishments include first place in Lotus Blooms Journal's January 2004 poetry contest, a short story in Dream Forge, Dark Walls has published "Grimaldi Manor" in their October 2004 issue and Soul Engravings has just published "Frozen Decadence." Nora is the January 2005 spotlight author for Shadowglass Magazine and her short story, "Political Asylum," appears there, too. Lost in the Dark has accepted a poem for the April 2005 issue. Her work will appear in three anthologies in 2004, and she's had two books published.
Digesting Life
Cherry, grape, and lime soda,
securely stuck within steel bars
of a buggy, tempts to satisfy
thirst and fails.
Potato chips and crunchy corn chips
break beneath the weight
of sorrow,
while chocolate ice cream bars
freeze sensibility.
Carmel glazed donuts ooze
with vanilla cream,
but cannot sugarcoat apathy.
Sure enough, bacon dog treats
fight for space with kitty litter
and bird feed strives to survive
in this prison of sorts.
French fries and croissants
should bring satisfaction,
yet that remains as foreign
and unattainable as a trip to Paris.
Cigarettes, an excuse to die young,
waste no time climbing
to the top of the heap,
where they are in good company
with some aged, but undrinkable whine.
Nonetheless, this cart will continue
to fill with garbage and misery
until it's time to permanently checkout.
Top of the Page.
Tides of Mankind
In the warmest core
of she,
life explodes to multiply
into creatures of beauty
and magnificent individuality.
These spirits sway
in their gentle ocean of growth,
while the blue orb awaits their birth.
Each life force contains magic
that may annihilate hatred,
or possibly eradicate disease.
Life announces itself
with a primitive shriek
and demands to be heard.
Once introduced to this world
of misplaced truths and tangled priorities,
each new human
must fight to thrive amongst the wild tribes.
Many feel justified to cast judgment
upon anyone who is different.
Unspeakable and cruel acts of carnage
fall upon unprotected equality;
innocence is then gobbled up
and digested by cruelty.
Who gave the owners of madness
this divine right to choose who
gets to breathe and prosper?
Are we not all molded to become
who we're meant to be
in an identical and most precious
undulating sea?
Top of the Page.
Emergence
Firmly rooted giants, soaked in black ice
and stung by the arctic wind, shiver.
Massive limbs ache
from the weight of burdens too vast
to dispose of and forget.
Frigid needles,
scatter upon the ground,
as if to make a dressing
for the battle wounds sustained.
This fertile ground quakes with regret
from the wars of humanity, which damned
countless souls into a fiery abyss.
Wild skies,
streaked with specks of pale red,
still bleed for souls
trapped beneath solid ground.
Restless, these spirits shake
the earth with vengeance
and cause the mighty guardians,
whose roots run deep,
to absorb decades of violence and sin.
This age-old sickness poisons and invades
the tall trunks; eventually,
fragile limbs break into silent oblivion.
Drops of unspoiled rain,
tainted with life-giving force,
feed seedlings of hope; they take root.
Unfamiliar to the shrouds of misery above,
these babes drink in beams of light
to quench their maddening thirst.
Most supreme is the desire to thrive,
just as mankind decides to collide
over dirt to reign foolishly on earth.
Not dismayed, unearthed rebels
burst forth from below to consume
all wickedness of the tribes before them.
Top of the Page.
Liquid Clarity
Fluid thoughts of smeared ideas
run together to create clarity.
Clarity transforms into a free form
of pure thought, which is tainted beautifully
with one of a kind mind, that must conceive.
Conception spins out of control,
all the while producing brilliant
strides to better this crazed world.
And yet, this electric energy
is subdued and crushed by
jealousy; it fears mighty authenticity.
Hatred then takes its turn
and gears up to destroy
all evidence that every soul
is potentially mind-blowing.
Nevertheless, guardians of justice
battle day and night flights into hell,
so all spirits can soar
to their destined height.
To capture and restrain wisdom,
and to smash ideals of liberty
or, to enslave life is
simply iniquity without reason.
Top of the Page.
Leaning on the Side of Crazy
Tilted and warped,
with most facets of my essence twisted,
I strive to survive.
Countless big and little things
drive me ever closer to crazy.
A politician, who articulates
with the grace of an angel,
yet hides beneath the skin
of demon, sets fire to my hide
and evokes rage within.
Men who hit women,
people who abuse children,
and children who exploit
parental love freely given to them
are utterly mind-blowing.
Societies, rich in tangible things,
but swimming in dark ages
force women to suffer, children to die.
Archaic battles viciously draw blood,
which form rivers and drown hope.
Energy, used to unleash destruction,
rather than for the good of mankind,
seems pointless since that depraved thinking
will annihilate us all in the end.
How stupid have we become?
Ridiculous that man can land on the moon
and Elvis is still selling music,
not to mention cloning,
so why can't an auto drive
without a fuel that seeps with blood?
Top of the Page.
Into Madness
Scrunched violet leaves, embraced by autumn air,
and blue skies water-logged with magenta
are precious treasures I strive to remember.
The soft gurgle of the stream behind my shack
is a vague sound stuck
in my recollections of yesterday.
I ache to leap into cool water
and fall far away from this insufferable place.
I can still recall soothing scents of flesh
dipped into vanilla and kissed by pure silk,
but she lives only in a dream.
Presently, north to south and east to west
is possessed by hell.
Black smoke singes my weakening lungs
and tries to suffocate hope,
while a hideous laughter invades scant sanity.
Death frequently visits and is dismayed
I refuse to obey its plea into darkness.
Nay, I shall not succumb to the pits.
In this trench of massive destruction,
I'll await another filthy bloodbath
and remember why I was sent here.
With honor, I shall defend liberty
and slip into madness.
Top of the Page.
Renaissance of She
Invisible grip upon her throbbing neck
slows precious air to her numb conscious.
Her glazed eyes are wide open,
yet she misses the sun-streaked morning;
a splattered red and orange sky,
fully loaded to hypnotize,
falls into smeared drops of gray.
Echoes, infected with her child's laughter,
slip into her mangled mind,
however, they are gobbled up
by lethal syllables wrapped with wretched fury.
Yes, to be sure, his frozen jabber
has icy fangs that can penetrate
and devour even the strongest of souls.
He seems most happily satisfied
right after he's stuffed his ever-growing ego
with more of her bruised self-worth.
And so she sits at the top of elegant stairs.
She desperately aches to tumble
and just simply break all ties that bind.
Seconds later, tiny arms caress her neck.
Warm flesh is then pressed upon her face,
as delectable kisses are delivered
by her three year old, who innocently
has drenched her with magnificent purity.
Small arms and legs
wrap themselves around a damaged spirit;
protection has been bestowed.
He needs her; he loves her.
She, so courageously, banishes
the beast who haunts her past and present
and craves her demise.
Tomorrow belongs to her.
*(For Sharon, who left her abusive husband of fifteen years.
She survived to find a better life.)
Top of the Page.
Frostbitten by Travesty
Sleep, coveted by wide-open eyes,
refuses him permission to glance at his dreams.
Standing still, though running incessantly,
he's mastered the craft of avoidance.
To the rhythm of ignorance his throbbing heart beats
and his mind festers lies; it hides unspoken truths.
Shadows beseech and corrupt his tired spirit;
they mock his will to live in the light of day.
Northern winds immobilize his common sense,
hence, he has mental anguish that cannot melt away.
Death's arms catch his ailing and worthless spirit;
he has chosen to live as a corpse among the living.
Solitude of darkness exiles him into a private hell
of lost wishes that is bruised with obscured desires.
At long last, molten ashes of regret singe his lungs
and force him to cough up his pitiful existence.
Strangled by new desires, he frantically awakens
to clasp serenity promised in forthcoming dawns.
Go to the Top.
Letter to the Author: Nora Weston