If Only, a Poem for Mother’s Day
By Victoria Twomey ©2021
All I have is this flat, lifeless photograph of you,
frozen in shades of black and white,
imprisoned by this wooden frame,
like a window looking out on the past.
You,
on the other side, behind the glass,
50 years ago,
wearing a light gray dress,
and a shy smile,
in front of a garden gate.
If only I could press a button,
and unfreeze the frame,
unlock the reel,
so you would animate,
like an old silent film.
I could watch you tend the garden beyond the gate,
smelling the gray roses,
pruning, watering, happy.
Perhaps at the end of the film,
as the reel runs through to its end,
you would catch me in the corner of your eye,
turn and smile with delighted recognition,
raising your gray arm,
waving hello,
waving goodbye.
May 2021 Poetry Corner - SANCTUARY (sanctuary-magazine.com)
The Feminine Voice
By Victoria Twomey ©2021
Oh how I love the women poets of the past,
their voices set free from the closet of time –
heart songs sent forward through a crack in the door,
filled with the thoughts that must have paced to and fro
in the suffocating prison of position,
when no one could abide their earthly yearnings,
written with a tactile tongue –
words woven like violet vines
around the warm flesh of belly and breastbone,
their thoughts burning the page like molten gold.
It seems so often these women were waiting –
for men to return from the cruelty of war
so they could tend their bodies, maimed and broken
like crushed marionettes tossed aside by a puppeteer,
waiting for men to return from far-off journeys,
as they peered out of windows, caressing silken curtains,
waiting in doorways for the sound of the postman,
or on rooftops, searching the sea for signs of a ship.
An audience of women, all looking at a stage,
watching seasons and affections change,
as they penned their loneliness and drank their sadness like ink.
They wrote with wisdom –
from Italy, Senegal and America,
from France, China and England,
all on the same road to the same death,
as they were abandoned by fickle youth,
their hair losing its color, becoming transparent and grey,
their usefulness fading as they began the long, slow disappearance
from kitchens and bedrooms,
from churches and gardens,
from nurseries and fields.
They left behind needles and thread,
pottery, scattered pearls and desires –
and sepia images where they sat with perfect posture
beside their husbands,
with sons and daughters in their laps,
eyes like black marbles, looking straight ahead
as whole worlds spun around in their inner orbits.
And yes,
they left behind their flocks of words
that now fly from reader to reader
like blackbirds swirling from tree to tree at sunset.
You live on my sisters, your usefulness eternal,
your femininity outliving the shell of vanity,
your voice is my voice,
fitting me like a shadow, so close to the bone.
April '21: Kindness & Karma - SANCTUARY (sanctuary-magazine.com)
The Sharing Circle
by Victoria Twomey ©2021
I can say I walked a while with you
and dreamed within your dream-
that you welcomed in my heart
like a wounded gypsy at your door
Yes, I can say you fed me as if I were a sacred part of you,
once lost and left behind
Companions on this tangled road,
you played your secret violins for me
and I, my skittering flute for you
Around the fire of the sharing circle,
we sang old and buried words for the first time
letting them rise to freedom with the ashes
How can I forget you
when I have known that budding part we shared-
full of courage
full of hope
longing to blossom in the Spring
Published in the BigCityLit Winter 2021 Edition on BigCityLit.com
The Sharing Circle – Big City Lit (nycbigcitylit.com)
Your Voice is Like Rain Now
by Victoria Twomey ©2020
your voice is like rain now
misty drips and droplets
falling on a far watercolor garden
pinks running into blues
happy notes in yellow rivulets
flowers looking out with hazel eyes
little wet bees and butterflies
wandering, tasting
here and there
do you have birds where you are?
the tiny wise ones that chirp in the morning?
do you sing to them as you once sang to me
before I fell asleep?
Published in the Long Island Quarterly Winter 20-21 Edition on Poetrybay.com
https://poems.poetrybay.com/2020-2021-liq-edition/victoria-twomey/
You Have Never Been Alone
By Victoria Twomey ©2005
there is much that waits
much that is known
behind the secret curtain of dawn
you must be silent
an early riser
a receiver of bird song
before you can see through the dark
and realize, you have never been alone
before you can know
there has always been a murmuring of letters
moving beneath your skin
nudging, whispering
you must look closely, through your own noise
and you will see they have always been with you
they are tattooed inside your thighs
on the soles of your feet -
when you brush the hair from your forehead
you might see them on the palm of your hand
they spill out into the air when you breath
leak out from time to time
from the ends of your fingers
form words, sounds and colors
find their way to virgin paper or canvas
speak out through piano keys or guitar strings
bring sweetness and spice to your cooking, your love making
the letters, the words are outside of time
and cannot leave you
one day they shall rise up with you
letters and ashes will ascend together
imprisoned song birds set free from the cage of gravity and skin
the curtain shall part and let go its mystery
you will be gold and orange wildfire
as you rise up over the horizon
round and glorious
flooding the sky with your light
Published in LI Sounds 2006 Anthology
~~~~~
"These Days"
by Victoria Twomey ©2007
these days,
the old man looks for a long while and with greater trespass
into evening’s eyes
as if there were something he might wade out to
these days,
when he sinks into dreams
he sails an indigo ocean with his departed wife
gone so young, so soon
their world is lit by brilliant moonlight
she smiles and her hands are warm
like they always were
now her words sound like hummingbird wings
and her eyes are filled with galaxies
these days,
he confides more in his long gone father
senses something in the shadows
waiting patiently for recognition
Published on Poetrybay - Winter 2007
http://www.poetrybay.com/liquarterly/liq-summer2006/twomey.html
~~~~~
"Resurrection"
by Victoria Twomey ©2009
the sun in spring struggles
to rise up from winter’s bed of icy sheets
like Lazarus
gone dead for days
still possessing a smoldering ember
of life light down deep within
still holding fast under death’s frozen shroud
when, come the appointed season
something within him is released
and he rises, slowly, shivering
the frost of nevermore still crusted upon his eyes
as the birds begin to sing a glowing yellow song
and everyone can feel it
something warm and miraculous has come our way
something new and beautiful is happening
and everybody is smiling
as if they’ve never seen
life rise and walk across the sky
Published on Poetrybay - Fall/Winter 2009
http://www.poetrybay.com/liquarterly/liqwinter09/twomey.html
~~~~~
Upon Reading The Life After
by Mario Susko, a survivor of
the war in Bosnia.
"Beast"
by Victoria Twomey ©2004
i read your words
and wish i could send sweet snow
to fall on those bruised gray lines
the horror of an ancient snorting beast
loose, insane
inside the breakable green forest
human vowels cry from the closed mouth of survival
where one counts each footstep to avoid the sky
too blue to bear
love curls up and hibernates in some dark cave
lets pass the black shiny boots of war
i think they must pass still, strangely silent
in the cavern of your midnight sleep
i light a candle with this poem
a prayer for cool pure snow
to fall gently on your eyes
until you see only white
and then
emerging in small, kind degrees
a bright, blue-sky dream
to carry you through the night
First Place Winner Performance Poets Association Contest 2004
https://www.performancepoets.org/index_files/9th_Lit_Rvw.htm
~~~~~
Summer House
By Victoria Twomey ©2004
The empty house, clothed in the gray bark of weathered shingles
rests on the hill above the beach,
as silent as the changing of the seasons or the space between words -
as quiet as the sleeping terns in the dunes.
All of summer has burned away
as the autumn leaves steal what golden heat is left in the sun.
There was a lively gaggle of bronzed children here,
running in and out,
slamming the screen door over and over,
smelling of ice cream, bug spray and sea salt.
Gone are the damp half-moon spots on the porch steps
where they sat in their wet bathing suits
exhausted from a day’s duet with the gulls.
There are no more warm, thick breezes
pungent with the perfume of seaweed, abandoned shells and summer grasses -
just this house, the unceasing rhythm of the waves,
and the grains of memory and time that have fallen through the cracks in the wooden floor.
As the house dreams on through its winter slumber,
one can go beyond its gate,
down the steep wooden steps,
to the dunes grown cold as yesterday’s embers,
and hear the gulls sing on, alone.
Appeared in "Shoreline Sonata" video for WLIW
https://www.wliw.org/21pressroom/s/shoreline-sonata-a-long-island-love-story/211/
~~~~~
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