Sport Fishing
By Victoria Twomey ©2019
a fisherman cast his line
deep into the ocean of stars
and felt some small struggle on the line
that grew in resistance
something was holding fast to a nebula reef
he pulled hard as if extracting a tooth
from the mouth of a whale
reeling in
reeling in
until it emerged
frantically thrashing
it heard a gull cry
it felt a warm breeze
it smelled seaweed and salt air
it tasted blood in its mouth
all these things it came to know
in that instant
the fisherman looked for a long moment
observing
then he unlooked that little fish from time
and threw it back into the sky
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
~~~~~
Pieta
by Victoria Twomey ©2004
I see the warm flesh beneath the cold marble,
the sinew tensing within the rock,
the bones protruding outward,
wet tears just below the rigid crust,
something breathing within the icy stone.
Good mother,
your son is lost
and you are forever imprisoned
by a suffocating mystery.
In this eternal parting,
the rusty nails of injustice,
have left an empty space that can never be filled.
Behold the one, who like us, must walk his path alone.
Behold the other who must understand.
Michelangelo, you were true of heart but had not pity,
for in your blindness and your vision,
you tore the dead rock from the mountainside,
and in your fever of unrequited love, gave it life.
Did you not realize this stone would cry forever?
Published in LI Sounds 2006 Anthology
~~~~~
Light, Dark, Light
By Victoria Twomey ©2005
high tide of light
rises up upon the sky
we are awash all day in glory
then we wave goodbye with the flutter of closing lids
as the undertow of time
drags the world back into its throat
it is the sea that washed us up
not so long ago
flapping naked on the beach
squinting against the harsh brightness
startled by the clamor of voices
gulping down all the air we can
what i am saying is that
your scales are vibrating rainbows
i can see your gills
expanding and contracting
and i need you to hold my hand
while i tell you a secret -
that i often dream of a dark ocean i cannot understand
that is in some other place i might have been
and i am not certain this is a finite journey
i only know what i see
the many waves of
light
dark
light
~~~~~
"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
~~~~~
"How Melancholy, How Divine"
by Victoria Twomey ©2005
how melancholy
how divine
to cling to this gossamer thread
while disease does it dirty gnawing work
and time, that masked cat burglar
steals the sun and the moon
yanks the yellows and reds into yesterday
the breeze and the honeysuckle into last week
filing them away in the black hole of his sack
poor death, so bored, so certain
never able to close his gaping jaw
think of the young foal
bursting with new life
how, as soon as it’s born
struggles to stand
is soon prancing
running in circles for hours
jumping for joy
kicking out and up with its little hoofs
how melancholy
how divine
to dangle for awhile
in the midst of such magic
~~~~~
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/
~~~~~
The Final Hour of a Summer Afternoon
By Victoria Twomey ©2020
the sun is yawning and lazy from a long, feverish
morning of bountiful giving,
its fading golden hair lies long and loving against
the cooling earth
a congregation of birds is drawn to the sheltering arms of holy trees,
where they tuck their beaks under folded
wings in prayer
there is a hovering of dusty, darting, determined bees,
heavy with gifts for the queen,
each singing the same humming worker’s song,
as they ready for home,
seeking the greater resonance
it is a blessing to see a kaleidoscope of goodnight kisses,
from soft-winged butterflies,
that kneel and rise from the face of every worshiped flower
soon it will be time for the distant hymn of silver river songs,
carving through the darkness
the choir of colors will be hushed at the dawning of the stars,
all will be momentarily forgotten,
mysterious words will be written by fireflies on the dark page of night,
all shadows will reach out and hold hands so that they may become as one
~~~~~
where God becomes every bird
Einstein and the Abacus
by Victoria Twomey ©2019
all the birds knew of you albert
for you enumerated each one
and they sensed it
you counted even the loneliest black crow-
hiding, black against black, in the shadows
you reckoned all the hovering constellations of shimmering hummingbirds,
and the mournful cries of each owl from deep within the first woodlands,
tabulated each and every early morning caw, caw, caw carried on the uncertain wind
they heard the slide and chatter of your abacus-
throughout the impulses of early spring,
the gravity of summer’s sweltering heat,
the entropy of luminous leaves in autumn
the whirlwind of brittle winter storms
albert, the birds loved you,
they were amused with the tempo of your clickety-clack accountings,
the cadence of your calculations,
your unfinished symphony of undulating wings
they are touched, and remember you even now,
for how much you cared,
how hard you tried,
to unveil the tightly folded secrets living in your dreams
Contradictions (for Mother)
by Victoria Twomey ©2019
I spent seventy five dollars
On a special frame for your picture
It’s an unusual shot of you
A bit like a movie star
I see palm trees in the corner of picture
Maybe you were somewhere where the demons were at peace
A few drinks into the evening
With the right company
Your hair looks perfect
You were always so worried about that curl
And how it fell across your forehead
Always reshaping it with your index finger and thumb
Pushing it back into place
Over and over
I have no memory of your being that young
But that look on your face must have been there since you were a teenager
Every feature of it a contradiction
Two stories in one
The smile says you might be somewhat pleased
The parentheses of time have not yet carved too deeply around the sides
You have the nose of a child
And eyes that know this is all there is
I cannot see your ears
I cannot remember what they looked like
Truth
©Victoria Twomey
the truth
purifies
humbles
reduces
everything
down to its bare boney skeleton
burns away the flesh
and tangled hair
turns blood to vapor
leaving reality bleached smooth
truth, like a shining gladiator
rides a powerful horse
with silver hooves
that pound through your dreams
leaving you confused and breathless
when you awake
it is a lover with flaming hair
whose passion engulfs you
you will not know who you are
until you have made love to it
it will recycle you
crack you
melt you
break you in two
and weld you into something new
it will knock and buzz
inside your skull
like a bumblebee in a jar
the truth will leave you sobbing
on a cold bench
in a hospital hallway
after it has pierced you through and through
it will give you the courage to let go
and hold on
it will lead you out of darkness
so it can carve you
like fine teakwood
into your intended shape and form
it might call out to you
perhaps today
like a tiny red bird in a tree
waiting for an answer
reply to it
and the whole forest will ignite with song
Forever 18, for Memorial Day
©Victoria Twomey
A mother sits
Upon the park bench
Slightly slumped
Watching the rain
As it falls behind her eyes
Drowning the world
Around her
In sorrow
She waits
For a boy forever 18
To come home
Her skin gone dry as an autumn leaf
And a heart full of damp, bitter rust
She waits
For a gentle son
Who painted pictures
And brought her wild flowers
Who will never
Come home from war
And bring her the sweet scent of
His chestnut hair
The thing she remembers most
Now
For he was the only one
She had ever known
That she would have given her life for
She sits upon the park bench
As the sparrows make
A loving nest in her hair
Waiting to understand
That war is insatiable
Taking everything of consequence
Leaving nothing
But hunger and smoke
As the grass grows up
Around her ankles
Remembering her son
In a crisp uniform
Waving goodbye
To his childhood
With a white-gloved hand
His clean smile brimming
With pride and courage
His brown eyes tinged with fear
Autumn, Adirondacks
©Victoria Twomey
Trees line the road like rooted primitives -
their hair and hands on fire with orange and yellow leaf explosions
as they offer prayers of thanks, arms raised, palms up,
to the one who sends the Sun.
A moment later, they are transfixed
by one
lone,
small,
puff of cloud
that takes all morning
to travel
from one end of heaven
to the other.