Conversation with the Moon

We’re having a full Earth tonight

says the moon. I smell coffee

burning. Blackbirds whirl around

a wounded tree bleeding autumn

colors. I think I’ve had too many

glasses of sleep. There is something

you have to understand says the moon.

Reality is another form of imagination.

This is seeing! The words are tattooed

on the inside of my eyelids. My fingers

are sticky with words and I don’t know

if I can wake up. This is a dream I state

to the moon. Maybe, maybe not he says.

Will I remember any of this? Everything is

negotiable he smiles.

Dusk

Sun by Nullaquendi
Deviant Art

The Sun dons a cloak of mourning
sorrow resting in the deep purpled shadows.

The library

So quiet this library, rows of books soaking up
hushed tones, but there

is life in these pages.
Phoenicians sail on a river
of vowels gazing hungrily

upon fertile shores.

Chants of gratitude
offered up
to pagan gods.

Shh! Scolds the librarian…

As an echo of merchants haggle with travelers
from exotic lands

in a market heady with spices.
Colorful cloths flutter in the breeze,

silken threads

woven with
patcholi
scented hands.

So quiet this library as a book slides shut
on a clamor of ancient

voices. Dreams uncovered in the sun
baked ruins. So quiet…

A Little Blurb about Jane Austen

Weekend Wordsmith promt, Catnap

The rain spatters out a drumbeat across the windowpane as I slip headlong, with every turn of the page, into the wonderful world of Jane Austen. I have read these stories so often the characters feel like old friends. Sassy, self-assured Lizzie, walking in the woods the hem of her dress muddied. The quiet and steadfast Fanny, whose beauty shines when she speaks. The young Catherine her head full of romance and dangerous fantasies. There are the wonderful Dashwood sisters, sensible and long-suffering Elinor carrying a deep and abiding love and wild and impetuous Marianne a fiery comet of a woman. Lastly, there is Emma, whom every ounce of me wants to dislike, but I cannot help but love. She is snobby and an incurable gossip, but she hides a tender and loving heart.

My eyes grow heavy as I settle into the comfy recliner and lightly nap, my fingers splayed along the well-worn pages. And I realize I’m not dreaming of features or faces, but the words and spirit that these characters embody. Miss Austen has created characters from the different facets of a woman’s personality. It is a mistake to believe these are simple love stories, for they are something far richer and I relish the sublime beauty of her work. The delicate words she has woven around these persona's are a rare treasure, with careful precision she has exposed the very essence of women. The good and the bad and it is no wonder her work is standing the test of time.

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

The Art of Self-Loathing

I often wonder why, it is so hard
for us to let go of past mistakes.
And why we hold on to all the
insults people hurl at us and
yet, we can barely remember
when a single compliment given

A heart scored
with the
petty slights
of dull people,
Stupid, Fat,
Not good enough,
guilt-ridden
wounds
lashed open
with the hand
of self pity
and the
healing sutures
Of forgiveness
and acceptance
Spit from the
barbed tongue
Of rancor,
a life unable to
Move forward,
endlessly
handcuffed
to a cycle
of misery

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

The Work of Poets

Morality drinks from the
Fanatics cup, a world
Pulled left or right, but
In that inky black before
The dawn, sorrow cries
words of poetry, meat
For the Multitudes to chew
And ponder, ideals pulled from
The teeth of truth, this is
The work of the poet,
a voice
to help us reflect and to
dream, from the unveiling of
love’s sweet splendor,
to a faithful companion in our
Lonely hours of grief
From the battlefields of revolution,
To the quiet sidewalks of peace
A myriad of hues revealed
Between the black and white

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

Sunset

For Melissa, my fellow insomniac

Fingers of sunlight filtered through
A curtain of billowing clouds
As a chorus of colors sing
In notes of pink, red
Purple and gold
Look, look they seem to chant
I’ve done this all for you
But it remains mostly unnoticed
Except for a very few
Who stop and gasp in awe
At the perfection they behold
And in those fleeting moments
Life’s problems seem so slight
As the hues slowly fade and
Wink out of sight
And weary from his fiery display
On Nights cool breast
The Sun quietly lay

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror
on the wall
who's the fairest
of them all...

Not you, it cries
Nose too big
Breasts too small
Lips too thin
Hips too wide
you are completely
flawed

I turn off the television...

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

The Café

Black eyes gaze
from faded photographs...

Music of the Romany echo
between languid women their bodies
like melted butter. Sipping Fin a' l'eau
laughter rising like the rustling


of dead leaves. And men dark
with flashing smiles their
hair slicked with the faint
scent of Patchouli, from lips
and fingertips hang the sweet

smell of clove cigarettes.
It was their café, a chimera for
the disenchanted. The last haven
of hope for the forgotten ones.

copyright Sherry Obsheatz

Silver Baskets

I pull a gleaming silver basket from the small army of baskets in their neat little rows. All waiting patiently to receive their marching orders. The black wheels roll along a newly waxed floor, as I maneuver between an assortment of shoppers. Aisles beckon me with signs, canned meat, pasta, cereal, bread, enticing me with their goods. Ah, the smell of coffee captures my attention and I follow the sweet aroma. Vacuum packed bags grin from shelves and my nose twitches as I inhale the delightfully savory smells.

Wham! Two small boys run screaming and giggling into my basket as, which I can only assume is their father, gathers them up. Sorry about that Miss, he says smiling warmly. A frazzled looking woman rolls up beside him and fixes me with a cold stare, like a bitch dog marking her territory. Really Mark, can’t you control the boys, she scolds. He looks at me and shrugs sheepishly. Chuckling, I glide my basket into another slice of life. An old woman in a motorized cart rolls past, chirping happily to her daughter. " Oh, it feels so good to be out of the house," she exclaims excitedly. " Do you think we could go by the park when we’re done?" she asks. "I don’t know Mother", says the young woman. "I have a lot to do today!" The old woman’s bird like eyes go dim with disappointment. They disappear around the corner and I wonder about the woman. What stories does she have locked away in that fragile body? Did she love passionately, when she was younger? Did she have a happy marriage or was she a bored housewife? Was she satisfied or disappointed with her life?

Moving on, my basket and I weave through the many aisles floating on a flotsam of words. Providing a window into the lives of these strangers. A mother and daughter preparing for her first homecoming dance. A husband and wife planning a small get together. Teenagers worried about an exam in the morning. Little slivers of life that eddy and flow around me as I make my way to the checkout line.

A sudden craving for chocolate overtakes me and I make a beeline for the dessert aisle. Browsing the delectable chocolate sweets, I notice a basket next to mine. Hmm, definitely a bachelor by the look of it, ice cream, chips salsa, TV dinners, and a six pack of beer. Oh what stories these baskets tell! I straighten my blouse and smooth my hair. Suddenly, I wonder what does my basket say about me. Taking a quick inventory, coffee, yogurt, fruit, shampoo and conditioner, a couple bottles of wine, half a dozen chocolate treats and a trashy romance novel. Oh Sweet Jesus! I look like a drunk about to go on a chocolate binge. My basket screams unattached, looking for a husband.

"Uh, excuse me, could you tell me which aisle the laundry detergent is in?" asks the owner of the bachelor basket. A pair of eyes, as green as wild weeds and one of the sweetest of smiles greet me. "Are you new to the neighborhood?" I ask shyly. "Yep, I just transferred here from Pittsburgh", he explains. The conversation flows easily and he invites me for a cup of coffee. And I readily accept. Grinning like an idiot I make my way to the checkout line. Gathering up my groceries, I place the silver basket back into formation and pat it fondly. Until next time my friend


copyright Sherry Obsheatz