BROKENA Book of Poems By Kim Stapley

A Book of Poems By Kim StapleyIllustrated and Designed By Sydney N. Gordon

TABLE OF CONTENTSBreakdownThe MirrorThe CarnivalPostcards

SunflowersThe QuakiesThe Last TreeStar Gazing

At The Cross WalkThe PhotographInner DrivePolaris

Gray clouds billow from under the car's hood.Broken on the side of the road.

Repairs can be done. It will be fixed.

Minutes ago the building stood still, but now it sits in rubble. Blanketed by dust.

Bricks can be mended. It will be fixed.

The vase held those purple tulips that lay scattered on the floor in water and shards.

Glass can be restored. It will be fixed.

What will be done of me if I breakdown? Out of steam, on the ground, and in pieces?

Can I be healed? Will I be fixed?

Or remain. Bro ken

BREAKDOWN

The MirrorThere she stands, commanding my gaze—invincible and unbreakable.A youthful body, with a head held erectupon confident and unyielding shoulders.

She is a white orb of night reflecting the sun.an imitation, by stolen light.Yet there are those who believe her lieand think she is me.

The butterfly fish has two faces.One is real—the other a fraudto confuse and fool the predator's eye.Is she my counterfeit, or am I hers?

This is who they perceive when they look at me. A cold reflection—a shell. But when cut; inside is founda bruised and broken soul.

Carnival Today I visited the Carnival. With the circus tent just north of townMany visitors slipping in and out, and others rushing from their white automobilesInto the V.I.P. entrance, red and blue lights. Announcing their arrival.Walking inside the large tent I found silly clowns in lab coats thatswayed as they danced. Magicians with gleaming scalpels looking for volunteers to be sawed right in half. And even a palm reader insistently grabbed my arm, claiming to foresee a cure to all my life’s afflictions. Abruptly I come to acage beside the ‘Bearded Woman’ exhibit. A flimsy sign leaning beside thelocked iron door. It says, ‘The Patient’. A spot light is turned tothe center of the stage and a loud voice announces that the patienthas many symptoms but has eluded any diagnosis. I turn to look at the curious creature yet see myself in the glaring light. I am poked with needles by doctors withclownish grins upon their painted faces. Only to be told that they don’t know what is wrong. I am placed in machines that are run by wizards that believe they know all,yet they are stumped as to what is ailing me. I am ‘The Patient’ in thespotlight with no diagnosis. As I begin to leave there is a bill postedfor me. All of the expenses of the doctors visit, blood tests, and C.T. scan are listed— Even though I was the one who performed the tumbling act. In the circus tent just north of town, Today I visited the Carnival.

PostcardsThere is another, less used, box of postcards.Filed and shoved into the corner.I struggle to open it's dusty lid. Why haveI forgotten? How could I have forgotten?

Warm arms pick up the broken pieces. Shieldingme from the fear. Electrifying coldrag placed on my eyes.Relief. Given from those angel hands. Abused by self-image.Yet those who matter heal the bruises. Shatteringthe mirror's lies.

I hang these images row, after rowin the walls of my mind. When I roamwith Memory through the horrors--I will look up.

SUNFLOWER

Field of butter gold alights by morning's touchWith faces turned east to welcome their god

Chocolate core flicked with pollenSeducing bumblebees

I want to capture that wild beautyTo admire and place in a red vase

But when cut, they do not turnTo follow the sun into the west

Stilled WiltedDead

In the vase

THE QUAKIESPallid bodies huddle together.Sickly, brittle limbs reach out,some grasping hands with others.A few blackened in death.

A carpet of yellow leaveslitter the ground. Faded.They use to cover the skyin emerald greenquaking in the breeze.

Did these trees prize the fallen?Or in summer slight their shimmering shawlsof health and beauty?

Now to stoop. Stricken.Yearning for the coats of the evergreens. Creaking in the winter windnaked.

The Last TreeWrinkled skin and brittle limbsprove the years you have dwelt on this earth.You fade with each year—The last of your kind.

Your home was once a forest. A place of life and rebirth. Now, you stand in this graveyard. Petrified stumps for headstones.A lone witness to the sufferings of your seedlings.Your brothers and sisters fallen to the earth bymechanical hearts. Finger's entwined with rotting roots as you waltz in the windsolo. No other branches to brush against.

You indulged our thirst for O2yet we cut down our life sourcefor suburban living, toothpicksand skyscrapers.

You were the first to reach the belly of the sky.

Do you recall the timewhen children climbed in the crookof your arms? You cradled us.Breathed into us.

My childrenwill not know you.

Do you shake with ragefor our insolence?Or do you weep for us lone one? Knowing we have ignorantly induced our demise.

I pluck one of your emerald leaves. To be hung on the wall.

The future generation will wonder where I found this jewel.

I will say, From the Last Tree

STAR GAZING

Stars bloom in midnight's fields--was we lay braided togetherbeneath the milky ribbon.Like winter's first snow--silence blankets us.

I breath in this moment.Cold air and his smellflows deep into me. Imprinting this delicate memory.

Our bodies shake under a large mosaic quilt.Wanting to escapethe frozen, haloed moon.To seek warmth inside.

Yet, we linger. Wishing upon blinking stars, that this pause in time will never end.

At The Cross WalkLong agothe button was pushed by the travel weary man who waits on the gray corner to use the crosswalk.

Time speeds past as the humming mosaic of traffic continues on. And on.

Yet, patiently he waits for his turn to come. Stepping beside him I ask, “Sir, how long have you been waiting at this corner to cross?”

His eyes crinkle and a smile twitches the whiskers on his face. “The joy of traveling is not the destination. True happiness abides in the present of circumstances.”

The PhotographShe's there again, standing in golden afternoon sun,smiling and glittering in a wedding dress.Her husband holds her closely, seeing only thethriving and vibrant woman before him.

She is a distorted and bent image through the lens of a camera. A beautiful refraction—a photograph of who I wish to be,and who everyone thinks I am.

The Matryoshka doll was made to be a toy.Each layer opens and reveals another hidden figure. Locked beneath her painted shell I huddle,seen only if I am torn apart.

Does he know, as he holds her in the picture,that he will hold me tightly, grasping to keep my broken pieces from crumbling, while others are fooled by her smiling refraction?

Inner DriveGiving up is not an option.An inner voice demands of meEven when I cannot function.

At times I feel I have fallenyet a whisper does decreeGiving up is not an option.

A smile is displayed oftenon my face for all to seeEven when I cannot function.

Is this truly my fortune?Will I ever be freeOf--Giving up is not an option.

Ignoring my body's malfunctionHere and there I will beEven when I cannot function.

With that quiet voice I agreeEven when I cannot function,Giving up is not an option.

PolarisI.

Sun flowers face east, welcoming their god that climbs over the horizon. A crimson glare floods my window. I hide beneath blankets, limbs weak, hoping that Apollo will reverse the coming morn behind mountain peaks.

II.

Life thrives under thehoney orb that arcs among the cream splotches in the sky.The Earth spins and dances around it's sun as I sleepwalk through the day. Body cemented in place.

III.

Noctilucent clouds shimmer as day morphs into night. Two heavenly spheres wink at one another. One wakingwhile the other dips into slumber. I know of the sleepless hours in the dark, silently despising the promise of another day.

IV.

In the eveningconstellations churn about Polaris.His movement are not tracked by days or years.To the world he is lame.A diamond idly hanging in velvet black. I am Polaris. Seemingly frozen in a world of motion. But I do move—ever so slowly. Flashing across the span of a lifetime A brilliant flame in the heavens.