Ceres

I didn’t turn around
I didn’t stay a moment longer
so she never knew my name
or taught what could have made me stronger

She’ll never show to me
the roses she bestows her daughters
and that I’ll never be
whose rites she gives by holy waters

Ceres
would you have noticed
if I fell to winter’s growing distance
Ceres
how I long for your forgiveness
for not believing you

A fire could reclaim
that chance for me to overcome
the pleasure from the pain
though I fear the damage has been done

so the dust will gather
from the missing storms and seasons
can I remember all I left behind?

Ceres
would you have noticed
If I fell to winter’s growing distance
Ceres
how I long for your forgiveness

© Georgia Boyd - 2008

Dm Song

you say you want me
but you can’t find a way
I think you had plenty of time, time, time
you can’t deceive me
with those little games you play
you only want to be mine, mine, mine

but it hurts
I know
the pain is in the waiting
and there’s not an end in sight

it’s now or never
do you even have a plan?
all you have to do is give me a sign, sign, sign
but you never came down to LA
I think I know where this is going
somewhere we have to draw the line, line, line

cause it hurts
I know
the pain from all the waiting
when there’s not an end it sight

yes it hurts
I know
the pain from all the waiting
when there’s not an end in sight
you know I’m right

© Georgia Boyd - 2008

He caused me to worry - NYC

oh
Is it really moving?
The feast we started so long ago
Consuming love from '99
or confusing as we go
confusing as we go

oh
New York was like a mirror
A dark reflection of when we were young
I missed the train I wanted
but I caught the number you were on
I caught the number you were on

and oh
If you were lost
were you only searching?
oh
For if you found what you wanted
would it be me?

oh
You might think me weak
to compromise on what I've never owned
I ask myself so many, many times
but the answers stay unknown
The answers stay unknown

and oh
If you were lost
were you only searching?
oh
And did you find what you wanted
and was it me?

But would the music be our child
Ending what we started
Or will this train deliver us...
...brokenhearted

and oh
If you were lost
were you only searching?
oh
And did you find what you wanted
Was it me?
Was it me?

© Georgia Boyd - 2008

thoughts of...

He wrote,
of what
I'll never know.
Of course the ending brought tears.
Of course they were mine.
I left
one gray and foggy morning.
My ghost I took to haunt another.
My ghost never loved him.

Not too cruel,
but bitter-tasting from recollection,
as if infatuation
becomes a stooped old man
angry at my generation.
His pride could divide.
I teased to stay at length,
cautious of every frank utterance
and the wicked sly remarks.

This I know--
that he tempted goodness,
angels falling down to levels
always meant for less deserving.
This I know--
I never flew.
Not a clap of thunderstorms,
not an instinct housed
that led my forward-thinking heart.

Never too sad
about the abandonment
which shaped his present state.
And I think
this is what drew the love
to him.
Not love--
not Real Love--
but the lovers who gave too much.

I'm glad I left.

-G.B.W.

August

The shapes of birds--
all white with impending danger--
help make this journey
seem new.
Something different in my sky
until you arrive
and my fear subsides.
You don't know
what I crave half the time.
I'm no mystery,
I've never changed this unspoken yearning.
But you're learning
and I'm trying
new magic
and still search for that shine--
the gold from the earth.
But the wind still calls
for me to fly.
I don't want to lose you,
remember that always
while you're three thousand miles from me.

-G.B.W.

Know

For you
I have to be alone
manage my mind
and hold my breath.
In a dark
and dim room,
dry and warm,
I breathe you in.
I can't keep awake
for you
exhaust me.
The room grows darker
the silent fan, the whirling wind,
chills me.
Cover me
and keep me safe.
When you see me next
hold my hand
and I'll hold my breath
for you.

-G.B.W.

Who is she

Who is she
that she can embody her so well?
Is she trying?
Then what is my role
if John isn’t in the picture?
Or must she pay the price
of that favor,
of that talent,
of that life?

Does questioning make any difference?
After all these years
will Joan reemerge,
or diminish
to leave a new seat?

-G.B.

Amherst

it was a solitary life
glancing out the certain
slant of light
parchment torn, tattered
pen marks scratching,
splattered
hissing on the kettle
whispers of your end
hearing birds at dawn
and a carriage
'round the bend

for yours was a solitary life
your only solace was to write
letters written
letters burned

how much of it returned

-G.B.

6th Ave Café

Christmas songs in November
bring me a melancholy message--
out of grasp,
but within my sight.
Like so many things in this life.

Can Christmas come sooner
and bring a goodwill year ‘round?
A message,
A promise.
Forgotten like sketches in a broken drawer.

A frosty evening will come
with a snows blanket on the city,
and muffle
the bustle,
wrapping blurring winds among the buildings.

And then it will pass.
Melting away all memories
of a peace,
of a cause,
and a fire will return to the island.

-G.B.

Hannah & Robbie

shallow water
lapping over the faces of youth.
expressing love for dark things
inaudibly,
silently.
treading into deeper waters,
fighting currents.
desperate cries
turning into fits of laughter
in a moment they won’t remember.

-G.B.

Autumn Morning

There is a chill in the mornings—
words spoken hang before you in clouds,
then fade.
Words I say in the heated rooms
stay.
You remember everything
you choose to,
I try to forget.
Still after all these years,
where have we arrived but
back to where we started.
“ ‘round the world having wandered”
should have brought a wisdom.
All I know is the motion and the madness.

We stay still for the first time
and listen…
We hear the thoughts and fears
creep into our minds;
time to doubt,
dwell,
rue,
wonder,
speculate,
and suspect.

The chill reaches into my bones
after the rising sun has warmed the plains,
but the warmth brings the light
so that we may see clearly again.
And look into those same eyes
that never changed,
never will fade.

-G.B.

To Them

How this west shines its glory
and the plum gleams.
What raptures such as these cause
you to look back
ruefully?
I will not know.

The sky, the kingdom,
the gold of the land below,
are lifted above
our turning heads.

You will someday see it
and you will have wished for more

Time.

I know that this secret
stays with me,
for I can’t whisper it to anyone.

They will not hear of its glory,
and stay cold
in cold countries,
and fret and pace and frown--
always talking.
Never grasping silences like this
golden evening.

-G.B.

Another Four Years

Four years gone by and haven’t come.
The distance doesn’t seem to change—
the rivers still spring, the sun still sets.
Time brings a wall
and turns a deaf ear to your pleas.

During those clear, mild midnights
as we gazed on a sea of city lights,
your hands felt so warm on me
and time stood still for us.
But four years have passed on.

This new day brings beauty and wretchedness
but still no answers arrive
to pull us out of the foggy turmoil we’ve created.

Our innocence was born from sin
and my deceit grew out of your love.
I never lied to you but
I’ve never spoken truth.
With these four years I still question
thoughts I had in youth.

You ride each wave as your last
and the sea coaxes you to return.
We always return—
our fights over nothing,
our curt goodbyes,
and our future
apart.

-G.B.

Flick

A flick
like flicking petals
flicking
Not like crackling aluminum skin;
More similar to time lapse wind.
Soft,
but not as smooth as Suzanne Vega’s
voice,
it flicks nonetheless.
Would you watch,
even during songs ‘round the fire?
Maybe the flicking catches your eye
in the smooth, swimming scenery.
Not a ticking--
that comforting clicking clock sound,
although it frays your peace of mind…
the flick,
the flick.
As though you’re at a red
light
Somewhere behind,
the stiff, banging bass beat
three cars back
rattles the rear-view.
The flick of reality
into the dream world;
the paper-clip shot across the room,
the ruin of concentration.
All with a flick.

-G.B.