SELECTED POETRY

by
Susan Nacsa

VAGUE

In the hills of childhood
Her secret lies
Lost among the dandelions
The smell of cut grass
A safe place, white curtains
The coolness of fate blowing in
Daddy lying close?
The games on the shelf breathed
Mommy burning grease in the kitchen
A cool hand, hot face
fever panic

In the skies of memory
Bleary white clouds
Drift like taunting question marks
The feel of warm hands
A dead sound, hate buzzing by
The incense of fear burning close
Who is lying there?
The shelves in the pantry charred
Safe hearth burned low on sunken earth
An ash – dry, a scream - shrill
fever panic

In the harsh glare of Now
The light in her eyes
Shut out by bricks and mortar
The hint of that touch
Old hands press in self-loathing
Her rage confined by lead sheathing
Was it really him?
Obscured, the burned memory vague
Her heart as hard as flint
Innocence lost – all consumed
fever panic

© Susan Nacsa

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BABY BREE

Written for my daughter when she was 3 months old

Your heart's a lovely sailboat
In the ocean of your eyes.
It rides the crest of a twinkle
When joyful waves arise.

My heart's a gentle harbour
So warm and deep to dive,
And there keep safe
A silent place
A lovely sailboat's size.

© Susan Nacsa

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BREE'S BREEZE

She's now 14 and in the storm of adolescent confusion

Like violin wind – Her bow scrapes the trees
Then distant - a roll of the drum
A push in the atmosphere
Flutter of leaves
Suggesting the drama to come.

Electrical letters and patter of keys
Her screen casts a glow on her face
The green sky is quiet
An ominous thing
It seems her - but who's in her place.

Then lightening crackles – a laugh insincere
Sarcasm tickled by flame
Confusion as cold
as the skin of the sun
behind clouds – she runs out in the rain

I'm here in our shelter - the roof made of love
Outside she may find herself - lost
Can't force the door open
She caught in a gust
As she's coated with crystals of frost.

Helpless her struggle to weather the storm
Her chaos obliterates choice
I'll scream out her name
Til the clouds pale with light
And she follows the sound of my voice.

© Susan Nacsa

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MR. GRAGG HONORS ENGLISH

Dedicated to my high school Honors English teacher who changed my life

Teacher – Mr. Gragg - Honors English - Room 103
He was the dime - I turned on
Gaunt, creased, bearded, bald
Discerning eye for madness (divinest sense)
Dangerous – handled with a chain
By those who assent, the so-called "sane".

Alienated, outside the status quo but
Smiling alone in the teacher’s lounge - gossips
Glimpsed through a swinging door
Skewed glances, isolated in oddness, he saw
And understood my singularity
"I shall be like him." A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Growing old – inevitable, but growing up - a choice
Innocence doubted, but true – he was!
Dickenson, Bronte, St. Vincent Millay
The Little Prince
E E. Cummings - electric fur
Emerson, Whitman – transcending the obvious
The deepest dark was clear to us.

Others look, squint, disapprove obliquely
While words trapped in paper - flew high, ran free
With bare feet, Yellow Submarine on painted jeans
Marijuana – a key surreptitiously passed
To hands stained by tie-dye – blue orange and red
Those boys on the football field, I WANTED THEM. . . (((dead)))

So soon - graduation – the bitterness sweet
Life coming on, but still wished for
A hug - proscribed by the generation gap
He and I in his classroom – he hid by his desk
A cage with two doves – a farewell gift for me
One was Ralph-Waldo and one Emily.

By now at least 90, childlike I’m sure - or bones
He and I are the odd recluse writing together
Approving obliquely - teacher, friend, catalyst
Leaning against the lockers
The Answer in the Wind blowing
Atlas Shrugging, Fountainhead flowing

© Susan Nacsa

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NIGHTMARE

Darkness brings
(as monkeys swing through damp and viney trees)
Prolific jungles for my mind's
Prehensile imageries.

While tipping toward the vortex,
The crazy world careens.
The thread of pain forgotten
Is running through my dreams

Old grandma, tattered nightgown
A rippling round the eyes
It wavers then it changes
As it throws off its disguise

A vile invasive evil
A permeating stain
The saturated tissues
My brain my brain my brain

When comes the balm of morning
The macerated plain
Absorbs the jungle crevices
It's there! Soft window! Rain!

© Susan Nacsa

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SO LOW

Alone on a spinning planet – no order
Dead stars, cold light – unreaching
Too huge to imagine – can't fathom
Smaller than protons – can't fathom
Exist or die – no soul.

Alone in a vast crowd – nobody.
Whoosh past and blurring – unsensing.
Glance for expression – no contact
Search for humanity – no contact
Embrace or die – no arms.

Alone in a family circle – not seeing.
They've circled themselves – not flowing
Beg for connection – such longing.
Invalidation – such longing.
Be One or die – no love.

Alone in a glass cage - won't shatter.
They glance with unfocused eyes - not looking.
Scream for attention - no interest.
Wither and choke - no interest.
Escape or die - no blade.

© Susan Nacsa

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THE WHEEL

Released into the Ethers, the Soul is free to search.
Again it left its garment beneath the stony earth.

Those wilted rags of sinew, that desiccated mound -
Forever unreceiving of the tears upon the ground.

Not knowing its True Nature - Divine and Limitless -
The Soul is drawn inexorably to raiments made of flesh.

Then wrapped around its brilliance, the living gown of lace
Diffuses that ethereal light upon the infant's face.

Glorious Flame Eternal masquerading as a spark,
Distracted and cavorting while the fabric falls apart.

Abandoning its costume beneath the stony earth.
It flies away to Heaven, again, again to search.

The ages pass, the mirrors break, the many become One.
As dewdrops gather up the sea and sparks absorb the sun.

© Susan Nacsa

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