{"id":45112,"date":"2024-09-06T19:42:21","date_gmt":"2024-09-06T23:42:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rachellerogers.com\/dev1\/?p=45112"},"modified":"2026-05-23T23:38:37","modified_gmt":"2026-05-24T03:38:37","slug":"poetic-offerings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rachellerogers.com\/dev1\/poetic-offerings\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetic Offerings"},"content":{"rendered":"
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06<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

September 2024<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

Poetry
Self-reflection<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Poetic Offerings<\/h1>

by Rachelle Rogers<\/a><\/span><\/p><\/div><\/div>\n\n

As some of you might know, on June 21 I fell and fractured the proximal humerus of my right arm\/shoulder. It was only afterwards that I realized that that day, the day that it happened, was the full moon, the summer solstice, and my father\u2019s birthday to boot. Being somewhat sensitive to large influxes of cosmic energy, I\u2019m surprised I didn\u2019t remember what was going on. If I had, I never would have walked out my door that evening in an attempt to navigate an untoward precarious situation. (See Falling Into Uncertainty)<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m now about eleven weeks into my healing journey with still a way to go, and it\u2019s been quite a challenge. My right hand is also affected, so I can\u2019t yet use that much to help my overstressed left hand with everything I have to get done. I am doing my best to find small joys and keep my vibration out of the depths of hell, but when you can\u2019t even open your Talenti, coffee chocolate chip gelato by yourself, life can seem pretty bleak. And it's been crazy not being able to type for so long, having to use dictation and correct the endless errors with my stressed left hand, which is what I\u2019m doing now.<\/p>\n

Posting on my blog is one of the ways I feel connected, whether or not there\u2019s any personal interaction between myself and my small family of readers. To me, it\u2019s a place to express my creativity and share my thoughts and feelings and ideas. On the outside, I live a small, relatively quiet life without many people in it. My inner life, however, continues to expand.<\/p>\n

As I explained when I resurrected this blog in February 2023 (See A Resurrection Of Words \u2013 2023<\/a><\/em>), I hadn\u2019t been able to write anything creative, prose or poetry, since after my memoir was published in 2013. My muses had seemingly abandoned me. So what I offer you here in light of the fact that it\u2019s easier to copy and paste then to dictate and correct a 2000 word post, is a sampling of poetic meanderings inspired by past experiences of what has felt like my many lives lived in this body.<\/p>\n

As always take what you can use, and toss the rest.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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Other Lives<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Undoing Time<\/h6>\n

<\/strong><\/p>\n

Your dark dissenting eyes<\/p>\n

and fragile face as cold at times<\/p>\n

as Grecian memory, unfold what lies<\/p>\n

inside. I called you lover once...again,<\/p>\n

and even dared call you a man.<\/p>\n

In ten thousand syllables,<\/p>\n

page on page exposed, I marked<\/p>\n

the measures of my soul.<\/p>\n

Do you keep them banded tightly<\/p>\n

like the straining sinews of an aching<\/p>\n

heart's lament, trembling at their echo,<\/p>\n

wishing they were never sent?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This is no Russian countryside<\/p>\n

remembered, and I am not<\/p>\n

your mother now. Yet from the start<\/p>\n

you made my eyes her eyes, and fixed<\/p>\n

her face (if even for an instant)<\/p>\n

over mine. You hurled your hurt<\/p>\n

which set like stone and walled me<\/p>\n

out, and thought me past<\/p>\n

the age of someone you could truly<\/p>\n

love \u2014 as if you truly ever could.<\/p>\n

Self-pity is a solitary space,<\/p>\n

and building prisons is an inside job.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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TimeWalk<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Alone<\/p>\n

but for the drift<\/p>\n

of you, I track a melancholy<\/p>\n

white. A Russian soul would know<\/p>\n

this night.<\/p>\n

Did you hear me calling<\/p>\n

through the wood?<\/p>\n

A nearby limb released<\/p>\n

its luminescent crown \u2014<\/p>\n

it knew the soundings<\/p>\n

of your name. Looking down,<\/p>\n

an amethyst remembrance<\/p>\n

tripped a maiden heart.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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Inner Reflections<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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I Let My Hair Grow Silver<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

I let my hair grow silver<\/p>\n

to frame the jewel inside,<\/p>\n

though acquaintances' reactions<\/p>\n

were less than dignified.<\/p>\n

Bronze curls contain a comfort<\/p>\n

for impaired society,<\/p>\n

while any silver glare reflects<\/p>\n

our close mortality.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I let my hair grow silver<\/p>\n

to face an age old fear<\/p>\n

that superficial wrappings<\/p>\n

are what we hold most dear.<\/p>\n

I had the sickly notion<\/p>\n

that one for whom I'd care<\/p>\n

would dare to love me only<\/p>\n

with pigment in my hair.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I let my hair grow silver<\/p>\n

to find a peace within,<\/p>\n

to practice what I ponder,<\/p>\n

settle in my skin.<\/p>\n

Some say I look older;<\/p>\n

Than what?<\/em> I want to ask.<\/p>\n

I am the fifty that I am<\/p>\n

regardless of the mask.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I let my hair grow silver<\/p>\n

to end a dull routine,<\/p>\n

and because I'm worth it \u2014<\/p>\n

bronze, blonde or in between.<\/p>\n

It's strange how men are dashing,<\/p>\n

distinguished in their gray,<\/p>\n

while we look ten years tarnished<\/p>\n

to their certainty.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

To live a grander beauty,<\/p>\n

to birth a finer art,<\/p>\n

to cultivate a symmetry<\/p>\n

that shines a strand apart,<\/p>\n

I let my hair grow silver<\/p>\n

and fed a deeper root,<\/p>\n

which tapped a vein of richness<\/p>\n

for being who I choose.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Age Fright<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

She thinks because she's fifty-eight<\/p>\n

and Romeo's gone west,<\/p>\n

the cosmic theatre of the heart's<\/p>\n

closed up shop, torn down<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

its sun sets, the actors, even<\/p>\n

Lears and Falstaffs, turning tail<\/p>\n

for fresher (read that younger) fare.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This (she gets dramatic) is the winter<\/p>\n

of my<\/em> discontent, made glorious\u2026<\/p>\n

by absolutely nothing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I tell her it isn't so.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She feels air stir, slinks<\/p>\n

low in her chair, swats<\/p>\n

at me as if I were a fly.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So much for the voices of angels.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I try again. You get what you be,<\/p>\n

I say, and all you're being now<\/p>\n

is foolish.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She straightens a bit, thinks \u2014<\/p>\n

maybe I'm being foolish, thinks \u2014<\/p>\n

no I'm not.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Think again, I say. Feel<\/p>\n

for something better.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She reaches for a square of chocolate, bolts<\/p>\n

from the chair.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Forget Juliet, she thinks. (She's on it now.)<\/p>\n

This cue's for Beatrice, much nothing<\/p>\n

to do something about. I can redesign<\/p>\n

the play, recast his part.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I tell her Benedick (she may want<\/p>\n

to rethink that one) is searching,<\/p>\n

on a slide of light, a twist of time, waiting.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She thinks\u2014\u00a0 I better get my act together.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pacing, she rounds a mental corner,<\/p>\n

fluffs her hair, practices her repart\u00e9e.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I stretch my wings, do a little angel dance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All the world is\u2026after all, she says,<\/p>\n

and makes a mental note to post<\/p>\n

a new marquee.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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BookMarks<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

My friend makes books out of thick mahogany<\/p>\n

covered in paper she paints by hand, folios bound<\/p>\n

with stitches like linen centipedes wrapped<\/p>\n

around the spine.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The leaves are covered with improvised notes<\/p>\n

and lines, tiny sketches, poetry snaking a conga<\/p>\n

around the page.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m afraid of ink. I use only pencil<\/p>\n

for my ever-changing art, don't write<\/p>\n

at all in journals too elegant to discard.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But for you I've broken through, imagined<\/p>\n

every word emblazoned on papyrus,<\/p>\n

imprinted in a fable that forever bears our names.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

Critique<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Don't be afraid to break <\/em><\/p>\n

rhythm; the detail is so lovely, <\/em><\/p>\n

don't let cadence overtake it.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I've been counting moments,<\/p>\n

like iambs, too closely,<\/p>\n

not letting them peer<\/p>\n

jagged,<\/p>\n

syncopate<\/p>\n

in unexpected ways,<\/p>\n

spring surprising,<\/p>\n

singular, even if they nag,<\/p>\n

even if they veer in slanted<\/p>\n

rhyme or reason.<\/p>\n

From time to time, measured<\/p>\n

comfort in an ordered life<\/p>\n

needs a little shaking up<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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Higher Mind<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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They call me<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

unrealistic to deny<\/p>\n

a dying world.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I see proliferation<\/p>\n

where most see lack.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 While most<\/p>\n

are deafened<\/p>\n

by despair, I soar free<\/p>\n

in ways no outside<\/p>\n

force can touch; hear<\/p>\n

the ring of possibility.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They call me unconcerned.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I don't read news,<\/p>\n

don't watch TV at all.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How does one<\/p>\n

get sick enough<\/p>\n

to heal another's pain?<\/p>\n

How would feeling anguish<\/p>\n

bring a sister soul<\/p>\n

relief? How much fight<\/p>\n

can ever render peace?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They call me foolish.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I tell them \u2014<\/p>\n

hating<\/p>\n

hate creates.<\/p>\n

Push against a thing<\/p>\n

and more is made \u2014<\/p>\n

a cosmic irony.<\/p>\n

Only loving lets love grow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They call me selfish.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

For on this suppos\u00e8d<\/p>\n

woeful night<\/p>\n

I dare to dance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What other way<\/p>\n

to be a light?<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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What if<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

when you die, you don't,<\/p>\n

and in an instant you can think yourself<\/p>\n

an Einstein mind, a Shakespeare<\/p>\n

soul, the body of a Marilyn Monroe.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What if moods make landscapes \u2014<\/p>\n

melancholy turning<\/p>\n

misty plumes of gray, laughter<\/p>\n

growing aster fields.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What if you don't have to eat,<\/p>\n

but can \u2014 yet never gain an ounce;<\/p>\n

don't have to sleep, but can,<\/p>\n

dreams rooting in the world<\/p>\n

as poetry, a lover's smile.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

What if everyone who ever<\/p>\n

wronged your heart is there to hear<\/p>\n

you voice the wrath of centuries\u2026<\/p>\n

and you no longer care.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And what if the only judgment made<\/p>\n

of life, and solely by yourself is:<\/p>\n

How well did I love?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

\uf004<\/span><\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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This is not a day for asking questions\u2026<\/em><\/h6>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Rumi<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Cerulean sky does not ask why it wakes<\/p>\n

beneath a thread of cloud. Shameless<\/p>\n

meadowlark doesn't contemplate<\/p>\n

the echo of its morning song.<\/p>\n

The lily never wonders as it lifts<\/p>\n

its russet underside to light.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Questions are the province of the mind,<\/p>\n

and this is not a day for seeking.<\/p>\n

Rest instead upon a smile, a touch,<\/p>\n

a blue-eyed gaze. Rest this day<\/p>\n

within the province of the heart where<\/p>\n

everything is already known.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

A Choice<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

beyond waiting<\/p>\n

beyond questing<\/p>\n

beyond hating...him<\/p>\n

beyond hurting or weeping or hoping<\/p>\n

beyond cajoling, conjecturing,<\/p>\n

beating up on pillows or myself<\/p>\n

beyond reasoning<\/p>\n

beyond bargaining<\/p>\n

or contemplating just revenge<\/p>\n

beyond wondering<\/p>\n

beyond expecting...anything<\/p>\n

beyond judging, desiring<\/p>\n

emoting or exposing<\/p>\n

beyond spinning out a sorry tale<\/p>\n

beyond pining<\/p>\n

beyond complaining,<\/p>\n

analyzing or projecting<\/p>\n

beyond sulking<\/p>\n

beyond pleading<\/p>\n

beyond trying not to love\u2026<\/p>\n

is breath<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

breathe I tell myself<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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After 11 September 2001<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Phoenix<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Death swirls<\/p>\n

moondust thick<\/p>\n

suffocating<\/p>\n

those who still require breath,<\/p>\n

the dream crumbling<\/p>\n

under whose god<\/p>\n

is holier, whose god seeks<\/p>\n

the just revenge,<\/p>\n

and I think \u2014<\/p>\n

what use are words?<\/p>\n

What use barely lyric<\/p>\n

verse, tired tales of love<\/p>\n

gone wrong, lines<\/p>\n

designed for laughs?<\/p>\n

What now is left<\/p>\n

to inspire anything<\/p>\n

but grief?<\/p>\n

Chanted senseless, offered up<\/p>\n

to gods who do not hear,<\/p>\n

my words have died<\/p>\n

six thousand deaths.<\/p>\n

For weeks I leave them strewn<\/p>\n

across a screen, across<\/p>\n

a page, flat and lifeless<\/p>\n

as the New York sky.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But soon,<\/p>\n

a small familiar voice: write<\/p>\n

it says. Be heart<\/p>\n

in a time of mind gone mad;<\/p>\n

resurrect<\/p>\n

what's beautiful and true.<\/p>\n

If just one soul finds<\/p>\n

tether to a saner<\/p>\n

star, you've done well.<\/p>\n

This is the job of art, to rise<\/p>\n

from fire and ash,<\/p>\n

impassioned, immortal,<\/p>\n

alive with possibility.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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A Matter Of Timing<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

This autumn afternoon,<\/p>\n

on the summer mountain where<\/p>\n

I meet with cherished<\/p>\n

friends to write, unfamiliar<\/p>\n

faces occupy oakwood rockers,<\/p>\n

flagstone terrace where we greet<\/p>\n

the moon. October air is still<\/p>\n

as sculpture, as if the slightest<\/p>\n

stir might shimmer time, bare<\/p>\n

our hovering spirits.<\/p>\n

Easels stand like alien towers;<\/p>\n

swirling brushes spatter<\/p>\n

alizarin, burnt sienna, cobalt blue,<\/p>\n

for me muted and unsubstantial<\/p>\n

as the ones I miss.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It's their mountain now,<\/p>\n

these painted strangers,<\/p>\n

just as in my lowland world,<\/p>\n

this is the surreal time<\/p>\n

of those who shake their fists<\/p>\n

and speak in warring tongues.<\/p>\n

Yet, beneath,<\/p>\n

something summer lovely rests;<\/p>\n

something which has never left;<\/p>\n

something waiting\u00a0 waiting<\/p>\n

for its day.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Magnetic Muse<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

For many years, I kept magnetic poetry tiles up on my refrigerator.
These lyrical word paintings were created by seeing how many gems I could construct without reusing any of the tiles.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Magnestic Muse #1<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

in a diamond moment<\/p>\n

beneath<\/p>\n

the twisted shadow<\/p>\n

of a life unsung<\/p>\n

a whispered symphonys<\/p>\n

recalled<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

play it easy<\/p>\n

like a summer wind<\/p>\n

upon the lazy<\/p>\n

fiddle of a day<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Magnetic Muse #2<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

when winter shakes<\/p>\n

its smooth white skin<\/p>\n

and purple fingers<\/p>\n

delirious with light<\/p>\n

lick the peach of spring<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

time<\/p>\n

in gorgeous dress<\/p>\n

leaves me panting<\/p>\n

trips my tongue<\/p>\n

rocks my soaring<\/p>\n

breast as I lie sweetly<\/p>\n

cloaked in green<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Magnetic Muse #3<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

together<\/p>\n

we could sing the sea<\/p>\n

to mist and cool<\/p>\n

the crying moon<\/p>\n

and think a reigning<\/p>\n

vision into sun<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

one garden<\/p>\n

our petals never<\/p>\n

blow apart<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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Magnetic Muse #4<\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

from essential places<\/p>\n

death watches true<\/p>\n

and chants discordant<\/p>\n

as the waxy rose<\/p>\n

of worships crushing love<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

he stares<\/p>\n

like shadowed sleep<\/p>\n

at she who moans<\/p>\n

all bare and delicate<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

an after pictured lover<\/p>\n

aching some<\/p>\n

but mostly gone<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n

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← <\/span>Falling Into Uncertainty<\/span><\/a><\/span>The Continuing Journey Home<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n
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