And So... She Wrote
A Collection of Poems By Shauna Volkening
And So...
She Wrote
A Collection of Poems By Shauna Volkening
And So...
She Wrote
A Collection of Poems By Shauna Volkening
Minneapolis, MN INK SCRIBBLE PUBLISHING 2017
Copyright Š 2017 by I All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Table of Contents Introduction
i
Read Her Story
1
It’s Only Temporary
2
The Celestial Pair
3
A Question of Living
5
Don’t Fall in Love
7
I Send You Flowers
8
Loved & Lost
9
About the Author
x
Introduction Books, writing, and literature have always held a special place in my heart. Holding a book in my hand, feeling the pages, breathing in the smell of worn paper, losing myslef in a story has always felt intimate and personal to me. As a child, I remember making a lot of pictures books from folded pieces of paper. I could not write words yet, so squiggly drawings in crayon were all that I had to get my ideas onto a page. When I got older, (and could actually write more than my name) I began to write down the hundreds of worlds and events that I had imagined up in my head. Most of these I kept to myself. There would be an occassional story that I would create so others could enjoy, like the Christmas stories I would write for members of my family. But I mostly kept my writing to myself. Part of the problem was that I felt that I could not properly write down some of the stories I wanted to tell. The ones that were not fully stories. They were something different. For many years, I had thoughts that I longed to put on page, but kept locked up in my head because I did not know how to release them properly. Then, I discovered poetry. Poetry has allowed me to finally get the thoughts I have been itching to write down on paper. All of the observations that I have made and the expereinces that I have had can finally step out from the corner in the back of my mind. And that is what this book is. All of the thoughts that I have for so long been meaning to share. i
Read Her Story
She is a book without pictures. Not so easily glimpsed. Her story not so easily told. In fine, small print. Only the keenest eyes can see her true worth. Some of her pages were torn once before. By careless hands who did not see her value. This was from before, when she rested on a shorter shelf.
1
She resides now on the highest shelf. You have to work to reach her. Her cover holds no title for that is her armor. Only those who truly want to know her story will dare to turn her torn pages carefully, gently and read the beautiful story that is her.
It’s Only Temporary Can I reach through time and space? And hold her in my arms to bring her some comfort, when she crawls beneath the covers, to smother the sounds of her tears. So no one will know how loneliness is her constant companion, like a pain in her side. Can I mail her a letter? Because I wish that she could read, from a hand that has matured, that she is loved so much more then she could ever know. And that her darkest days, how bitter they taste on her tongue, are so fleeting and temporary. Can I send her pictures that I have taken since those days? Of her face framed in genuine joy. How many memories she will make in a future kissed by the sun. I wish she could see, not in black and white, but color, the happiness that awaits her. She can hold on for just one more day. 2
The Celestial Does the sun admire the moon from afar? Does he wink at her with his last shining rays as she begins to unfold her starry blanket? Does he wave, and call out her name? Proclaiming her beauty as she takes her post as guardian of the night. What of the moon? Does she scoff at his charm, and roll her eyes as his flaming hair fades from view? Or does she blush? Just a bit. And imagine a world where his warm hands would trace the cold curve of her face? Are they rivals The sun and the moon? Is the moon jealous That the sun is known As “Life Bringer?� That the people of this Earth, that she silently guards with her pale light, never step out to bask in her glow? That they dance before the sun and delight in his heat, the warmth and pleasure he brings, But hide away when she steps up in her place in the tower of the open sky.
Pair
Do they compete, this celestial pair? Are they artists attempting to create a superior masterpiece upon the canvas above the Earth? Is each sunset and sunrise, With their vibrant hues, a testimony of the sun and his talent that he believes surpasses that of the moon? Mere speckles compared to his glorious brushstrokes. Oh, but I believe them to be lovers separated by distance and time dancing alone in the grandest ballroom where they long to wrap each other in an eternal embrace. The moon sends tokens of her affection and devotion in each falling star to the other end of the Earth where the sun eagerly waits to pluck it from the sky and add to his collection of long distance kisses from his far away love.
And in return, the sun writes letters to the moon across the sky as sunsets. Where the phrases of his passions turn to orange, and purple, and pink‌ So when he falls beneath the line of rolling hills the moon, whom he loves so dearly, can see the words he so longs to whisper in her ear written among the clouds.
A Question of Living
Can I ask you a question? It may seem personal, but have you lived? 1 5
Yes, you’re breathing. But are you living?
Are you sleeping your nights away Under the roots of a tree? Cobwebs over your eyes, sprigs twisted in your hair?
Don’t waste away these precious days in the clutches of a dreaming tree.
Feel the dew covered grass tickle your toes. Dance in the downpour. Let the drops of rain fall upon your skin in the rhythm of the storm.
Jump from the cliffside into the water’s embrace. Laugh as the waves playfully taunt and tease you. Whispering stories in your ear.
Wake up, arise, breathe in the scent of the wildflowers. Untamed and free. Let it fill your lungs.
Climb to the castle at the top of the mountain. Open the window and hear the roar of the wind as it runs its fingers through the knots in your hair.
Fall from the sky. Succumb to the terror as you rush past the clouds but remember from long distant memories that you have wings. Open them, spread them, and fly. So I ask again. Are you living? I truly hope you are.
Don’t you do it. Don’t think about him. And his eyes that shine like sunlight through a forest canopy.
You are too much. You are a broken, desperate thing. You seek too much. You dream too much.
Don’t do it. Don’t recall his smile that he so willingly gives to everyone he meets. Or how that smile tasted when his lips were pressed against yours midkiss
Why should his pure light, So clear, so bright, shine through the cracks of your window pane? Do you want him to see the jagged pieces of your broken heart?
Don’t you dare do it. You know what happens. Don’t get attached. Don’t get hopeful.
Don’t Fall in Love
Don’t expect him to like what he finds there. Don’t think of his embrace. And how safe you feel, wrapped in arms that hold you like they would never let go. Those arms are not meant for you.
He is fire. His warm hands give life to your frozen fingers, as he circles his thumb over the mountains and valleys of your palm. Thawing your glaciers, bringing back what was once so green. He is the sun. Joyful, full. He parts the shadows in the forest of your heart. Revealing trails you had never discovered before. He is candlelight. Calming, coaxing. Perhaps you can sit and stay awhile? Admire the glow? Don’t you do it. His warmth would be better spent elsewhere. Don’t do it. Don’t fall in love.
I gather up wildflowers And cast them to the wind. Blue Cornflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace. Dancing on top of tree tops. Whispering among the breeze. Carrying a message to you.
I Send You Flowers
In hopes that someday, You will come find me.
8
I don’t want to ever love again. The way that I loved you. Consumed by your essence. Drowning in the ocean of you. Swept out to waters that I never knew to be so deep. Dragged down to your reef, you scraped me along the jagged coral forests and even though the salt of the water stung my open wounds, I told myself we were a perfect pair. That I was happy. That everything was fine. I never want to feel that way. The way I felt with you. Contained in a cocoon. Too scared to grow. Afraid that if I went outside and stretched my wings, a breeze would catch them and pull me to new places far beyond the reach of you. I think deep down I always knew that if I did ever take flight you would not chose to chase after me.
Loved &
I hope I never lose myself. The way I lost to you. Sitting in darkened rooms. Waiting for your footsteps to come up the stairs. My reflection hazy in the hallway mirror because all I saw was you. Nothing was familiar. Struggling to read entries in old diaries because my handwriting was no longer recognizable to me. And foolishly I stayed in these conditions. Wilting slowly away because I thought you wanted me. Imagine my surprise when you pulled the rug out from under my feet to drop from the sky. Clutching at clouds to slow down my fall. The wind roaring in my ears. Always reminding me that I felt more for you than you ever could for me.
Lost
About the Author
Shauna is a Graphic Design and Marketing student at UW-Whitewater and is currently hired as a Graphic Designer at James R. Connor University Center.
Writing has always been something that Shauna has enjoyed. As a child, before she could even write real words, she would make little books about fish and puppies.
Outside of class and work, Shauna likes to spend her time creating her own art works, reading a good book, taking walks outside, randomly bursting into song (usually a song from the 80s), and going for a good thrity mile bike ride.
She never really considered writing poetry, though, until she took a creative writing course one summer. Once she got started, she was hooked and has been spewing out poems (some good and some not so good) ever since. X