Bloodroot and Other Poems

By Samantha Terrell

Bloodroot

Thoughts and feelings scrape
Against each other – a barren 
Tree limb on a transparent 
Window pane. 

A roll of birch tree bark blows
Around in the wind, showing
Us time is short. Our own 
Raw skin will soon be exposed.

When numbness sets in
We ask ourselves 
Who taught us
To gaze out windows anyway, and

Why are humans inclined to peel husks? 
Or, when did you learn the name of those 
Flowers that close
Their blossoms at the chill of dusk?

‘A Time For Every Purpose’

When the world spins too fast – and 
I say ‘when,’ not ‘if’
Because we all know
It does this – 
Static becomes impermanent,
Impermanence dissipates into nothingness.
Even my identity is not my own. The synchronicity
Of life holds me 

Captive, in an unmoving state,
Beyond escape – bound to a neutrality
I didn’t choose, but which
Default forced upon me. Suddenly, I see
Through the spin. 
What we take on in 
Times of abundance,
Becomes absurd in times of want.

Let Me Level With You

Let's become the same 
Height. You wear heels, and I'll
Go barefoot so we're level.

It will symbolize 
Equality, yes, but also satisfy
A craving for symmetry

Amidst contrast. 
Dark and light, 
Dim and bright

Will mirror each other
In unity. Any bit of incompatibility
Will wax into coherency.

Outlook

Don't count your chickens 
Before they hatch
Is good advice
Until, at last 

A chirping bird emerges 
From the splintering, 
Oblong sphere 
Demanding 

Care of a different nature, 
As waiting and hoping gives way, 
And yesterday's worry 
Becomes the work of today.

Observations

I've been in Grand Central Station at Christmas time, and also those wind-cursed farmhouses in the American Midwest. I've been amongst throngs who loudly busy themselves with their agendas, and with those who have nothing to say, but look blankly at every passerby as if they might have the answer to a question as yet unasked. And I've deemed them both beautiful in their own right. I've never seen Paris in springtime, but I sent my son there, and maybe that's enough – enough to know the story of the world is threaded onto a string, like a 1940's holiday decoration, one popcorn kernel at a time, until there's only string left and a few stray unpopped seeds in the bottom of the bowl. And everyone – the busy throngs, and the solitary souls – (finally) sees each other looking at the remaining piece of string some child has grabbed onto and twisted into a mess, and now the world has become a contorted gymnast, while we gawk and wonder if the position is tenable. 

Questionable Intentions

I.
Grey-blue sea on
Blue-grey skies can’t deny
The realism befitting of the impending 
Unraveling of this day, although
A quiet crumble
Evades even a distant rumble.

II.
Feigning ignorance to
Conceal a jealousy she
Doesn’t fully understand,
She silently peels petals from a 
Yellow rose – become voodoo doll 
For her victim – not caring where they fall.

III.
Deep mahogany stretches the length of a board room, 
Surrounded by dutiful empty chairs, resembling 
The minds of former occupants whose
Presence has become obsolescence as
Money now flows
From sources unknown.

IV.
Sometimes, the job of vibrant flowers is
Simply to drop upon waters. And,
Sometimes, humans shuffle through life’s
Conference room without leaving a shadow. 
But the sky? The sky never questions
Its purpose.

Redemption

We touch a finger
To our scars
Expecting 
The connection 
To provide clarity, rather than
Wincing and reeling.

But massaging
The painful; agonizing 
Over the details of mysteries
And misunderstandings; 
Probing suffering,
Only compounds strife and grief.

Besides, peddling plight may seem
A shortcut to being seen –  
An investment with a quick 
Return – 
But it’s our forbearance that’s eternal.
It’s not our scars that make us unique.

An internationally published poet, Samantha Terrell’s books have received five-star reviews and accolades from her peers. Her words can also be found in:  Green Ink Poetry, In Parentheses, Misfit Magazine, Nine Cloud Journal, Open Journal of Arts & Letters, Poetry Quarterly, Red Weather, and many others. Terrell writes from Upstate New York where she lives with her husband, two teenagers, two cats, a dog, and a growing collection of over-watered houseplants. Find her online at:  www.SamanthaTerrell.com.