Three Stone Steps.

When walking out one day
In a seedy part of town,
I happened by an empty lot.
At first, I turned away, appalled at the junk strewn about,
Soda cans, beer bottles, plastic bags, discarded fast food cups,
Bits of this and that,
An old shoe, used condoms, and a broken trike.
Something though had caught my eye
And my imagination ...
Three stone steps growing from the weed infested dirt.

They beckoned,
Those three stone steps,
So I picked my way through the litter.
They were old and scarred,
Not smooth at all,
Or level.

I stepped up one and instantly
Smelled roses on the breeze
And heard the laughter of children playing….
I stepped down and looked about.
There were no children, no roses …
And the only sound, the din of traffic
And the clatter of big trucks loading
At a warehouse across the street

I turned once more to the steps,
Up one and then, another.
I turned, expecting …
The lot was empty.
But there it was again,
The unmistakable sharp sound of an axe biting into wood
And the dull thud of split logs, falling to the ground.

I wondered about the steps.
What had they at one time been connected to … a house,
Home, perhaps,
Of a pioneer who came when the city was in infancy,
A mere settlement on this wild, Northwestern Coast….
Yet there was nothing left of house or home,
So perhaps there never was one.
But why the three stone steps
On a discarded city lot in a seedy part of town.

A car stopped.
A man rolled down his window.
‘Want to buy it?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s for sale,’ he said.
I shook my head again.
He shook his …
Wondering, I’m sure, about the crazy woman
Standing on the second step of three
That led to nowhere.

One more step and I was at the threshold,
And wafting through the open door …
The most delicious smell of baking bread
And a woman’s voice, so like an angel,
Singing, to her child,
Hello, I said, reaching for the knob.
May I come in?
I took another step
And fell headlong onto the hard and stony ground.
I looked around, embarrassed, and got quickly to my feet.
I brushed myself and left, determined not to come this way again.

Steps, you see, can fool you, especially if they’re built of old, uneven stone.
They fool you into thinking that where they lead,
You, too, can go.
But when they lead you back in time,
You had better watch your step.

Vi Jones
©January 2003

A Wrought Iron Gate

A wrought iron gate
in the middle of a field –
No fence or tangled hedge,
no garden path or cottage,
just a gate, a wrought iron gate
in the middle of a field.

I walked around and wondered,
fingered the cool metal,
caressed the ornate curves of iron
and wondered –
wondered how a wrought iron gate
came to be in the middle of a field.

The sun appeared,
pushing aside the clouds
to shine upon the gate,
that wrought iron gate leading nowhere
and casting not a shadow
in the middle of the field.

Vi Jones
©September 2002

Untitled 08/30/02

Dried and fallen leaves
skittering on the pavement
sound reminiscent of
ancient tribal rattles,
until silenced
by a sudden, heavy shower.

Lifeless Leaves
floating then, in puddles,
fragile sailboats
being swept by wind and water
into the nearest gutter’s raging torrent,
from where
they’re swallowed by the closest drain.

Lifeless leaves
disappearing into an underworld of darkness,
as we, too, must do,
to reappear,
as we, too, will do,
but where,
and in what form …
we wonder?

Vi Jones
©August 2002

Goddess in Faded Jeans.

I’m told the Goddess is everywhere,
In every tree, flower, shower, rock, and blade of grass.
Search and you will find her, they say,
Keep an open mind though, for she is nothing if not illusive.

I’ve seen the Goddess many times,
Met with her in tide pools,
On mountain tops,
In forests tall and green,
On icy slopes,
And in caves cool and dark.

One day, in a seamy part of town, I came upon an empty lot.
Overgrown with faded weeds, it had become a receptacle for garbage,
Crushed soda cans, bottles, shredded cardboard, faded newspaper,
Used condoms, a ragged garment, a tattered pair of tennis shoes,
And a rotten watermelon,
Litter on an empty acre.
But, as I gazed sadly into space that seemed deserted by Nature’s touch,
I saw, there, in the center, a jewel, and to the right, another …
Tiny blossoms thriving amidst the muck of modern life.
It was then, and only then, that I saw the miracle,
A fresh green sprig, the beginnings of a tree,
Seeded, no doubt, by a passing bird.

And so, this day, I found my Goddess once again,
My Goddess in faded tee and ragged jeans.

Vi
© August 2002

The fragrance of rain
Is like the touch of a lover.
It consumes,
Holds us spellbound
As an aria
In a dark auditorium.
It rises to meet us
When we open the door,
Then, it teases,
And invites us to play.

The Fragrance of rain
After a dry spell
Is magic.
I capture its essence,
Embrace it,
Hold it forever.
What better perfume
for milady’s heart
than the fragrance
of rain after a dry spell.

Vi
(c)January 2002

Reflected Visions

I fill a wooden bowl, lacquered black, with water
And in it, like a deep and natural pool,
I see my own reflection.
Then, when I touch the bowl,
I see ripples circling outward
Like waves upon an ocean.

I place a candle beside the bowl
And light it.
A double flame flickers … which is real,
The one above, or the one reflected?

Now, when I touch the bowl again,
Ripples and flame dance together.
I’m drawn into my subconscious past.
Dark water, where are you taking me?
What are you telling me?

It is then, I see her …
Woman of Wisdom who sees all,
Knows all,
Is all.
I gaze into the now stilled water.
Like a mirror, it reflects,
Yet I am left with half a vision.

I touch again, the bowl, and watch the ripples circle outward
Or is it inward, I cannot tell
For now, the pool is vast,
Like an ocean,
Expanding as I gaze into its depths.
I recognize my vision …
She is my Muse,
The other me, the real me,
The one I wish to be …

Lightly touching the bowl gives the water life,
And in it’s rippling depth, the candle flickers brightly.

Everything is connected …
A touch here
Creates change somewhere else.
A few rocks well placed can dam a river.
Poison sprayed carelessly can kill an ecosystem.
A gentle step, can an earthquake trigger.
Touching the bowl creates an ocean.
A simple candle flame becomes a moonbeam
Riding upon the ocean’s restless surface.
Everything we do reaches forever.
Think about it
As you gaze into a lacquered bowl of darkened water.
Search its depths for secrets from your past.
Discover your primitive nature and learn from it.
For it is from there that stories will emerge.
It is from there you’ll find yourself.
It is from there an enlightened future beckons

Vi
©April 2002

I Cry

Suddenly, I want to cry,
No reason why.
I just want to cry.
The sorrow
That destructs my soul
Has no reason
Or explanation.
My desire to lie down in the dark
Is overwhelmingly
Demanding.
The sobs
That wrack my body
Are robbing me of life
Of breath,
Of heartbeat.

Where once was warmth,
There now is cold.
Where once was sunshine,
Now ghostly fog.
Where once was love,
Now emptiness.
Where once I stood,
A void.

I pull my wrap about me
And walk into the cold, wet fog
To enter that which isn’t
And find the nonexistent.

Vi
(c) February 2002