Savage Persuasion


"Yellow-Striped Violins"

Yellow-Striped Violin

The heart rides the strings of the bow

against the silence

Cries escape from a pleasure never known

Now a torturous ecstasy

as passion is released

as passion escapes

in all directions of the soul

Slack-faced, mind driven asunder

in the sonance of a women freshly loved

A woman taken by the powerful

longing of a male presence

clinging to the life of the strings

Joy pulsating!

Veins open

Serenity resides along inner chambers

Nerves become pathways of grace

An awakening at a window

with linens so bright

they light the room.

"... reminiscing the covers of Romance Novels and Classical L.P.'s"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

Candy Pink… Pink Bow

I awake from a dream holding onto Julie with my arms wrapped around her waist.  I’m saying that my Mum is just wanting to buy as much time as possible before she dies of cancer.

In this dream I see a leopard print jacket with a candy pink, pink bow, at the top of the neck – who’s touching my clothes?

The walk to Ambleside is littered with abandoned logs.

A collage collects along the low granite wall where the seams of blacktop meet with the rock.

The wind presses forcefully against me like a new lover.  It takes all my strength to walk forward into it.

The clouds spit at me and a crow sprays white splotches across my black umbrella.

I leave the library on my way home with three heavy books curled into my arm none of which I want to read when I get home.

My Mother’s apartment building shivers in cold grey as I walk by.  I let the wind pull my hair across my eyes so I don’t have to look into the dark empty windows where she once resided in warm lighting.

I tell myself all along that nothing matters but the feeling of being under twelve today and noticing how connected I am to all of nature as I walk home in fluctuating weather conditions.

Once inside I put on something warm, wipe the bird doo from my umbrella and brew bancha tea.  I ignore the days’ old rinsed dishes and the clean laundry waiting to be put away.  I can’t scrub a sink or address an envelope right now.  I turn the ringer off on the phone, and relax into nothing.

"Sleeps in Neighbor's Treetop as I Dream"

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

I Must Slow My Blinks

"Memory Wound in Roses"

A look,

that may never be

seen again;

special, worth

a fortune, and

so on, but where

are the words

to explain how

some of these

feelings wring

your heart,

take your

breath away, and

leave you

longing to

repeat them

and you can

never re-capture

the event again.

To re-create it

would turn it

into cinema, a

universe away

from your realm.

Feeding my

inner self with

feelings; my

sight drawn to

softly illuminated

vistas between

the hard places.

The tiny sprouts

of green grass

growing between

long tiles laid

end to side bor-

dering the side-

walk speak of

finding a

resiliant spot

within a hard

world.  That micro

size microcausm

that nourishes

your growth in

the same way

those magic

moments you

were remem-

bering did in

times past. They

sent you out to

shine.  They kept

you from drying

up and curling

in on yourself.

They kept your

ears tuned, your

senses keen, your

reason for

communicating

with a trans-

parent green

bug on the

plate glass win-

dow, and once I

blinked it was

gone.  Is that

what life is

like?  I believe

so.  I must

slow my blinks

or stop blinking

altogether.

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets

“Box Camera”

"Untitled"
We all crave a little color in our lives whether it comes in the form of hues, encounters, explorations, or dreams.

From a previous dream:

…Now I took the man around the corner to point out the window with cobalt to ask him if he’d give me permission to photograph the stunning beauty of negative pattern to positive pieces captured in this window.

He gave me a box camera with a long strap with chain link clinking next to the body.  His brother didn’t agree with his generosity but he insisted I take it.

Picture your dreams.

Discarded dreams become poetry.

Night writing will lead you to the light in your soul.

Copyright © 2002 Nicole Rigets Journal