Chasing Visions

Serendipity

Strange serendipity

Out of odds in this city

Shaded colors of daylight

Stepping into the night

Sphere of life

In continuous strife

Light synthesis

With no clear dividing line

Or memesis.

Bold branches, strong roots

Silent sounds of walking boots

Thinking outside the box,

Fleeting sight of love on the rocks
Melody of an echo close,
Just when a moment froze
Thought encounter unexpected,
But standing corrected.
Out of odds, no explanation
For this strange vibration
Of gravity's causation.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

A Little Bit of Everything

Between expression and illusion
Reality of error and light of fusion
Touched by the phantom of truth
Vintage fountain of youth
Headlines of the hour
Buildings of power
Tangled trees
In the chilly evening breeze
Skaters with red cheeks
Poetry on the ground
Diverse street sounds
De todo un poco
A little bit of everything
A seat on the side
Of a circus ring
No apparent reason
But in due season
Swift and startling conversion
Colorful immersion
And personal association
With a particular occasion
A quick peek, hide and seek -
A mother sneaking up on her child.
Two delighted squeals,
Little sneakers with blinking heels,
Chasing across Pershing Square
Remembering a moment so rare.
In the center of the park,
Captured like a punctuation mark
It suddenly dawned on me,
This was the place to be.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Always Running Against the Wind

Far across the cornfields I go
Little twigs nipping under my feet
While my heart is at home
Underneath a road so steep
Surrounded by fog's mask
But up to the task.
Can't remember when it was dark
When the sun came up
A folded pocket somewhere
Holding your stories close
Ghosts they reappear
In mountains stacked with fear
Said I could not get anywhere
Though far away
We are still the same
Beyond the blind jungle
Signature of a rainbow
My heart is at home.

© All rights reserved. Colleen Yorke.

Origami Memories

Please excuse the mess
The children are shaping memories
Using paint, crayons, clay to express
What only they know best.
Scraps and crumbs land on the floor
Something I once wore.
We all have been here before.
Looking at the rest of a dress
Knowing you didn't expect any less

Collecting little pieces nonetheless.

Memories come in all shapes and sizes

And stories colored with new surprises

Wide-eyed wonder and adventure

An old memory and a new venture.

Lines in the Wind

How do we get from A to B

Can not be up to me.

In the storm,

Beneath the stars,
High waves on a lake,

Here we are ...

Lives in the wind

Caught up in a breeze.

If this is a dream,
Could somebody wake me up please?

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Tints of Vanilla and Rose

Chocolate on my hands
Tints of vanilla and rose
Flour on my clothes
Exotic notes
Taking me to foreign lands.
Grandma is looking over my shoulders
She would have laughed aloud
But I know she would have been proud.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Stroke by Stroke

Homage to a friend and a teacher:
Dots of red corn roses
Sketching happiness in doses
Wonders of life under your spell
You taught us well

The stories you fed

The strangers you met
The face they couldn’t forget

Words and words

Line after line

Stroke by stroke

You took note

To speak what no one hears

To write what no one reads,

To retouch a life seized

In black and white

To recolor

Piece by piece.
You played your part
In a lifetime captured by art.

Prism of Light

Colors of the night parted
Prisms of light
Not for the faint-hearted
Reflecting the dispersion of an affair
Saying that now you are not as you were
The frontiers are not north or south, east or west
A nervous matter at best.
The renewal of broken relations
Lock safe with a million combinations
A thousand scientific equations
Undiffused, separate and rigidly alone
House of one room, piled up stone
The corner of creation
Shines through a temperament
Framed for another time
The sentiment is evident
Given the image of what is actually seen
Forgetting everything that has been
And the best and the worst of this is
That neither is to blame.
The answer remains the same.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Sticky Truth

The ecstasy of hallucination,
Patience of an eternity
Hanging onto
The frown of a clown.
Breathing in a moment
Without a sound.
A brief high
Sugary trip along some brim
Until gravity kicks in.
Et tu, Brutus?
Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.
Dancing along a balancing beam
Towards the horizon's gleam.

What the Fish Taught

A spider web

Sticky threads,

Absurd at best.

Cut through the haze,

Long past the daze,

Not much left of the maze.

A dragon to replace

The torn space.

Smile of a bird.

This isn't a first.

On the Outside Looking In

Images on a screen
Traveling a time machine.
Picturing him in between
Hearing his heart beats
And his silent screams.
He left his door wide open,
Point of no return,
He tells her she doesn't understand,
But she could learn.
In a corner, trying not to blink,
On the outside looking in.

Hidden Forces

The wind sings a song
Of man's passions and desires.
The starry skies keep quiet
Of man's dreams.
And every snow flake
reminiscent of a tear not shed.
The total silence
We surrender to only rarely
It is filled with unsaid words,
not shown gestures,
Denied propositions of love,
Unspoken curiosities.
In secret kept, in silence sealed
Lies our truth hidden:
Yours and mine.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Ghosting

It seems to be a curse of our generation. Surely, emails and text messaging have contributed to it. We make friends, we become intimate with someone, and then we stop talking. The urban dictionary provides a word for that: "ghosting."

"Ghosting" is when our partner ends the relationship by cutting off all communication, without explanations nor forewarning. Every attempt to connect gets the ultimate silent treatment. Someone we laughed with, cried with, hugged and tasted the world with suddenly disappears without a trace. We dive into our deepest insecurities for answers, not quite believing what is happening - wasn't he or she the one? - and we resort to inner conversations with ourselves, trying to rationalize our feelings. And then there is that faint beacon of hope that we will see them again, that it is all a short-lived, bad dream, and we look to the door, waiting for the person to walk in, because in the end love conquers all.

There are psychological reasons why someone ghosts; at its core, ghosting in its essence is avoidance – wanting to avoid confrontation, difficult conversations, or hurting someone's feelings. However, this choice is probably the worst outcome a ghost could hope for – for one, too often emotions, frustrations, misunderstandings are blown up disproportionately. Stepping back a second and putting ourselves into our partner's shoes place things in perspective. Instead, the ghost clings onto an one-sided view of things, overthinks something said in the heat of human dimensions – and easily fixed in a face-to-face conversation. An insurmountable mountain of "problems" ensues, and the ghost vanishes. Unsettled feelings remain, often for years to come. Maybe we move on with our lives, and find someone else to fill up the void, but at what price?

People are not mirror images of each other nor should they be.

Snapshot below the bridge

The old man, wearing a hooded jacket which covered up half of his face, tattered along, heavily relying on his crutches underneath the dark bridge just below the freeway.

I sat in my car waiting for the red light to change, my heart aching with every step the poor soul took. As I looked on, I fought with my inner spirit to just pull over and offer the old man a lift. God knows I would have, had I not known the risk of a single white woman in Los Angeles stopping in the middle of the night to let a strange man, whose face she couldn't see, into her car to be greater.

As the light turned green, I looked back over my shoulder one more time, wondering, if I was doing the right thing and feeling pretty certain I wasn't.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Suitcase Heart

I carry my heart in a little suitcase

Through time, through space

Through mad banners of wind

Holding the secrets of a dear friend.

I carry my heart in a little suitcase

Walking through empty streets and
Through rain

I am soaked from love and pain.
Hearing the crumbled pieces of my own.

My cover is blown.

Planting the roots on the shore,

Knowing I have been here before.

Passed the street of your heart,

Closed gate and a security guard.

Stood there for a minute or two,

Watched your dark window.

And heard the accord of a piano.

Then the cops came around too.

I am too early or too late.

I wrap pieces in a little suitcase,

Keeping a steady pace.

Balancing on my toes,

Tip point of the world,

Basking in the moonlight.

Tonight I am traveling light.

Life is a rehearsal

Life is a rehearsal.
The future is a puzzle.
The present is a maze.
Once the world was simple,
Now it is upside down.
Nothing like it was before.
Truly, I don't understand it anymore.
I am written history.
Stripped of all hiding behind.
Back and forth my pen is weaving,
Erasing the past, rewriting the present.
I am planning to drape the world in newly- minted shreds.
It is all a stricken landscape.
The world cannot be rebuilt. So we create a replica.
With our bloody hands we create an inauthentic world
Pieced together from the shards of a vanished,
Once human civilization.
We glue it together and standing back by the flickering fire,
We embrace.
Remember history as if you lived it yourself.
I am rewriting the past.
With bloody hands I paint a line, a border.

I am choosing my own colors, creating a rainbow.

I am split, I cradle one culture, I am sandwiched between two.

No trail, no footprint, no map, no way home,
No place to set my feet.

Where do I go? History.
I am lost. No excuse, no comfort in the present

If I don't recognize the shards of a broken world,
The humanity.

I do have bloody hands. They don't wash off.

They are stained from the red paint
I drew a border across my identity.

Tolerance, tell me about it.
I am rewriting history right now.

I am rehearsing. The future is a crazy place.
See you all there!

Infinity Interrupted

Blood shooting through the veins

Dormant nerves awake
Warm tingles of a heart

A line moving up

Strangers holding their breath

Infinity interrupted

Not staying what they came here for

Between too early and too late

Lies a moment

A hand on your sleeve can pull you over

Somebody is turning around.

Six Degrees of Separation

A child's hand
In a grief-stricken land
Six degrees of separation
A line dividing a nation
Up and down and around
Beyond the punch lines,
Four letter words
Screaming exclamation marks,
And half asleep sharks.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

In Vertical Transit

“Sixth floor”, I said, dodging the closing elevator door.

“Are you sure?” asked the aging woman operator.

Many folks get off on the wrong floor,

Missing their one chance in life.

People come, people go, some on improbable errands,

Others just for the ride, I guess.

Yesterday a laughing couple got out at five,

The marriage license desk.

Later they rode down arguing.

I let off a pair of punks at nine last week,

Green and blue hair sticking out,

Leather clothes, chains-a-clunking.

Haven’t seen them since.

Did they slip by?

A woman with seven children went up this morning.

They’ve been coming down one by one
Every hour on the hour.

Once a distraught fellow said he wanted

To jump from the top.

I let him off the third floor
Instead of the twelfth.

I spend eight hours a day in vertical transit.

Ein Gast überall und nirgendwo

Here he goes again,
A thousand miles
Remembering him now
As I did then
A thousand miles.
Lost to nowhere,
A guest everywhere.
Footsteps descending creaking stairs,
Living life between two chairs.
Little does he know
Little does he expect
A long way gone from perfect,
Watching the past go up in smoke.
Feeling hot, feeling cold
Like a flower on a stone:
Ein Gast überall und nirgendwo.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Walking With A Stranger

On the road of life, every once in awhile
You meet a stranger who asks to walk with you.
He doesn’t want to know where you have been,
What you do or where you are going;
He doesn’t want directions,
A commitment or a place to stay.
Go on, you are in for maybe
The best conversation of your life.

© Colleen Yorke. All right reserved.

Diagonals in Squares

Diagonals in squares,

A life between chairs

The mind’s eye buried deep

Nothing is certain but the unforeseen

Thinking as intermediate state between

All the flora and fauna there are in the world,

And every kind of artifact too

Eikasia, pistis, dianoia, nous –

As being is to becoming

So intellect stands to belief

Knowledge adds confidence

And thought to conjecture

A divided line

Nor scale nor progression

There may be coherence

Karma

Tonight on my drive home, a radio moderator explained the concept of "ghosting" and then proceeded to tell her listeners what to do, if they have been ghosted:

"(1) Delete everything you have of the person (pictures, texts, emails) until you have nothing to remind you; (2) Stand up for yourself and tell the person what you think, even if they never respond; (3) Be thankful, you would have never wanted this person in your life anyway."

That's it. Her words were followed by some non-descriptive song, another, then another. I stayed with the station, hoping to catch that mysterious woman giving therapeutic advice on the air, surely there would be a talk of some sort on the phenomena of ghosting? Nothing. Apparently deleting or unfriending a person takes care of your ghosts.

Coincidentally, Professor Robinson, a renowned mediator with the Pepperdine Straus Institute of Dispute Resolution, gave a thought-provoking lecture on "apologizing" today. Specifically, he introduced the following hypothesis, using the scenario of a car accident as an example: What if you rear-ended another car, got out, and apologized to the driver? Now, the law student in us silently screamed: "No, no way! That is admitting liability." However, over the next hour, Professor Dr. Robinson led us into a dazzling world of apology, forgiveness and reconciliation. Can we not ever just apologize, he asks. Do we really have to enter that vicious cycle of denial, guilt, pretending, and going forward without ever seeking closure or reconciliation? Can we not as lawyers and as decent human beings step up, admit mistakes, admit weaknesses and face consequences? Are consequences really bad?

He provides another example of a child who threw a rock into a neighbor's window and tells his papa: "No one saw it. No one will ever know." He takes one long glance: "As parents, what do you tell your child? Do you tell him, 'oh, okay we shall lie low then, no one will ever find out'. Or do you teach your son about responsibility and facing consequences? Why?" "Because I need to preserve my integrity as a parent," a student answers. Integrity. A guide post in our journey to accept responsibility and to grow up. Professor Robinson tells us that he got a call from a former student recently. He had made a stupid mistake years ago, and now believed his life was crumbling into one messy pile before him. Professor Robinson reminded him that we all are vulnerable in some form or another, and advised him to reach out to people and tell them the truth. As it turned out, the consequences were nowhere near the total apocalypse the former student had envisioned. Professor Robinson's lesson to us today: "Be the person you want to live with. Face consequences. Do apologize, do admit your flaws and weaknesses, do express your feelings. Be human."

I think about that moderator who suggested fixing the ghosts in our lives by forgetting them. I wonder what experiences she went through that made her abstract a person to a mere thought that can be expunged. Grieving can be a long and arduous process, and we suffer through all the phases of it. Yes, it is painful to have a ghost living in your heart, and not really knowing why, but there are many reasons why people ghost and without knowing more, no one should ever advise anyone to delete a person from their lives.

"How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours." - Wayne Dyer

Rome wasn't built in a day

Swimming the flood, wading through snow

Transparent to another dimension

Easing a tension

Before something else explodes.

Echoing note from a harmonious whole

Flash of a touch, whirlwind in a sigh

Fire climbing up invisible stairs

Life in one bounteous answer:

Rome wasn't built in a day.

Dream of a Child

There is a child,
Who goes forth every day
Discovering life in her own way.
The horizon's edge,
Every cubic inch of space,
She dreams in her dream
The dreams of other dreamers.
Choosing a smile
For all that remains
Unexplained.
Innocent and yet so wild
The simple dream of child.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.

Between Jest and Gravity

Beyond the fading moonlight
Creatures of the night
Life on standby
Honking guy
Flipping the bird
This is the start of something good
Open trenches
Zombie game of Stenches
Occupied benches
A lesson unlearned
A life turned
Between jest and gravity.

© Colleen Yorke. All right reserved.

And I shall never be the president of Funafuti...

I always prepare for my meetings with Jack. When I ring his doorbell, I am armed and well rehearsed with new life wisdoms. The circumstances force me to. Jack is unlike any guy you know or will ever meet. He is single, and he turned 25, 30, 35, living from one moment to the next.

Every year, just before the Jewish New Year, Jack discards the recent year. He gives away books, which he is not going to read - too much time has passed and he hasn’t read them. He tries to recall the pictures that he didn’t take and to remember the letters that he didn’t write. And after some hours of reflection, he departs from the documentation of lived life. He says, separation makes him free. After all, all that remains of life is a memory, which is not dependent on things.

I tread carefully: “What about your resolutions, Jack?”, as he opens the second bottle of red wine. His eyes sparkle, and he smiles. Jack has never given up his resolutions. This is as certain as the fact that I will never become president of Funafuti. “They aren’t worth anything,” he says. “Every feeling has been felt. Every thought thought of. You do it yourself. Fill it with purpose and meaning.”

I try again: “Why start over every year, Jack? If you didn’t have a calendar, you wouldn’t even get the idea…"
He interrupts me: “Let's not have this discussion. Have some wine. I want to spare you the bataillone of New Year aphorisms. Seriously, I am armed. You don’t stand a chance.”

Well, for what it is worth, Jack and I have been friends for decades and I know we will remain friends, until life itself discards us to a memory past.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved.