HOME

Archive
Index


POEMS

Blue
Herons
are a
Mystery


I�ve Been
Dying


Mach 1

Will You
Remember



 

Heather Long � Archive

 Heather�s biography page   �   Internet site



Blue Herons are a Mystery

We have not happened to each other
yet. Not completely. I think your thoughts
so you can finish mine. We play the odds
for the infinite, and our shared moonlight
makes even the sighs of the meadow intimate.
Your laughter lifts clouds above mountains,
your lips make white lightning, and your eyes
drive our proud chariot.

Don�t lose me in the distance. Our forever
is in our voices and I want to speak to you
through firestorms. Let�s plant a tree
and grow our forest of forget-me-nots.
I�ll wear a red dress so you can see me
in your naked darkness, and a parachute
of dances will bring you my smile.

I know white-knuckle journeys are not
easy, but this one is worth a thousand
safety nets. Blue herons are a mystery.
Time and distance are just tangles �
we won�t let complications nest there if �
if you won�t lose me in the distance.

We have not happened to each other
yet. Not completely.



Copyright �1999 by Heather Long. All rights reserved.

Top of page          Home

 



I�ve Been Dying

I�m like a calico who licks her body clean,
heals bleeding wounds gleaned at play
in dangerous neighborhoods. I�ve been dying
by degrees measured on some scale
calibrated in a heaven not ready to receive me.
So many lives expended just playing the odds.

It�s not odd that I, and this new-found god within me,
shamelessly probe the shadows for a guide
to our own divinity.
Never alone in our beauty, jaded moons tear
the sky and we watch, confused at the fury
of those who sit in judgment.
Should I take flight from messiahs
who are not perfect? I think not. I worship instead,
imperfection revealed in brilliant back-light, and learn.
I�ve been dying by degrees and you don�t scare me,
shadow player. A kernel cast on your own wind,
you chance to land in a field, fertile and waiting
for your blessing. Fly on, so I may languish
here awhile in my fool�s nirvana.
I have a real god to deal with darkness.
We don�t need you. She, and I, have a way
of landing on our tongue-washed feet.



Copyright �1998 by Heather Long. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic � First Journey (Sept. 2000)


Top of page          Home

 



Mach 1

I came to you naked,
celebrating your cool wind
across the fever of my dying
skin. You promised creation;
spoke of a new god, a vision
higher than this mortal one we�re in.

I came to you naked,
consigned the past to memory,
burned all the bridges I had crossed.
You called my name: �Goddess�;
taught me to run with the wolves,
shun the ordinary, reach open-minded
for the aura of the sun.

I came to you naked,
my voice the only vestige
of who I was; the promise
of who I could be. I was Diogenes,
looking, and now we are poised,
see the shape of the path that lies ahead.
I am your mate,
and I am an eagle, ready
to explore beyond the box
you helped me see,
hit Mach 1 on this flight to become.

We have each come naked,
and in this honesty,
we will never be clothed again.



Copyright �1998 by Heather Long. All rights reserved.
Published in Poetry the Write Way: Webstatic � First Journey (Sept. 2000)


Top of page          Home

 



Will You Remember

Your eyes and your fingers grazed
my beleaguered heart, kindled a spark
long buried in the ashes of my years.
Lines on your face mirror the highways I�ve seen,
chances taken, byways traced for a glimpse of the dream.

Dare we embrace, even knowing how painful the grieving,
how the heart shuts down with doors that are closing.
Should we chance that the gain will be more in measure
than the loss of the leaving?

Our bodies, though lacking the grace of the young,
still fitfully tremble at the touch of the tongue, teasing �
passions inspired to flame. Will we care that perfection of line
and of form lie behind us; will it matter if we can�t perform
as expected when the dance and the music were bold,
and perfected with partners we loved
and left for new promises?

Will you call me your lover if you don�t see me naked,
if my breasts are soft against the cushion of your thighs
as I kneel to caress you? Can we waltz to this tempo, play
the blues and Vangelis, and never be angry over commitments?
�I didn�t know I would meet you,� you reflected.
Now I know what that meant, and my pen
trembles as I touch you with words
instead of my body.

We�re older, not old. I�ll wait a while longer, if you�ll understand �
I didn�t know I would meet you � when I have to go home, where
only the cold is measurable. And will you remember my softness,
pressed against your hard circumstance, surprising
the two of us with our boldness?

And will you remember that I�ll never forget you �
that I�ve waited a lifetime to whisper I love you,
instead of goodbye?



Copyright �1999 by Heather Long. All rights reserved.

Top of page          Home