A simple fig

“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I read the words,

Those she spoke in her mind to the world

so long ago

before she was gone

and I fear that I understand the truth

of the dream, the fear she holds.

She speaks the words of want,

Overwhelmed by abundance,

of ultimately not deciding

from fear,

and for some reasons her words make me sad.

To feel that way,

to reach out

yet pull back unsure

indecision the hardest cut

as she starves wondering which

is the one to pluck,

and which shall be the chosen one,

deeper words reminiscent of a movie

that sparked fear when I was young,

Sophie’s Choice ,

in the depths of war to have to choose

between one or another,

I hate choice therefore

I chose something as opposed to nothing,

I reach out and hold it in my hands

appreciative for the chance

to have it all.

Shadow flight

Shadow world of night
Flying on chariots of soul
She searches for the solace
Of tangled thoughts.
High through night
Amongst stars and hidden spaces
The crevice of the mind alive
Just suspicious of the laughing moon
Who shines the light
Who exposes her flight
To the fancy whim of fickle Mars.
So far away a poet sits pondering
And reads books by those who have been
Long gone, but touched by words that still ring out
Like a solitary church bell beckoning
Come and worship.
Through worlds of music and fine pieces of art
She gives her heart on paper
Another poet whispering words
Touching someone today or maybe
A hundred years from now a child will read
Lost in wonder of the soul that could produce
The image that lies at that very moment
In that childs mind,
How could they know,
How could they have seen the secrets
Of their soul.

“I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people’s eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar