Capture the Drops

photo: cristina norcross

Capture the Drops

 by Cristina M.R. Norcross

Sometimes love feels rationed –

doleful, little cups

from an inattentive lover.

The forgotten word –

the rush out the door –

the, goodbye

without, I love you, too.

There is a well

that gathers affection’s rain.

Years of held hands,

of walking side-by-side –

a trail of crumbs

to remember the road,

when it wasn’t this lonely.

Cup your hands

to capture the drops.

Retrain the heart

to give a little –

a soft reed in the wind.

It all flows back.

The touch on the shoulder,

the glance back before opening the door,

the notion that

years collect –

they gather in a semi-circle

of love remembered –

love that insists on staying.

~ first published in An Ariel Anthology (Ariel Woods Books)

How the Kiss Begins

digital art: ralph murre

How the Kiss Begins

by Cristina M.R. Norcross

It starts with the intoxicating drawing in of breath

as you lean forward,

becoming joined to your lover’s aura.

It is a melting and melding –

richer than the last dollop of butter in the pan.

The best kisses linger.

Before work,

the early morning, honeyed goodbye kiss

holds within each, soft brush of lip

the promise of more kisses

and simply – more.

You close your eyes,

just as the scent of summer skin

becomes your guide.

Your heart is a samba beat in your chest.

Next, the smallest gliding of lips finds a cheek,

allowing your mouth to wander to the fullest kiss.

Lips to lips, you stay there –

breathing in love like a thirsty climber,

until your lungs are about to burst for oxygen.

You hold the kiss just a touch longer

and fall into the embrace that knows

this will be a fleeting goodbye,

until the next kiss

brings waves of running horses to your door.

~ first published in The Lava Storyteller (Red Mare Press)

Acceptance

digital photoart: ralph murre

Acceptance

by Cristina M.R. Norcross

Branches were cut,

before I could touch

the new, green leaves –

velvet flesh.

I no longer wish for

a brightly colored streamer

to appear,

while I dance into the night.

The air is thick

with choices.

This is time enough.

Rug fibers softened by living,

The carved, wooden legs

of Aunt Mary’s side table,

and the chipped place setting

from our wedding,

that didn’t quite make it to England.

When I place my finger

on the table by lamplight,

a message in dust appears.

This is the life

you always wanted.

You just don’t know it yet.

~ first published in Verse & Vision (Q Gallery) 

Floating

photo: ralph murre

Floating

(For Holly Kallie)

by Cristina M.R. Norcross

What if my purpose is

nothing more than just to float?

How noble –

how pure –

to simply lie on the surface

of the water,

while the sun chases itself

in golden, oval puddles of light –

while I watch the leaves on trees

clap their tiny hands.

The grand hikes of persistence –

the first flicker

of creative motive burns

inside a fiery belly.

I am always hungry.

The taste of paper lingers

on my lips,

as I open and close my mouth

like a curious fish.

I will build a sculpture

each day.

Then tear it down

and start again.

An invisible monument will remain

after I am gone.

Only those with vision

will truly know its shape.

They share my purpose –

to just float.

~ previously published in The Lava Storyteller

  (Red Mare Press)

One Story

photo: ralph murre

One Story

by Cristina M. R. Norcross

There are nearly thirteen million people in the world. (sic)

 None of those people is an extra.

They’re all the leads of their own stories.

~Charlie Kaufman, from his film, Synecdoche, New York

Playing the lead in a haystack,

existing side-by-side in our solitary lives,

solace comes when we join these needles together –

the thread of life.

Jumping into character,

taking leave of the present world –

who wears your clothes when you sleep?

I am just a forgotten pebble –

a spark of granite daring to glint.

You see me walking down the street –

out of focus arms and legs –

a disappearing narrative.

The screens keep getting wider –

a stage full of leading ladies and leading men.

They all spin in circles –

red curtains flying.

The cleaner, unheard,

leaves all untouched except the dust.

The man attached to his phone,

alone on the airport walkway,

has a family waiting.

The actress learns her lines on a threadbare couch,

sitting on hope.

We are all One Story.

~ first published on Your Daily Poem

Lake George, Autumn

artwork: georgia o'keeffe

Lake George, Autumn

(Inspired by the painting by Georgia O’Keeffe)

by Cristina M.R. Norcross

Sun-burnt trees bow

and kiss the earth

like rows of praying women.

They lift their heavy heads,

leveling their gaze at the lake,

as the deep, lustrous tones of Autumn

spread like brush fire

during a dry heat wave.

Shadows play along the surface,

turning crystal clear water

into the troubled depths of sapphire blue.

The mountains stand guard –

a watchful blanket of crimson vegetation.

I wrap myself in this

scene of dark decay,

that smells of sweet licorice and smoke,

expecting to find more length

to the season.

Touches of yellow evaporate

on the tips of tree tops,

and the mellow sun fades

earlier each day.

Winter washes the palette clean,

and we wait impatiently

for buds to bloom.

~ first published in The Toronto Quarterly

The Last Party

artwork: ralph murre

The Last Party

(For Josie)

by Cristina M. R. Norcross

It all begins to fade

in the land of forget-me-not years.

One moment I am dropping a slice of lemon into my tea –

the next moment

the back of my bed raises

with the click of a magic button.

Crosswords are my saving grace.

All of the clues –

a familiar comfort.

I wonder who keeps filling them in?

She should be more considerate and use a pencil.

There is a woman who comes and points

to pictures on my dresser.

Sometimes I am good at the guessing game –

sometimes not.

She is kind though and brings me a new nightgown

with each visit.

In times of joyful suspension,

the room is filled

with people I have not seen in years.

Gertrude’s fur wrap was always too showy,

but it looks good on her now.

Bill is busy serving cocktails,

while they set up another Canasta game.

It is a party of laughter and noise.

You should come –

before it all disappears.

~ First published on Your Daily Poem