The Fainting Couch of His Arms

(artist unknown)

By Annette Marie Hyder             

She swooned into the fainting couch of his arms

and held her breath when smelling salts were offered.
No sir, no pungent remedy needed.
She was fine right there.
(NaPoWriMo day 29)

Sunday Things: Persephone

Image courtesy of Poetic Wanderlust

And Birds and Bees
By Annette Marie Hyder

Did you see Persephone come in the night
with her long dark hair floating behind her
like waters unbound
and her ghost-white feet rocking the cradles of roots
with every step she took?

Were you awake this morning when her hair reflected
every color of every flower
like a myriad butterflies
and there were wings, trembling in their newness,
in their eagerness, growing from her ankles just above her feet?

Did you hear the hum of the bees, the twitter of birds
that circled, jewels with beaks and stingers that laced around her neck?
Did you feel your back stretch as if you too had wings to unfurl,
and flowers to wake and words to write
with the sharp edge of a roses’ thorn or the quick dart of bee’s sting?

Capture your colors while you may and run and laugh and sing and play
spring is here and likewise so are you.

(NaPoWriMo day 28)

The moon hung around

By Annette Marie Hyder

outside my window all night
and worse than the brightness
(so I couldn’t sleep)
and worse than the breeze
scented with dew
was the discourteous way
that the moon just kept talking
all night long about you.

(NaPoWriMo day 27)

“On nights like these,” he said

By Annette Marie Hyder

“when raindrops shiver on every tree
when the storm is a veil
covering the face of the sky
and thunder is the low drumbeat
of the heart of the night,
on every night but especially
on nights like these,
I want to pierce your mysteries.”

(NaPoWriMo day 25)


By Annette Marie Hyder

you taught me to bottle my tears,
to make a potion of my desire for you
and decant it into a flask,
to put these things on the farthest dusty shelf
that I would need a ladder for.
You taught me to roll my thoughts of you into cigars
lit, but left unsmoked, their plumes and ashes
allowed to disperse upon the wind — untasted.
you taught me to do without you.
you taught me how to forget you,
You are a sigil in my mind
of things once remembered clearly
a symbol for something I never lost
because you were never mine.
Teacher, I have learned my lesson

(NaPoWriMo day 24)

Her mind liked to feather dust ideas

By Annette Marie Hyder

then put them neatly back upon the shelf.
She always kept the floor of her subconscious
you-can-eat-off-it spotless clean
and her shiny windows let you see for miles.
But looking through those windows
was discomforting.
For all her miles were empty to the horizon
all fallow fields without one single tree.

(NaPoWriMo day 23)

Gaia the Giver

By Annette Marie Hyder

She speaks in sign language.
I’m a giver
, she signs
proffering roses and champagne,
chocolates, diamonds, and soft sandy beaches.
Whatever you need, I’ve got it, she finger swaggers.
I’ll be your shelter, your garden,
your waterfalls and soaring peaks.

She pulls mountains out of nowhere
(just to show she can)
and wears them voluptuously,
drapes rivers and seas sensuously
around her figure.
She silently calls deer, rabbits, and foxes
to run and play in her hair.

She dances through space, some say,
but others say she swims —
a blue and green mermaid
who gave her voice, long ago, to have legs
walk upon her surface.

Happy Earth Day 2013!

Improbable Feathers

The Poet by Christian Schloe

By Annette Marie Hyder

It’s true. We do use our own feathers
writing, in making, in creating.
We pull them from our backs, throats,
and breasts. Or we find a feather
lying on the ground
pick it up and treasure it as our own
and so it does become
Don’t think of soft
down filled comforters,
of feather
fat pillows,
or angel wings fringed in dazzling
quills of sapphires, rubies, and gold,
but of one iridescent plume
shimmering in the mud
or still visibly jutting from the
of the proverbial cat’s grin.
Or, think of that feather
improbably angled
from a lone wolf’s paw.

(NaPoWriMo day 22)

Sunday Things: An Old, Blue, Toyota Camry

Right after my younger brother Teddy died, his widow (Vicky, a dear friend of mine) gave me one of his old cars, a blue Toyota Camry. I was going through a divorce and had moved back to Florida and really needed a car.

Even after that car broke down and couldn’t be driven anymore, I just couldn’t stand the thought of getting rid of it. My mom let me keep it on her property, a little ways from the house parked under a cluster of pine trees. I know she hated having that car there, a car that didn’t run just setting on her property like that, like it was redneck central or something.

I would go out to that car sometimes and just sit in it taking in the smell of Teddy’s cologne. Funny how a person’s scent will permeate their belongings. His had sewn itself into the fibers of the seats, the headliner, even the steering wheel. When I touched the steering wheel his cologne would startle off the wheel like a flock of aerosol birds and scatter into the air. Proust had his tea and madeleines. I had Teddy’s old blue Camry and Drakkar Noir cologne.

Most of the times I sat in that car, the hole in my heart felt all the bigger the longer I sat. But sometimes, just enough to keep me coming back to sit in it, I felt as though, along with the pine needles settling on the hood of the car and the sunshine making me sweat in such a sleepy way, along with that, I felt a sense of him being a part of me forever.

And the reason I am thinking about this is because today, when I was driving my daughter to the Anime Detour convention, I was hit on westbound I94 heading for the southbound I35 exit with the smell of Drakkar Noir. I don’t know what strange confluence of chemicals created this memory bomb, but there it was and I felt such a sense of anticipation, sad in its unfullfillableness, but strong enough to make me want to start speeding down the highway with the windows down and the memory of laughter as exhaust, that he was coming along with me for the ride.