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The Poetry of Marcia Miller-Twiford
The Writing Forum Hostess/Webmaster
WRITER’S PROFILE:
A fifth-generation native Californian, born in Southern California, I currently live in the coastal mountain region of Northern California close to the wine countries of Napa,
Sonoma and Mendicino. I’m the widowed mother of a grown son and daughter.
In addition to poetry I write short stories, am a freelance writer for my local newspaper, and am working on a novella which is due for publication in early 2009.
Most of my poetry is written in free verse. I choose free verse as did Robert Frost, Ezra Pound, and Walt Whitman, and as my favorite poet, Rod McKuen, does. My poetry comes from my heart and the depths of my soul; I believe that to be true of all poets. All said and done I write as I do because I must.
My book of poetry and short stories “Reach for the Moon” written under my maiden name, Marcia Townsend, published by Publish America, is available for purchase through several sources. For more information please click here. Or, if you’d like an autographed copy, at a members only discount price, please Email me at the link below.
Email: marcia@thewritingforum.net
“For an instant our lives met, our souls flowered ...”
~ Oscar Wilde
POEMS - Page 5:
(click on the button in front of any poem title in the list below
to be linked directly to that poem’s location on the page)
 Remembering
Today I Became My Mother
That Night
Thanksgiving 2008
Willow Weep for Me
A Call Unanswered
And So It Goes
Love’s Rhetoric
Shadow of the Moon
Two Ordinary People
Season’s Change
The Mother Sea
The Chair
The Darkening
Comfort in the Silence
Time of the Lilacs
A Mother Remembers
Autumn in Hawaii
A Woman
Poets
Where Did All the Princess’ Go?
Forgotten Yesterdays
Shadowlands
Drifters
One
Remembering
If the night should find you
gazing at a starlit sky
memories enfolding you
find your solace there
feel my hand in yours
my breath upon your cheek
and know that I
am gazing at the same sky
one small step away
remembering...
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Today I Became My Mother
Today, I looked in the mirror
and she was looking back at me
the same smile, the same hair
even down to the silver
creeping in to take over the gold
a woman of determined mind
one who is most comfortable
in tennis shoes and faded jeans
working in her garden
and living out her dreams
so... put away the photos
store the albums on the shelf
when I feel the need to see her picture
all I have to do is look at me.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
That Night
We left the theater hand in hand
and strolled down the street
laughing and telling of our favorite scenes.
After awhile we stopped,
sat on a bench, shoulders touching
watching clouds chase across a lover’s moon.
We found a café, ate juicy hamburgers,
fed each other greasy french fries,
washed it all down with house wine.
When we got to your hotel
you looked at me expectantly
but I kept walking.
It’s odd how I remember that night
but can’t remember
the color of your eyes.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Thanksgiving 2008
There’s a different crowd gathering this year.
Some have gone but still live in our hearts.
A few tears will be shed as we remember those who have left
then we’ll rejoice at the sight of the newest generation,
two just learning to walk and to talk. One now old enough
to ask for the drumstick and another with
pink ribbons tying two pony tails framing her angelic face.
We’re thankful for their innocence and thankful
for the grace they bring to our lives.
Uncle Joe still makes the gravy while Uncle Bill
gets a little tipsy but that’s tradition too.
The stuffing is the recipe that Great Grandma gave to me
and the cranberry relish is Mama’s signature piece.
Neighbor Jan makes the pies and Cousin Phyllis will bring
her fruit cocktail and gelatin salad nobody ever eats.
We’ll give thanks for Thanksgivings past and celebrate
the joy of our memories, and the new family that now surrounds us.
The day will be full of love, and although
a little different, in our fashion now, and one to remember.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Willow Weep for Me
The willow sheds a child’s
handful of brown leaves
as I gaze upon the peach tree
foliage also withering
branches hanging limp
in supplication.
Birds sing only in communication
the joy of spring and summer
has left their songs.
The grass no longer lush
slowly fading from verdant
to pale green
showing footprints long after.
Autumn rules this day
and all living things
prepare for the inevitable:
the cold isolation of winter.
I mourn the passing
of the sun kissing my skin,
the heat wrapping itself around me,
the aroma of flowers
drifting through open windows,
the wind tossing my hair about
while driving long distances to nowhere.
Now, there is no destination to life
for me for you are gone,
taking your love with you
and the memories are fading
along with summer’s glory.
Soon they will shrivel and die
and all that will be left is the cold,
the cold of winter that will be my life.
I evoke the willow to also weep for me.
© Marcia MillerTwiford
A Call Unanswered
Awakening in the dark
sweating blood-stained dreams
Hades in technicolor
a sacrifice of soul
past pain resurfacing
degradation alive again
childhood memories stabbing
you wake and reassure
and I trust again
through your comforting touch
healing is granted
my heart slows then
speeds up again
as you find my center
you calm my fears
and heal my soul
far above the calls below
we soar towards the light
dissolving in our purity
sleeping entwined as one
through the now peaceful night.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
And So It Goes
Long fun-filled rides to see Grandma
short sleepy rides back
a warm fluffy kitten
big shaggy dog named Max.
Church on Easter morning
pink ribbons on my hat
sitting next to Mommy
behind that silly boy named Pat.
Popsicle kisses
bubble-gummed hair
summer picnics at the beach
life free from care.
Growing up and pretty
is what older folks say
I start to believe them
and my hips gain a sway.
Some of the boys like me
Dad says too young to date
you go out with the girls only
Mom says have fun, be home by eight.
Four years of college
honors, gold tassel and all that
they still think I spend too much time
with that silly boy named Pat.
Bouquet of white roses
a long flowing veil
Mother looks so beautiful
but more than a tad pale.
Father's trembling arm offered
hiding tears behind his smile
all my tomorrows waiting
at the end of the aisle.
The kids drive him crazy
one more is on the way
they bother their Daddy
he sends them outside to play.
Not enough money
too many bills piling up
he just sits there staring
into his half-empty cup.
Four kids and now no husband
says he'll never be back
what kind of fool would ask
if I would help him pack.
Whatever will I tell the kids
when I don’t understand
I wonder for just how long
he has had this planned.
Our love was his safe place
he no longer cares about that
screw him, who cares, Daddy’s right
who needs that silly boy named Pat.
© Marcia MillerTwiford
Love's Rhetoric
How do I write about you and me?
two hearts, one soul, tears shed by one
drenching the face of the other.
Is there a way to describe how
forever began with our first hello.
How you fill my lonely nights with dreams
and light up my heartbroken days.
Will rhetoric bring about understanding of
how I reach searching for the warmth you hold
wanting it to wrap itself around me
thus empowering us both.
Wherever I go, whatever I do,
thoughts of you course through my veins
and enable my heart to keep beating.
How do I write about these things,
this love so deep, desire so strong
that even the pain of your absence is bliss.
I think I do not write for them, but for you alone my love,
and perhaps through these stumbling words
you will hear the song in my soul, rejoice
and know - the song is my purpose for being
the song is you, forever and beyond it is you.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Shadow of the Moon
Each evening finds her at the shore
walking along the warm sand
alone, waiting, for him.
He puts out his hand and holds hers
she feels the warmth of his touch
and they stroll counting the diamonds
the setting sun tosses upon the waves.
Inhaling the clean, pure, salty air
they laugh as children in pure delight
as the dolphins approach and begin to play.
They pause and he kisses her
warm, soft, lingering, igniting
and she shivers
in the warm evening air.
Then he picks up a shell,
holds it to her ear and she listens
to tomorrow singing its sweet song.
This is their time each evening
and the waves utter stay, stay, stay
but he cannot... not this time.
In the shadow of the moon he leaves
and she utters no protest
for she knows the other shore is calling
and to it, for now, he must return.
The morrow will find her
content in her fantasies
walking along the warm sand
alone, waiting for him.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Two Ordinary People
Seasons come and go
calendars remain full
two people drifting and lost
not knowing the other exists
living each day the best they can.
Time marches to its own drummer
they utter forth no complaints
acceptance being the golden rule
the days belong to obligations
the unfulfilled nights belong to others
and always there is the longing.
Then comes a special day when
the missing piece is found
the mystery is solved
the surroundings vibrate
they see themselves in each other
and two souls collide
thus forming one perfect entity.
Just two ordinary people
granted the answer
handed the missing piece
viewing all their tomorrows
until now hidden in a secret place
that few ever discover.
In perfectly synchronized unity
they realize the answer
has always been waiting for them
where possibility and hope join hands
and miracles occur
sequestered within time
awaiting recognition.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Season’s Change
Winter, in her billowing gowns
of icy white is knocking at autumn’s door,
I feel the chill in the air and seek respite
from the dormant season sprinkled with holidays
to ease the penetrating reality of her cold heart.
I ponder where next spring will find me.
Will it lay me down in fields of wonder
in miles of daffodils and narcissus,
or will it toss me in March winds
twirling and scattering me to and fro.
O’ winter I find you a conflicting season
the beauty of diamonds tossed on snow
competing with days of drab skies,
and already I yearn again for spring
its beauty... and new beginnings.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
The Mother Sea
The sea calls to me with her calming power
Cleansing my mind with the sounds of the surf
attuning my senses with aromatic delight
serenading with the melodies of gulls
the caress of the waves removes all debris
and my heart is again free and pure.
I follow the path where sandpipers played
discovering a heretofore unseen shell
put it to my ear and hear the call of distant shores
ruled by her, my mother, the magnificent sea
who acknowledges all as her children.
The time will come and I will not leave here
on these hills of water what remains shall be set free
‘tis then I shall follow her lead and travel on
through the vast dimensions of this, her realm
this supremacy of nature we mortals call the sea.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
The Chair
In Memory of
My Father, William George Townsend
Deep burgundy in color,
soft as a doe's ear leather,
long conformed to the form of the man,
the man I called Father.
The chair was his throne of wisdom,
where he held court each evening,
in the living room, in our house, by the bay.
Sitting before the fire,
Long lanky legs encased in fine wool,
crossed at the knee
pipe clenched between his teeth,
sometimes lit, sometimes not.
Never a man for trivial pursuit
his evenings spent engrossed in
the greatest books of time
our dog Red ever at his side.
A gentler man never graced this earth,
a more knowledgeable man never spoke to me,
words of truth, some beyond my years.
Now I am wiser and know the value,
of what he so diligently and lovingly attempted
to impart to me, so very long ago,
while sitting in his chair, by the fire,
in the living room, in our house, by the bay.
© Marcia MillerTwiford
The Darkening
Transitory juncture to the innocence of morning,
a neophyte skipping barefoot through the dew-kissed meadow.
Jumping, laughing, running, chasing illusive sunbeams,
fairy-tale endings trustingly granted veracity.
The time of still thoughts and quiet nights of slumber,
endless voyages through possibility all ending in a warp.
Oh, blissful time when desolation was a foreign word,
and nocturnal screams did not pierce the oh so gentle night.
Peering into the cracked and grazed looking glass of reality,
leafing through the worn pages of time read so quickly.
Lingering, sojourning, endeavoring to reclaim and restore,
shredded parchment where once was scripted the clarity of dawn.
Wistfully longing for absolution from life’s futility,
espying with tribulation as twilight utters its soft promise.
Foretasting as darkening shadows beckon therein forever to dwell,
within the total, silent, protective peace of the veritable abyss.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Comfort in the Silence
There comes the time of understanding
the time when thoughts flow as one
beyond the need for words
a unification of spirit, a melding
of two into one. Wherein the
love shared warms the chills of life
and grows in quiet reverence
mere words do not do it justice
the time when I love you is
not enough and peace is to
be found only within the sanctuary
of fulfillment that graces the days
while the comfort in the silence
speaks louder than any rhetoric.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Time of the Lilacs
That first spring we picked arms full of lilacs
from bushes that before you were barren
we picnicked in the vineyard of our reclaimed youth
sipping from love’s cup and feeding each other
nourishment for the heart and soul
we danced on hilltops green with new life
whispered forever in each other’s ear
when summer arrived we basked in the warmth
found in each other’s smile and knew
none had ever felt as we
we strolled virgin beaches
and swam in crystal clear waters perhaps too deeply
autumn came and we gathered radiant leaves
tossed them into the air in celebration
a testimony to the colors of our joined soul
all beauty dimmed when compared to the knowledge of us
come winter we listened to the quiet of snow gently falling
and built fires of our intense passion
each one warmer than the one before
alas, when our second spring came
the lilacs did not bloom and the hills crumbled
when faced with reality
they were after all merely illusions
now our souls again wander lonely and alone
in the vast wasteland of love lost
yet I know that one day soon I will awake
to a bright new day and the pain of now
will succumb to the miracle of surviving without you.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
A Mother Remembers
~In memory of my daughter, Sheril Lynn,
who succumbed to Multiple Sclerosis in 1998
I remember watching her
each morning in dawn’s first light
a tiny tot so fair and pure
rushing to gobble down mouthfuls
in trusting childhood enthusiasm
milk dribbling down her dimpled chin
pausing only long enough
to say with a still sleepy smile,
“morning mommy,” and I’d wonder
where does she go, what does she see
after her prayers and slumber’s call
when her blue eyes close each night.
Then she got older, rose later
grumbled over having to eat breakfast
fearing her svelte waistline would disappear
with even one bite, but fruit or yogurt I could
get her to nibble with her lady like grace
and after each bite she’d dab her chin
her delicate makeup applied with such care
must not be smudged, nary a hair out of place
much time was spent in trying to perfect
the already perfection she was
and I’d wonder still...
where does she go, what does she see
when her blue eyes close at night.
At the entering point of the best of her life
a terminal prognosis came knocking at the door
frail and weak she became but inspiring
as she faced her fate as she did her life
head on, strong, willful, and courageous
slowly but surely the illness progressed
and my heart broke more each day
then, all too soon yet not soon enough,
she looked at me like the helpless child she once was,
and I, as I held her close, to face her final sleeping,
through His grace, I knew...
where she went, what she saw
in that final moment
when her blue eyes closed...
for the very last time.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Autumn in Hawaii
There in that island paradise
that knows only the summer season
the great spirits long ago decreed a tribute
must be made to autumn
as a gift to the gods of the seasons
with respect for her spirit and
belief in her resurrective powers
they decided each year they would sacrifice
the flowers of the beloved Plumeria tree.
Reluctantly each October she sheds her leaves
holding fast to her last blossoms
till the very end then showers
them upon the earth forming
blankets of purest pastel color
like none most eyes will ever see.
Looking out my kitchen window I watched
as the leaves fell silently on the walkway
seemingly weeping tears
like a little child whose double-dip
ice cream from a cone lays at his feet
one can but imagine a whimper of protest
for no new buds come forth
and the tree knows what to her has been decreed.
The fallen blossoms pink, white or yellow
fall one by one and are scooped up
to adorn the hair of the maidens,
made into the last Plumeria leis till next spring,
decorate a plate of food lovingly presented,
or float with candles in a bowl.
Each year we who love her looking forward to
her next showing when the air will again
be perfumed by the Plumeria blossoms,
Hawaii’s only acknowledgment to seasons changing.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Because the Plumeria is not indigenous to the Islands,
generation after generation of the Hawaiian people have believed the tree to be
sacred. For one day long ago, on the black rocks of Maui, the first one appeared.
They believe it was put there by a great spirit and today is the most beloved of their
glorious flora. Consequently, to show respect, Plumeria is always capitalized.
Once you inhale the fragrance of a Plumeria blossom you are in love and under its spell.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
A Woman
All her dreams safely locked away
now resurfacing as the elusive magic
reaches and stirs deep within
feelings so long ago laid to rest
vague memories of love’s sunlight
reappearing and diminishing all fear
gaining power with each new day
gently stoking the still warm embers
beneath the cold and locked heart
of a woman long disillusioned
by love’s careless abandon.
Ripples of pleasure’s promise
forsaken when faced with reality
revived by a soft whisper of possibility
finding and rekindling hope
despair and disappointment laid aside
she breaks the seal that protects
her determination now powerless
when challenged by love’s truth
abandoning all fear
she once again trusts
opens the door to tomorrow
and now eagerly vulnerable
she waits . . .
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Poets
Somewhere during our journey
for reasons of fate’s design
we heard the words of Robert Frost,
"...and took the road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference."
For some the dawning came
during our time of jungle gyms and carousels
for some during the time of slow waltzes.
Yet, we heard, and we followed
and for us that made all the difference.
We write in the morning sun,
and by the soft glow of night,
always pensive of thought.
We put pen to paper in an effort
not to be another Elizabeth or Keats
but to tell our own stories,
letting them pour freely
for this is our time.
No fear of rejection have we,
nor anticipation of glory or fame.
The disappointments, the joys,
the fears, the pain, and...
the dreams of what yet may be,
we tell it all in the form of poetry
and we give it to the world with love.
This is our journey, this is who we are,
we are the poets of today.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Where Did All the Princesses Go?
Oh, the days of princesses and fairies
and little boys dressed up as Superman or kings,
sweet little faces saying "trick or treat"
not knowing about real or imaginary horrors of night.
Horror movie character costumes
line the store shelves, Dracula
and Vampire, Edward Scissor Hand, Elvira
Freddie Krueger, Dr. Who, Mind Freak
and not a magic wand in sight.
Bring back the princesses, tiny, dreamy charmers
or ones dressed up as brides, feeling so pretty;
boys in clown suits, with faces painted bright
little ones who don’t know about
blown up cities, nightmare nights.
What happened to dunking for apples,
to pumpkins carved with happy faces
now all I see are scary orange globes on porches
carved with faces that frighten the bravest of cats.
Save me from opening the door to modern-day
ghoulies and ghosties and things
that go bump in the night asking
for candy and looking a sight.
The treats will be ready, the porch light ablaze
and all the while I'll be longing for the good old days--
for the return of innocence in the eyes
of little Halloween costumed tykes.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Forgotten Yesterdays
If a new dawn should find you
walking closely by my side
then let our time be free
with no feelings allowed to hide.
Take the journey and stay with me awhile
let us see what future is waiting in time
while I kiss away your tears erasing all memory
of broken dreams then feel your hand in trust grasp mine.
Let us find lilacs in the deep dense snow
and fields of roses in dark forbiding places
stay and let me love you like you've never known
stay until all the yesterdays are forgotten.
Allow me to see you smile in morning's light
when through peaceful sleep's haze
you find me there beside you
let my love erase everything but the new day.
Stay with me and let me love you...
as I'm meant to do.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Shadowlands
Beyond the gardens of my mind
through the green valleys of life
lie the shadowlands
mercilessly calling to me
day after endless day
tears long shed lying
on damp grasses
sheltering seeds of hope
that without the light
and warmth can not grow
yet staunchly remain in abeyance
nourished only by my never-ending love
dwelling dormant in shadows of yesterday
but compelling in their power
to evoke the memories
grim testaments of the reality
that the dream will never die
and may with the coming of
a new sun bloom again
while I am regaled to
to the mercy of the shadowlands
of the love that was meant to be.
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
Drifters
If it be true we are the masters of our fate
the sculptors of our lives, then why be it
that we mire ourselves in days less than perfect
undauntedly entering our mornings
with eyes overcast with blind love
and see not the truth of things but our perception
of what we think love is, not its reality
donning looking glasses of illusion
thus, seeing selectively we set about and create
tumultuous days of heart broken sorrow
and tormented nights of dark shadows
if we sculpt then surely we are in control.
Is there innate wisdom in our folly
or are we that which has fallen out of grace
perhaps we are not the masters
but merely drifters through time
hopelessly addicted to the opiate
of disappointing pain
destined to love and lose
and love again and...
© Marcia Miller-Twiford
One
When you go to sleep at night
I am there with you.
In the morning you will feel
my kiss on the soft wind,
and when you touch the earth
you will feel me touching you.
When you walk along the shoreline
listen to the music the waters sing,
they sing my song of love for only you.
Weave flowers of tomorrow through your fingers
and you will feel my hands in yours.
Let the sun and the moon caress you
and you will feel my arms surround you.
At night gaze up at the stars,
and see our destiny written out in the sky.
All of heaven and earth sing out in praise,
for you and I are now one.
We are the truth, the meaning of a forever love,
and as one we will walk through the pages of time eternal.
Be of calm heart my love,
for I have saved forever... for you.
© Marcia MillerTwiford
 
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