Heat Lightning

By Raelein MB Haley

This book is a collection of poetry I have been writing over the years. Some of it has been published in Literary Quarterlies. This book is divided into 5 sections. Each section deals with different aspects of my life. The poems are arranged in a way to evoke emotions Ive experienced and to carry you into the book.

It culminates with the last poem designed to make you think------

Is there still hope? You decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450002622

Raelein MB Haley

Raelein MB Haley has been writing poetry for most of her life, including as a young child. She is a mixed blood Tsalagi (Cherokee) Indian. She writes free-verse poetry, and has had some success with it. This is her first published book. She hopes you enjoy it, and thanks you for purchasing and reading her book.

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Raelein MB Haley.

Library of Congress Control Number:                                2009911696

ISBN:                        Hardcover                                         978-1-4415-8889-0

Softcover                                              978-1-4415-8662-9

Ebook                                                   978-1-4500-0262-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

This book is dedicated to my Mother

Frances June Parker Olsen

January 4, 1933 - March 12, 1999

With Much Love

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The Seventh Year

Dedicated to: my God, who gave me Life,

And to my children:

William Blake Wallace

and

Tabitha Cheryl Haley,

Who make my life worth living.

They are my miracles.

Special thanks to: my beloved husband, Anthony Haley, who stands beside me always, even through all The Seventh Years;

In memory of Erma Young Gagle, for her unconditional love, which taught me so much;

In memory of Duane Gagle, who believed in me until I could believe in myself;

And to Dennis, for all the memories: for being my brother, lover, friend—

For all the laughter and tears—

For all the years we had together.

I will always love you!

This book is for all the people who touched my life, and never made it to The Seventh Year, and for all of us who survived it, and keep surviving it, again and again.

Love that has no ears—

Makes love that speaks in words—

Mute.

-Raelein MB Haley

seperates.jpg

The Seventh Year

It starts like any other, I suppose:

always from one November to the next.

It changes then,

in that first month.

I have come to recognize the signs

along the way.

Always a year of extreme loss,

and losses relived:

Lives, loves, time, sanity.

Stretched to the limit:

skin feels like it just fits

around the pain—

Like the hide stretched tight

on a child’s baseball.

Pitched through the air:

free-falling.

Waiting for the blow to come

once again;

For the bat to connect

CRACK:

Waiting to see if it

even will.

On edge.

Sharp-edged.

Over the edge.

It is not such a long distance,

as you can see.

From there, to there, to there.

It can take nothing more

than a day of not speaking;

Tongue numbed by grief.

A hot oppressive summer night:

spirit-wild.

Ready to explode at the pull of a pin.

Grenade.

And it’s all gone again.

Spring days, inside looking out:

all the new beginnings

and all you feel inside

is a knot of longing

lodged in the pit of your stomach:

like a fist.

Autumn just happens.

So much death.

You look around

and it doesn’t look so bad, you know?

The Death.

In fact, it looks beautiful.

Tempting, inviting, peaceful.

Winter.

Cold, dreary, dead.

Silent.

You almost wish for it.

Not the cold,

but the silence, the emptiness—

the stop in time,

so that the sick feeling inside

will freeze

and melt away like the snow.

The pain always seems worse,

the loss always greater,

the world always sadder,

life always harder.

The mind a bit wobbly

like a toddler’s uncertain steps;

looking for someone or something

to grasp onto.

Out in this air

alone-

the fall seems not so far.

Not so bad.

The fight to stay on one’s feet

seems tenuous, at best:

Teetering on the edge—

thin china of tea cup rattling

against saucer.

Light shining through,

milky blue in the dusk.

Just let go!

It seems the only way—

no choices left.

Take the fall,

Drop the ball,

Let it go.

But then there is the struggle back

for those who survive.

And always, there comes

another Seventh Year.

Each time—

it just gets harder.

4/7/1995

seperates.jpgseperates.jpg

Blood Relations

(For Tony)

Having almost lost you-

left you—

I cherish you more than ever.

Such a strange thing

this heart of mine.

It beats in rhythm with some

life-force

that I don’t understand.

It changes directions,

blood coursing first this way,

and then that.

You are asleep next to me.

Trying not to wake you,

but longing to touch you,

I lightly run my fingertips

over your eyelids,

your mouth,

down your throat—

Rest my hand in yours

which is relaxed with sleep—

The drug of desire sated.

The bottom half of my hand

rests across the back of your wrist,

and I feel your pulse against my skin.

I am suddenly overtaken with gratitude

for your very existence.

Somehow, this makes me feel stupid—

dumbly sentimental—

But I keep my hand there

and begin counting.

This is how I finally sleep

after all our days of warring

and our night of loving.

Counting out the beats of your pulse—

78, 79, 80, 81—

My blood courses through my veins

and seeps slowly

through my bleeding wounds,

to join yours.

To take us both away

from this world

for awhile.

2/1/1995

seperates.jpgseperates.jpg

Voices of the Dead

(For Dennis 1948-1993)

The dead speak to me.

I hear their voices and

their laughter.

When I am lonely,

when I am sad,

they come to me.

Perhaps unbidden, but not

unwanted.

These voices,

they know who I am.

They know I am not who you see;

you with your human eyes,

your empty voice.

They are a comfort to me.

They lull me to sleep

better than any narcotic,

and much sweeter too.

They cradle my forever aching head.

I forget the pain for awhile.

You-

you sometimes silence me in this World,

so I become quiet.

I retreat and am very still,

knowing that if I do this

they will come.

And they do.

The voices of the dead,

they speak to me.

When I am dead,

perhaps I will also

speak to you.

2/1/1995

seperates.jpgseperates.jpg

Listen

Place your head here

against my chest.

Do you hear my heart beat?

You think it pumps blood,

this heart of mine,

do you not?

It pumps words,

thoughts and feelings.

Too many to grasp.

Place your head here.

What do you hear, feel?

Nothing? Right!

This is the spot

where my womb used to be.