Linda Marie Van Tassell Poems

It’s no secret how I feel about you.

After all these years, I’m still starry-eyed.
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Sing me in spring like a sparrow's song
or the tongue of a gypsy river,
like peepers beneath a jade sarong
or skirts of wind in full-blown quiver.
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The leaves fall like autumn ashes.
Pine needles pierce a crimson sky,
and the rain tinges my lashes.
The leaves fall like autumn ashes
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The sun is singing a poem of praise
painting the shadows with its golden rays.
I witness such glory for all to see
absorbing the light so it shines in me.
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"Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home? "

~ Emil M. Cioran
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Like me, most women hold their hearts in hand.
We push aside darkness to find the light,
remembering days when our cloudless eyes
rushed across the sky and its azure height.
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Dream the wind over ancient bones
sounds of a woman as she moans
in tears that fall like weighted stones
through the ghost of a haunted night.
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You were relegated to a guestbook of powder blue,
pressed in loving memory between the tear-stained pages,
and stored within a cedar chest at the foot of her bed.
I knew you as father, but I never really knew you.
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The dampness was dreadful dreary.
Nightfall was hushed by northern snows,
and the moon shone pale and eerie
on the skin of Black Ribbon Rose.
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Members of the jury please be seated.
I am about to present a poem.
May it be received and oft repeated
among many others if you know them.
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