Old Growth

They walked together

Through the old forest

Their love as ancient

As the moss covered trees,

Rooted deep within the Earth.

Their hearts had become one

With the passing of time,

Their souls sharing this journey

Through life.

Coming up the path

She saw him

Leaning against a tree.

The sight of him

Took her breath away.

She smiled to think,

That after all these years

He could still cause

Such a stir within her.

And he, seeing her smile,

Thanked the Earth

For guiding them together

So long ago.

Then he heard the forest whisper,

“This is all I ever wanted for you,

For any of you,

To feel my joy

And be filled with love.”

Rishell Graves

May 12, 2012

(For Kim and Mario)

This Other Life

This Other Life

Although

My feet have not touched this soil,

My heart has been here often.

Perhaps in a past lifetime,

Or one yet to be.

I have come to know this place,

Learned to call it home.

I can see myself

Drinking coffee in the morning sun,

Glasses of wine in the late afternoon,

Listening to the hum of bees

In fields of lavender.

From a villa on the hillside

I can smell the sweet grapes

Ripening in the vineyard below,

Mixed with the blooms of

Cabbage roses.

At night I lie beneath olive trees

With brown-skinned lovers,

Under chiaro di luna,

Our laughter floating on the breeze.

On warm summer days

I sit on the balcony,

Pen in hand,

And write the stories

Living inside of me.

Memories that lie

Just beneath the surface.

Sometimes in my dreams

I go there again,

Catching glimpses of

This other life,

Where I flourish and grow

In the hills of Tuscany.

Rishell Graves

April 1, 2012

What I Am

What I Am

 

When people ask if I’m a writer

I say, “No, but I love to write.”

To put my feelings down on paper,

Release them from my heart,

Give them honor,

Offer them to the world.

 

I’m not sure what it means to be a healer,

But I’ve always been able to quiet a crying baby,

Or find the right words to offer comfort.

I have held the hand of a friend during chemo,

Smiled into the eyes of strangers,

Given my last two dollars to a homeless man,

And I hope, in these small ways,

I am healing this planet.

 

I’ve never thought of myself as religious,

But when I am sitting on the banks of a river,

Standing in a cathedral of trees,

Or looking into the stars at night;

When I love without walls,

So deeply that we become one person

Without beginning or end,

In these times I feel God by my side,

And I think,

“This is what religion is to me.”

 

There are so many things that I am not,

So many things I never will be,

But it’s what I am that defines me,

And to me, that’s what really matters.

 

 

Rishell Graves

April 22, 2010

Before You

Before You



Before you

I traveled roads unknown

just to see where they would lead.

There was no plan,

only a search for happiness.



Rivers, mountains, or city streets

the call was the same.

And each journey left me

longing for more.



Before you

I could not name

what was missing from my life.

How could I miss something

I had never known?



There was a joy in my freedom,

but also a sadness.

A comfort in the arms of others

that always ended with emptiness.



But now I know

what I had been missing.

I understand why I felt so incomplete.

And each road I travel

leads me back home to you.





-Rishell Graves

January 3, 2012

Eyes of Blue

Eyes of Blue

Last year

We sat at this same table

On a day much like today,

Drinking coffee

In the late spring sunshine.

You read to me

The poems of a lonely man,

And somewhere in those words

I found a piece of myself.

That day I was lost

In the blue of your eyes,

The sound of your voice,

The gentleness of your smile.

And when I surfaced I knew

To look for a man

With a tender heart,

To find the one with a smile

That matched my own,

And eyes of blue that would see me

For all that I am,

And love me

For what I can still become.

-Rishell Graves

Fall 2011

Grandmother's Tree

Grandmother’s Tree

As a child

I would sit beneath

My Grandmother’s Christmas tree,

Watching the bubbles rise

In lights shaped like candles,

The pink liquid percolating within.

Those lights took center stage

To shiny bulbs,

Tinsel,

Even the presents underneath.

Some years the branches

Were flocked with fake snow,

Which hid the green boughs,

But still let the smell of the forest

Fill the room.

My cousins would wrestle

On the living room floor,

In front of the big wood stove.

But I would sit alone,

Beneath the glow of that tree,

And dream the dreams of a young girl

Who still believed in magic.

-Rishell Graves

December, 2011