Illusion

There is no reason,
it just happened to begin that way,
a shivering of fantasies up my spine and down again.

So sly, a glance between moments
eyes that linger, savour, caress.

Pinpoint the attraction, I cannot
fill in the meaning between the lines,
is it there?

Brush against me, scent of sanity,
taste the sweetness upon my lips.

Insane

Flowing freedom of silence,
does it mean anything to you?

The darkness and the moon,
snuff out the meaning, an illusion.

Risk everything upon the vision,
you, shimmering in the night.

Practice - Emotions

There was no stopping her, no reasoning, the clothes had to be washed and hung, baths taken, all before she could quit for the day.

Everyone sat, a pallor on their faces, avoiding the eyes of the others.

Not Hanna, she had scrubbed the floor with a will, beaten the rugs, swept the back porch and was now doing the washing. There was a glint in her unfocused eyes, she blinked, she must focus on the washing.

They couldn't understand her obsession, no one felt up to anything just then.

Minutes ticked away in a slow procession, each one holding up the others, until Ginny May ran through, irreverent. They tried to stop her, Minerva and Uncle Wes, but she was too quick to be caught.

'Charlie, out in the back, was digging up flowers, he had to be stopped or she was gonna hav to take grief again bout bringing home a stray. Oh lordie how she hated to hear them.'

Ginny May was a flash of sunshine, the others looked at each other when she had passed. But Hanna, she kept on working, Jim would need his shirt pressed.

Out the window, she could see Ginny, as she turned each shovel full of dirt. Hanna burned the shirt as she watched each spade full of dirt, filling the hole.

Sleeping

At this late hour, darkness, like a silent friend awaits, awaits each flip of the switch, each click of the mouse, to turn off the distractions of the universe, to get reacquainted with eternity.

Eternal sleep, silence awaits, as your eyes close in circadian wonder and you are surrounded by the figments of thought that flicker through your mind, sometimes leaving you more confused than peaceful, a world where the sense of sense is senseless and your impassioned speeches are heard, or disregarded as the masses walk or your loved ones flit silently through your mind; each falling victim to your fears or your hopes in the wee small hours in your deepest sleep, remember that your impassioned speech may bring you to tears, but was never heard.

First Stanza From Keats Endymion

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

~Keats

Ambiguity

Can things ever be normal, with all this ambiguity?

ambiguous

thought, silence

ask

Please identify!

please

can you feel the distance in my manner

can you?

restlessness

At least explain the...

silence

(I cannot live with this)

Even after I...

fine

ambiguity

A note about my piece...

When I first wrote it, about a month ago, I felt uneasy posting it. I wrote it after reading Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities" and wanted to capture a bit of his writing style in a piece.

The French Revolution was very dramatic, Dickens book about it is very vivid and telling. It is fast paced and the events move the book along rather than the plot.

So why feel uneasy posting my piece? Because it is a vivid, telling, and slightly unnerving piece. I think the feelings here in America are of frustration, I am certainly frustrated, yet we are far better off than the people of France leading up to the French revolution. Their injustices were many, they were a repressed people, at their breaking point.

So with that said, I liked the way that the piece helped me bring out a dramatic style, but still, it is a bit unnerving to read (ever spook yourself while telling ghost stories?) ;D

SG

(and Ajey, I don't know how I managed to post a draft and the finished piece but I did... so you all get to see the draft below the "finished" piece.)

Hunger (draft)

She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,

yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything. They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.

yet the hunger lay in the strees, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!

Faces of gaunt children, hair receeding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.

hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.

Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignomity that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.

Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!

They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed. Who will give them breath again? Their children cry, yet words and tears fall deaf on hearts, frozen in the fray.

Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid from aching backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better. Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart, I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.

Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression. Ignomity is in the past, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.

Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!

How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.

You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redeption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.

The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets.

the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay there.

Hearts have stilled with the news,

In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.

No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.

A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.

With each stone that falls from the foundations, from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...

and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.

The Birthplace of Galaxies

Standing on the edge of a black hole, I look down, contemplating it.

I feel its draw, the grasp of unimaginable gravity.

Looking around, I see nothing, time has come to a stand still.

So I burst my indecision into a million pieces, shattering the stained glass.

Headlong into the center of the pit, letting it carry me as the darkness swirls around me.

All of my preconceived notions fall away and I am left staring at the essence of my soul.

Staring at something that was lost, inhibited by all of the views seen through others eyes.

and I realise that this hole is not endless, nor is it even as dim as I thought.

No a clear breathtaking shining black.

I have been falling, falling, falling down? or Up? I know not.

Suddenly I find myself bursting forth from the bands which have bound me. Leaping, leaping towards a future that I know not of.

As I am kneeling on a meteor, readying myself for another burst, I am suddenly struck down.

Grasping for the meaning of it all I look around to find that tentacles of hope are reaching towards me out of a friendly cloud.

Showing me that there are places and possibilities that I have never even imagined.

As the rays of sunlight burst forth in a magnificent display I realise that I am actually in a place of new birth, the birth of galaxies, of new stars.

Sudden joy fills my heart, oh the possibilities of letting go!! Of reveling in the joy of creation with a friend who would create new possibilities as well.

The joy of fighting what seemed like a losing battle, reassured that it matters that I do so.

Instead of gravity, the power of the black hole becomes an anchor. I fly with the wings of hope towards dreams that I had never dared to dream.

I am glad that I jumped, it was scary to take the chance. But worth it to have decided to live.

Stayed

I step outside my door, zipping up my jacket against the chill of the new spring air. Tears sting my eyes and I clear them by gazing far, far out to the mountains. Steady and firm, they will always be there.

As I walk I notice the pine needles strewn on the ground, I duck under the low laying branches and dash around the trash cans blown over by the wind. I am angry!! Why do you make me angry?

Crossing the parking lot over the bridge the dashing of the water, dark in the river bed, it seems to echo my feelings. The long slow whistle of the train in the distance reminds me again of the passage of time, it has always seemed to me as the harbinger of some message, a call to decide, yet now as always the decisions are complicated.

How many times have I run down this trail? How often have I reflected on this? The leaves hold no answer as they dash along the ground, a reminder of the fall. The passage of time is evident all around me, the nests being built, the new spring buds on the branches.

Yet time and time again I am searching for the answer to the question "What should I do?" My eyes follow the cracks in the asphault, distracted by the disturbance, there are many cracks, and deep ruts.

How could I still be in this position? Still stay after all that has happened. Till' death do us part, but that's the simple answer to a complex question. A vow made from ignorant, naive, youthful lips.

Of course it's the kids, of course. Yet as I told you we were through you asked me why? All of the relevant answers, all of the reasons seemed foolish as you told me of your deep love for me. I realised that I loved you then.

I finger my ring, picked out and payed for by a foolish young girl, and still it symbolizes our life together. Complex intertwining, circular symbolism, crowned by beautiful jewels. Are there enough immature diamonds to account for the number of babies I've gained and lost from you.

It symbolizes the solitude that I feel, the weight of our vows, and it is not easy to imagine losing this ring. All this as my feet tread the familiar path, bringing to the surface the hidden valleys of my emotion.

I stumble a bit, where tree roots have pushed their way to the surface and recall a lecture about roots. Roots will stay superficial if given too much water, to get deep roots the tree must experience adversity.

The roots of our relationship are deep. As I walked towards a hesitant groom, could I have imagined all that the hesitancy meant? The misunderstandings, the betrayals, the struggles. You have hurt me, you have failed me, I could blame you for so much.

I could blame you, I could banish you to the depths of ignomity for all of the stupid and mean things that you have done to me and our children. Yet I haven't and I have stayed.

Stayed, listening to the train whistle, slow and steady during the rainy night.

Stayed, hoping that I am doing the right thing.

Stayed, as you worked through your own demons, elsewhere with your friends, I have stayed alone.

The steady gait of my run winds down, my muscles are tired, my emotions have run out.

As I pass under the steady branches of the pine tree, I look up to the mountains, steady and firm, they will always be there.

Poetic Memory

At times my soul aches, from poetries loss, how poetic the soul, how pathetic the heart. Longingly I search for the balm of my soul, Giliad hides the cure. Poetic my life, poetic. As a child all life was poetic, the fairies and friends of the forest where mine. With fanciful names and fanciful fears we played many games and shed many tears. The trees held our secrets like the tree old as time. Under that tree we held as a shrine, a place for our pets beloved and true, Spooky and Precious and even fish too. In other times our childish ways, led to great battles that lasted for days. My brother and I would fight many crimes, with our guns that had caps and our brave police hats. Round fabulous piles of rubble we played, we sometimes built forts, and sometimes found caves. The bushes we played in were overgrown, but at times, they served a good purpose in our nursery rhymes. Sailing along, in a ship made of wood, we were out to find treasure, it was going to be good. We had many things brought along for the trip, all the accoutrements for a good pirate ship. A picnic, some plates, a table for two, but wait I don’t want to play house with you. Then came the snow and away we shall go. Out come the skis, then hats, and boots if you please. Our fairy land is transformed it is true, down fairy hill, first me and then you. We ski till our noses are red, and snow covers the hair on top of our head. So into the house, we march along, singing Jingle Bells our favorite song. Hot cocoa is called for we prepare it with ease, then suddenly feel a cold winter breeze. Quick shut the door, you forgot it! No you! But quickly forget our cold and fight too. Down falls the snow, we snuggle in bed. Beautiful snow dreams soon fill our head, childhood, childhood where have you gone? My soul will miss you, then to sleep, then to dream, in memory my soul will long.

Memories of Grandmothers House

Memories of Grandmothers house...

The taste of strawberry shortcake, rootbeer floats, picnic lunches and the goodness of my Grandmother. I awaken to the spring at Grandmothers house, I had slept there the night before. I smell the fresh cut grass and go outside to seek the wonders that await me there. As the sun seeps into my body I feel such renewed strength and energy, that I wan to run into the house and share my enthusiasm with my Grandma. She is waiting for me there with a small box of raisins, which she gives me to take upon my adventures throughout the wide outdoors. She also has an empty butter tub to give me to capture grasshoppers in. Back outside I go, determined to tame those wild beasties, namely the grasshoppers. I snake around in the grass, and to my delight there is a cheeky fellow sitting upon a large blade of grass. A nervous excitement flows throughout my body. I determine that to catch the beastie I must quickly pounce before he gets away. To my dismay he leaps out of reach. Then carefully I stalk him, I can sense his awareness of me. Slowly I walk towards him, “blast it,” he jumped again. Maybe he saw my shadow, this time I walk around the other way, he is jumping but I think I have thrown him off to my intentions. Finally either the grasshopper has tiered out, or just plain good luck I catch him in my tub and close the lid. With a sense of wonder and horror, I feel him hopping around in there. I simply must run into the house to show Grandmother. Oh she doesn’t want me to open it, what if he escapes. Somehow I am both fascinated and horrified by the jumping grasshopper and I place the tub in the shade outside where the moss grows along the house. This will be a fine home for him I think. Back out to explore, the cement on the patio the surface of which is coming off, it's not good for Grandma and Grandpa but it is good for me. I like to pick off the peeling cement and wonder at the broom smoothed side and the rough bumpy other side. The different colored flecks of rock, some shiny some dull. I imagine to myself that this is a wish rock and the bigger the piece the better so I pick at the cement all the more. I hear Grandpa calling he has set up a tee pee, what fun!! I scramble inside and breath in the scent of canvas cloth and wonder at the sensation of the cool prickly grass. I try to lay down, but find it uncomfortable so I scramble out again to go explore the lilac bushes that grow against the fence. I crouch bellow them and pretend to be a cat, then Grandpa finds me to go with him next door. We go back, back, farther and farther into the seemingly wild orchard of Grandpa's neighbor, the tree's are all a blossom and petals fall like snow. Grandpa's neighbor is a forthright guy and greets me with a smile, I am shy and look for a tree to hide behind. He is coaxing me now, come see the bee's, I think of stings and buzzing and don't want to come. Grandpa holds my hand and walks me to a certain spot where he makes me stand. I look on in fascination as they smoke the bee's and bring out the combs, then I see one too many bee's and run off. Back through the tree's, back, back, until I reach Grandma's house again. Oooo it's the orange beastie cat, Morris. He doesn't like me, he doesn't like anyone. I am sun sick so I head indoors to the cool room off the kitchen, there I lay down on the couch and rest until Grandmother brings me a tuna sandwich and potato chips. She tries to get me to put my potato chips on my sandwich because she always likes it that way, I protest and she lets me do as I like. Finally mom comes and gets me, Grandma's house was fun.

More Thoughts on Affluenza

Do you have too much on more than one occasion I feel like I have too much. Too many books, too many clothes, too much food even (because sometimes I don't plan very well).

I don't like having too much, it bothers me because it makes it hard to appreciate what you have and it makes it difficult to make decisions.

What do I mean? Well take the situation some ladies have when they have too many purses or shoes. They don't want to give them up because this or that purse or pair of shoes should go with this or that outfit. So you see some shoes you want or like and forgeting that you have just about the same pair of shoes at home you buy the shoes, wasting money on a pair of shoes you didn't really need (or a purse). Where is the sense of that?

So when I get in the postion of having too many clothes or what not, I purge and get rid of the excess.

What about too much food? Sometimes, because I love to cook, I buy produce for something I want to cook. Then being frugal I get home and notice that the leftovers for yesterday are enough for dinner today and should really be eatten now. Then my appetite changes and I no longer want what I intended to cook, so I have ingredients for a dinner that will never come to pass. A lot of times I go with my creativity and mix things up and use what I have, but sometimes I throw out food that should have been ate. Then there is the case of having too many desserts, you snack on dessert or whatever all day then you wont be hungry for dinner.

If you have too much food, it's more likely you will have too much weight to go with it.

I always think about things as, "Do I have enough?" If I have clothes, food and a roof over my head I am happy. Think of the endless amount of learning that is wasted because of all of the unread books on your shelf. Think of all the wasted money from food you cannot eat. What about the fully finished house that you had to have, the high end car, can you take it with you?

I am a minimalist, or I try to be. What do you minamally need? Do you really have a right to endlessly consume? Really?

Well think about this...

For the past, however long, builders have been building houses. Not starter houses, but fully finished (may be poor quality, but finished) houses. No starter houses? Why? Because the profit margin on a starter house is too low for them (or I should say was). So they glutted the market with houses. People playing along, not content to build there life up from where they are, decide they need the fully furnished (bought on credit) 7 bedroom house because others are doing it and they should be able to have a new house, of course they feel they deserve it. Plus as I said all the furniture, the best car, the newest fashions, the best toy's for their kids, the best vacations. Consume, consume (it's good for the economy anyway right?). So what do we end up with, a glut of houses, people losing their homes, all of their furniture . . . basically their freedom. Did it only affect them? Not at all!! The spending of money that everyone didn't have artificially increased the amount of all goods on the market. Increased the cost of living, doing business and the toll on the planet. So if you wanted to be the responsible one saving your money to put a down payment on a house, forget it. If you want a house you have to do like everyone else because $40,000 down or so is extremely hard to do. People borrowed all right!! From everyone else not only today but from everyone in the future. How fair is that?

Think about the garbage dumps full of 1 time use or limited use trash. What would happen if the garbage trucks didn't pick up the trash for 1 week, or 1 month or a year. How would you deal with your garbage then?

So my philosophy, is the environmentalist philosophy, Reduce, Reuse and Recycle. It is not only the way to save the planet, but it is also the way to save your money and your freedom.

Secret Longings

Secret longings

For shadows filtered, resplendent over high peak, emerald hills and azure sky.

Awakening to breath in the air of humanity, to taste the sweetness of baby’s head on my shoulder, gentle whispers, and the outstretched hand of long ago laughter, now come to drive me home again.

Joy in the flit of the butterfly’s wings, winds over sweet blossoms, a veiled smile upon my face as I remember the invisible drafts that I would float upon in fantasy.

These wide open spaces, wondrous sanity found among evergreen boughs and scented wind.

A silence pregnant with expectation, the possibilities found in the reverberation of strings seeking fingers, whilst this dreamer plays upon the full atmosphere of spirit found amongst the crevices of broken hearts and lonely ears.

To reach out and stroke the soft fur of kittens, an image of sweetness as they have yet to be born, their friendly mother my noonday companion.

Sweet water fresh from the filtered stream, through rugged mountain peaks. A taste left on my tongue, ephemeral sweetness, a reminder that there is soul in everything. Still waters in my cup, somehow missing that wildness.

Longing for friendly darkness, soft grasses to lay upon and gaze out at the stars in wonderment as the fresh wind blows through my hair and the silence of crickets in their hidden hollows reminds me of sweet dreams to find.

A Bit of a Strange Dream

Somehow it is all out of place up here on this balcony, I have been waiting, and I continue to wait.

The wind blows and I am carried away, looking down at myself from above. I am sitting on decorative iron, in front of a decorative table, which has been laid with a small square of white linen.

The breeze rushes through my hair and I slap the tablecloth to keep it from flying away. In the next instant I am snatching my napkin and placing my foot on my purse and the balcony shudders.

The night is so dark, there are no clouds in the sky, each pinpoint of light from the stars shines down clearly. A glow from the restaurant lights up my face, partial shadows pervade, and I wait.

Thirsty I lift up my glass to find that it is full of wriggling creatures, I gasp but drink anyway then ask the waiter for more.

I am above it all, exclusive, privileged to be here, then why does the balcony feel as though it will shudder and fall.

Creaking and swaying, wood rotting away, yet I wait. Then it suddenly becomes clear to me, I am in the wrong place.

Am I really up there in that balcony, why would I be as I walk past I can see that it wouldn't fit a table at all.

I contemplate this as images move past my view, the ocean, stark blue vivid colored fish on the wall. The overhanging shades of the stores on Center St., I ponder these things as I get in my car to drive home.

Beautiful Fabric

Beautiful Fabric
As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.

Owen

Owen
This is a little story my Dad told me about this guy, Owen... I typed it up pretty much as he told it, I want to change it around sometime, it is a neat little story.

(A good excuse to get my Dad talking about the past, not like he needs any excuse and all...)

Owen walked everywhere, he didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. In fact he only ever wore tattered overalls and he lived in a little trailer on the edge of his brothers property. Owen would walk past our house every day, on his way to the store. Sometimes Todd and I would see him, walking along the railroad tracks, his beard hanging down, colored yellow by the "Prince Albert" tabacco that he chewed. We would stop and talk to him every once in a while, he liked to talk. He would tell us about World War I and even speak a bit of French for us. Todd and I noticed that he had piles and piles of tuna fish cans piled outside his door, we told dad about it and dad started to give him deer meat from the freezer whenever he passed. After that we noticed that Owen started to walk on the other side of the street, guess he didn't like deer meat all that much. One day Owen was walking by our house, he was wearing a new pair of overalls. My old dog rebel took off after him, tore a chunk of fabric right out of the leg, I still feel bad about that. That was Owen, his family still lives in our neighborhood.

Imperfectly Perfect

The rigours, the means, the might and emotion of being normal.

Normal in a world of flawless beauty,

the chipped vase on the counter,

the dent in the new car,

the flaw that is hidden, yet still there.

Imperfect in proportion, crooked, lopsided,

yet wonder

that I and you together can combine

to create

the tiny fingers that we marvel at in wonder,

the sigh of a new infant

a perfect soul in an imperfect world,

who will grow to become imperfectly perfect.

Kurena

The dark solemn night, a gentle gust of wind blew, glimmering radiant wings shone, fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Butterfly's in hues of blue, green, bright monarchs, rising upward towards the moon.

A solemn procession of beauty heralding the hopes of a lost world, words uttered in prayer, echoing over the high mountain peaks and concentrated onto the spot where the dawning of a new day had begun.

A child fresh from the womb emerged, her tears cried out to be heard. She was carried by her grandmother, to be hid from the world for three days, a world in which the colors of life had faded, faded like flowers carried many hours.

Sipapu the place of emergence.

Her aunts gathered, braiding the new mothers hair, cleansing her body, restoring her to wholeness. Brightly colored beads were woven into it, signifying her triumph over death.

The baby was bathed and wrapped in a soft doe skin blanket gently nursed at her mothers breast, the life force flowed between them.

On the third day, a meal was prepared, prayers were uttered, and mother emerged with her daughter, stepping out into the hues of the early sunrise, they name her kurena.

Sunrise!
We come at sunrise
to greet you.
We call you
at sunrise.
Father of the clouds
you are beautiful
at sunrise.
Sunrise!


(Native American poetry and some artistic elements found here https://facultystaff.richmond.edu/~rnelson/sunrise.html)

Israel Restored

Silence, like death in the valley of Israel
awake, restore my strength.

renew, reveal

Silence, from the depths of a broken heart
broken in ignorance, innocence.

promises, hope

The gentle cadence of thy lips upon my own
swallows the lies of my fears.

empty, ignorance

Your voice like a light upon the high mountain
dawn breaking over the horizon.

wise, tears

Lightly I touch my lips in remembrance
of thy sweetness.

heaven, restored

Free the life Within you

Fresh, new, feral, an instinct for preservation, new life, freedom, being, wholeness, fidelity. life. love. happiness.

Reinvent, make new, become who you have always wanted to be in your wildest dreams, the achingly beautiful specter of freedom, cling to the harmonious bows of the trees as you sway and give way to the breeze.

Laugh, love, dance and become, become, become you have won. It matters not what fickle fate has dealt if you ache for it, reach for it, pull and tug at the hand of destiny.

Where ere you may go, seek for the snow, pure driven beautiful illusion of an image, mirage, focus only on becoming a saint, a martyr. Empty your pockets of delusions of grander, become a swaying goddess in the early morning hours become a temple of beauty to flock unto.

Appoint the place that you dwell with palatial beauty and friendliness. Ache, ache, let your heart be released, let your fears fade away let life and harmony flow through your slender typing hands as you tenderly stroke the soft baby's cheek.

Throbbing with life, growing with life, in tune with the universe, become an angel of deliverance. Hold the precious gift in your hands, tiny, perfect beautiful gift. Womanhood revealed.

Brainstorming

I need you petrichor on a hot day.

It draws me out into the wild,

rain dashing against the window in large urgent drops of life.

The smell, gets deep down into my psyche,

Recalled to life, famous words read as I sit snuggly in my room. Recalled, recalled,

Out there is the dashing of the rain

it permeates the nostrils, it enters your psyche.

you are a part of it, it is a part of you,

you have tasted, you have thirsted,

Soaring in the sky, the everlasting dews

dash against the ground, brown and green hues.

Permeating scent, recalled to life your brow

I must go mad, as I sit here I am tearing at the walls, captivity, death

The rain mocks my plight as it dashes against the window pane,

the scent lingers, it enters, the scent of rain.

I am owned by the earth, the sunlight, the sky,

each bestows upon me its gift.

Drops of dew, large drops, rolling downward to sink into

the ground, enter here, renew me!

It is a call, a call, a maddness, as the branches

sway.

Give way, give way, I must join, I must heed!

I must, I must, don't leave,

don't leave.

The scent lingers, and I am a thirst.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep (Classic)

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush.
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Self

It isn't, it couldn't be, that is me?

No, I refuse to accept that

it is an illusion.

Mud spattered image, a heap on the floor,

the last groveling bit of humanity

Unworthy.

It makes me angry to see that heap,

I would pile it up and kick it,

grab a hold of the mass of ugliness and throw.

I would look in the mirror

to see something else.

A shining bit of polished person,

a bit of worthy matter

to walk around in.