Tuesday, April 30, 2013

diamond amygdala . . day #30















* i remember what it's like to be a child when your world is azure & possible.  creating tiny worlds with tiny hands pony-tailed shiny one, running in fields, running in rivers, running as wind in May, feeling alien, feeling special & wonder-filled, feeling the touch of my father's hand, touching the sun, diving into every story, diving into summer's water, exploring every crack in the pavement, cowboys & indians, ready or not, here i come

* i remember … mountains.  the scent of pine filling me, lifting me with purpose & home, knowing the mountain was inside me . . creating a rocky, stone-strength, a god-force of sacred connection to stars, earth & wild iris.

* i remember what it's like to be crazy, so fucking crazy that i didn't know if i was staying or going, alone, apart, broken or together with clothes all matchy matchy & hearts all matchy matchy and there, there that little gorgeous baby-girl-child is depending upon me - depending upon me for everything but mostly for love love love is a many splendid thing but why am i so empty and low & hollow & alone & where is everyone going and what will i do here without them without them without them and stop me from crawling upon my hands & knees to hide under the desk.

* i remember what it's like to be whole.  when every shadowed corner is filled & sparkling with diamonds, suspended in timeless fragility, as my heart petals open - exposed to elements organic & true, smelling like an azure childhood, tasting like
crazy & iris-honey & you . . 

Sunday, April 28, 2013

in air . . Day # 28












A cardinal sings  . .
and
in
that
gossamer opal
space . .
between that bird and this  . .
lies
soft forgiveness
trust
and
love's incalculable worth

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

the density of April














somedays, legs dangle blue-bare over edges worn & tempting 
skin that looks parched of tenderness and youth 
not my own ....
bones broken
and 
breadcrumbed to the precipice 
with some wild half-remembered call to 
rest 
there .... legs dangle 
inadequacy tugs 
at
expectation & light 
the pull to slide off ....
slide 
off ......
surrender to the white weariness 
is
bitterroot magnetic .... 
tastes of 
lime 
and 
brick 
slide ..... 
arms stretched overhead to gods & birds 
slide .... 
the dust of days breezed & swept away by the rushing downward fact of gravity tested as the slide is remembered and that decision turned to whimsies regret 
eyes closed mason-jar-tight against impact 
lime and brick and air and falling 
lime and brick and air and falling 
eyes 
open 
to 
warmth 
and 
the 
feathered forgiveness of the sun 

Friday, April 19, 2013

of ten in the morning . . .













sweet beautiful boys on mercury's breath
golden-ice ricocheted against the walls of velvet & morning
branched red bird sings of blue
as
bones form of clay & sand
heart becomes wired with the sunlight of this day
this day …..
particled of poignant purpose 

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Boreas











velvet-elvis parting
to the accompaniment of cellos & a north wind  . . .
feathered things roost amongst snow & cedar
as curly-willow-green begs for mercy
feel the rip of hours
feel the walls of isolation
and
regret no more
sorrow lies in the hollowed & hallowed places
sun will come
the binding forgiveness of fear will follow
sun
will
come  . . .

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

hello to stars, alleys & the folly of 51 days










i have spent 51 days waiting to see if i have cancer.
that might seem abrupt, perhaps even insensitive.
i don't rightly give a fuck.
51 days getting ducks-in-order.
my ducks are slightly mischievous & typically, but in no certain prioritized order :
complex, myopic, hungry & happy Game of Thrones is back on
spending 51 days in the pre-diagnosis era plants me squarely next to my mother, Norma
Norma first discovered her breast cancer when i was about 12 or 13 … she was 42ish
it brought a bubble to my pollyanna-technicolor-groovy-childhood
and
i began to understand the fragility & chaos of life … i also understood cancer and the psycho-trippy shit it drips upon a family
my mother survived … but that darkness resurfaced 5 years later in her brain.
she survived even that for nearly 25 years, but she was forever altered in so many not-so-pleasing & warm-fuzzy ways.
i understood the purgatory of symptoms -  lumps, bumps & things that keep one up at night.
i understood how until you know you don't - you do.
i made my peace with cancer ….
baked it a pie, took out it's trash, held it's hand, fought with it, yelled at it,
buried shadow-parts in alleys & my backyard in the violet darkness of night,
then baked it yet another cherry pie
and
every every year on christmas eve would talk to the stars in a grateful seethingly angry sorta-way
i made my peace, but in a furious-angry way
my mother & i finally began to get along during the last two weeks of her life, nearly 25 years after that first lump & bump & scary thing.  of course, we didn't know it was her last two weeks …. but for the first time she seemed happy, crazy-funny, hopeful almost & i was just learning to appreciate her wit & somewhat caustic attitude.
 i am sure i don't have have cancer - nope nope nope
these 51 days are but a phase of my moon - a bit untethered & barren, but rich in awareness.
i have made my peace, and now it is okay.  i will be okay, in large part to my mother who
rode in this rodeo and taught me the weight of my bones.
and i write this for no tea & sympathy ….
though i adore tea, i rather loath sympathy
( though i do appreciate a large bag of almond m&m's )
i write this because this season smells of rain & the bark of white birch
and
i write ….well ….
because i have to
and
everyone has their very own 51 days sometimes …
lost between stars, burying shadows in alleys & backyards.

dante's dart














i remember quite clearly the night i took on the worlds sadness as my own
wearing pink nylon baby-doll pajamas with small appliqued blue flowers & ruching .
8 yrs old, with hair the color of cornsilk, long & pigtailed
kneeling on my bed
leaning out the open window sill
leaning and
gazing into the september nite
late
dark 
quiet
twinkling stars
unable to fend off the lonely despair i tasted on that end-of-summer breeze
it was as if a parade of heartache, loneliness & pain leaked under my skin leaving its burn ...
i saw an ancient, folded & forgotten mahogany woman pacing to & fro across some cracked damp floor
a solitary soldier cold & wet loosing his humanity with every step,
there - 
a frightened child with dark eyes hiding from the sharp sting of thoughtlessness
a small boney white dog homeless, not understanding how gentle hands can be
a stolen life
a fearful task
a lonely death
dantes dart landed upon my heart
and no amount of pink groovy psychedelic sunshine could stop that parade upon the fabric of my soul
so i would kneel upon my pink groovy bedspread in my pink groovy sunshine life
every nite
gazing out & up at the stars wishing for strength
wishing for magic
wishing for enough love to shoulder
dantes dart

rift










who are you
to erase all lines of definition, presence & form ?
how dare you !
is this working ?
is it easy ?
there is no sign here ...
no trace
invisibility is your camouflage
no bread crumb trail thru the woods
no cosmic footprint in the ether
no blue-ribboned bows upon branches marking the trail
no movement thru the world
merely the memory-foam-imprint lingering on skin
the haunting there within my limbic system
the pulse & heat that lies within my marrow
is this a move of strength or fear ?
if you resided in the fullness of will & love
would you circle the wagons so tightly . . .
wouldn't you crave the space between for the light & love to pour out ?
i do
wouldn't you be boldly eager to ride out
wrapped in the courage & fierce righteousness of your path ?
i am boldly eager . . .
while in your ancient-retreat i smell regret & weakness
limited bravado,  fear of discovery
and an echo of the sureness ...

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

of a kind


The wounded and the grappling ones
Meet upon fields of scar tissue
Weary & recognizable
Our fractures form equations of perfection
Balanced in Aquarian algorithms
With holes burned in the fabric of our masks . . .
We twitch with a sensitivity to
the sun and the salt
Awareness numbed into compliance & assumption
Collective memories collide & are quieted by
the touch of a hand,
The twinkled depth of eyes sure & fired by
blood & snow
As one, we catch the beat of a thousand spring wings
Turning our truth up to the
blueness and the feathered gray
We catch the scent of earth & passion . . .and
Step closer to the knowing

Sunday, April 7, 2013

All The Lonely People ...













A new anthology …. a visit into worlds wrapped in the poignancy & intent of knowing, lies inside the ethereal pages of
Plum Tree Books newest Anthology : All The Lonely People
It is sometimes our stories of loneliness that make us feel distinct & solitary, yet these same stories unite us in understanding.

This is a truly stunning & comprehensive work I am thrilled beyond words to be included in, and humbled by the fierce talent & presence of so many gifted souls ….
Please, step closer … take a look 
Discover parts of yourself tucked inside ….




Tuesday, April 2, 2013

April 1st














what is relevant ?
... is the creaking sound this old wood floor makes as i walk across it in my stocking feet any less or more relevant than the song of the cardinal outside the bedroom window ?
the curled brown leaf on the porcelain berry vine trembles from lack of relevancy just as the shine of the sun trembles upon the book shelf.
Kipling stands next to Milne which is by St .ExpurĐÉy ; is one better than the other ?
dust settles upon them all .
the dogs sleep in quiet irrelevance to this startling april blue sky and yet, the same april blue sky plays no role in any sorrow or loneliness  found under it's care.
the curly willow is turning green, relevant only to itself , irrelevant to the play of shadows across the yard and the before-mentioned sleeping dogs.
we punch & crawl, pacing ourselves thru the days fighting & striving for relevance.
to be noticed, to be heard, to matter, to be .
yet perhaps it is in the acceptance of insignificance that stillness & grace are revealed
and in letting go, true relevance is at last found.