Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Not actually alone

What is today,
Is yesterday,
And all the movements we make
Are melted into ones that swayed before

5 years
5 months
5 minutes
Time torn away from what he accidentally
Might be

Trips directly into
The tardis
And there is no forward or back
Here or there
The girl who waits
Waits forever and never began

The heart that love rent
Is reformed
And ripped apart to bleed

And so he breathes
On swollen broken feet
He takes a baby step
And chooses to challenge the idea

That baby steps
Mean moving forward

I can climb a stool to sit upon
Taking baby steps
Upon each rung.
Rest.  Resting is good


There is a black and blurry moment
Every now and then
Full of chocolate
Too much sleep
Not enough sleep
Snapping and snarling
Hair pulling and refusing to make anything
For dinner


Until the cord no longer plugs in
Till the metal is bent
A spur upon the bones of your spine
Causing scoliosis
Curving the part of you
Meant to structure you
Strong and straight and tall

There are still baby steps
Through the mud
While winds whistle the rustling rub
Of bending bark
On aging window panes

Not quite
Like fingernails upon the length
Of old blackboards
But close

5 years
5 months
5 minutes
Time torn away from what he accidentally
Might be

Trips directly into
The time machine
And all that ever was
And all that ever will be
Billows through the blender
Of the soul
Spinning and whirring
Till one thing
Is firmly fused
That ever was or will be

Our stories
No matter how heavy
Are never

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

Our stories spin together

A child died
I'd never met him

A woman far too young
faces a demon called cancer
squirming its bastard way
into her brain


I think about these concepts often

When I was 23
my Women's Study/History professor
held a Santaria celebration
to usher in the new year.
I had my first tarot card reading there
as everyone left

a woman older than me sat beside me
we had one card pulled
and two polar opposite reactions
Image result for as above so belowto the image of a solitary woman
in a plowed field
arms down and palms forward
she faced away into the distance.

She saw sorrow
I saw courage, strength

I think, now, I see both

My nails are trimmed short
and still I wake up
with random scratches on my hands

I've been a widow for almost 5 years
I wonder if it's silly to search
for a mostly safe place

I notice how odd it is
that the feelings I feel are simultaneously
and all of the universe
folded into my melting, mourning mind

For 44 years I have been practicing breathing
I am finally mastering the skill
in fits and starts

Enough so that I am strong enough to choose
even when my breath hitches in sobs and stuttering tears

While foundations rumble.

My biggest secret and my deepest fear?

I am

So exhausted

And still
when I close my eyes
remember to breathe
I feel them

The child who died
The woman attacked by cancer
My husband dead five years

there are waves, and birds, breezes and songs
dreams and
things I can't explain

We are connected
we are woven

So I silently sing a secret whisper
and ask the nothing
the vibrates with it all

to hold me up
a little while longer

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

My story was told wrong

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert,
You only have to let the soft animal of your 

love what it loves.

~ Mary Oliver

I read almost every night now,
to my kids

I feel like Ursula
rising huge in purple painted laughter
Sea Witch by michellemoniqueconfident

Redrawn the way we redid Maleficent

Because I would never take the
or wings
or voice
from anyone

My story was told wrong

Death and grief restructure you
and still, I never would have done that

Your armor, if you embrace it right
moves with you
flexible as pine branches
twirling and whipping in hurricanical winds
bending, unlikely to break
Growing as you grow
bending with the healing of your heart at each stage

We tango with holding what we love, cheek to cheek
passionate, quick, deliberate
doing a deep dip slowly, looking longingly into each other's eyes
and see the beauty of letting go
at last
when the boundary has been slashed

and the gray storm of a Pixar spell
envelops you
swirls around you in a cloud-like stole
and the vapors
cloud your eyes
choke you

My story was told wrong

Life is not a series of struggles
leading to exalted, exaggerations of joy
after perfectly structured
tales of adventure, issues, and ends...

the stages are real
they exist
they swirl and sneak around your spine
and structure everything

but they do not end
not until you do

and if you slow down
like when you were little
laying in the golden majesty of that evergreen grove
sacred in its mist of nothing special
and everything that ever mattered

perhaps your vision might clear so that you can see
that the imperfection of every moment
is where the beauty lives
the dimpled brown dents in pure white striated daisy petals

The evil queen
the bedeviled bitch
the nasty women
the feminazis

    who know what they want
and ask for it
    who know when they feel insulted
and say so
    who refuse to be belittled
and push back
    who live deeply in a way that SINGS that they are loveable
and will never.  Ever. Listen when you say they are not

Maybe we aren't what you painted us to be

And maybe the good men aren't gone.
Maybe we need to stop scaring them away
from holding tight
to their emotions and the pine trees
and clarity and honesty and tears.

Let them have their tears back.

Perhaps the tears will wash clean all our hearts
so the goodness can find a way back.

My story was told wrong.

I always thought I would read to my kids every night
No matter what

At least I'm back at it

Paint over it, around it, and make it your own.
I'm not done living yet.
And I am still saying "yes" to the things
upon my path

"You never know ahead of time what something's really going to be like."
~Katherine Patterson 

Monday, February 19, 2018

Hope, having found him

If nothing else, I’m learning there is hope…still.  I’m learning TO hope.  Again.  There is a man.  He makes me laugh.  Kind of a lot. 
We went too fast, er, are going too fast?  Except, it is right where we are meant to be, and the farther it goes, the more comfortable it gets.  He’s done so many different things in his life, been through so much.  His level of adventurism matches mine quite well. 
Sometimes, I’m a little jealous of his oldest daughter and how much he loves spending time with her…until I realize that that is silly because I pause and apply it to an understanding of John loving Cecilia.  He is a fabulous father.
He is ridiculously sarcastic in a dorky way that I love. 
The way he touches me makes my body burn like coal.  At first when we kissed there was a hardness, nibbling at each other, and it was good. On Valentine’s Day, his lips softened, and now when we kiss, it’s like our mouths briefly melt into each other’s, and it is so much better.
In two short months, we have navigated two issues of mine and one of his.  His issue played out in not answering the phone or responding to my text messages.  I tried to channel John, because running is what I used to do, what I pull to even now to some degree.  And he would not let me run.  So I talked with friends to figure out how to manage my issues and not let go.  And he finally answered the phone.  So we talked, and I learned things about him…about his fear and his processes…and I hope he learned about me. 
Even just typing this, my body lights up with the memory of his touch.  He holds my hand and doesn’t let it go.  Even when it’s awkward to keep holding it.  I like it even though it’s weird.  Maybe because it’s weird. 
He tells me I’m beautiful all the time, and when he holds me, touches me, kisses me…I feel more beautiful than I have in years.  I don’t think about my belly.  I don’t think about being a widow.  I think about laughing and touching and loving.  I think about being loved.
I do not need a man to be happy.  I do not need this man.  But connection is a massive comfort to me.  And I cannot fake connections.  He touches the smallest fibers inside me somehow.  It’s like from the moment we met in person, our souls started to weave themselves together.  With each meal we share, each time we make each other laugh, each kiss planted and pair of entwined fingers, each time we misunderstand each other and face the fear and hurt to talk about it and choose to touch each other again, the weave thickens, becomes more intricate.  I am learning to hope again.  I’m learning to trust in love. 
I know that all of this is just a beginning.  But it is a strong one, full of beauty.  And I’m so happy to have found it.  

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

dancing when the stars collide

In my mind, I imagine a moment with you:
A wrinkled blue blanket spread on green prickly grass
You are sitting crossed legged and laughing
Your eyes
Actually twinkling
Whose eyes do that?!
You are looking up at me
And I
Am more me
Than I have been in years
I’m barefoot
Laughing, spinning, my chin tilted skyward

That’s all I see
It’s all I need to see

Because it’s like the eyes are new
Something about the power of our
Polarized in the right

A neural-magical fusion moment
Where neither one of us can pull away
And anger-grief-loss explodes
Into the perfect candle lit chandelier
Spinning dazzling rainbows of
Splintered, real, broken imperfection
Just exactly

What each of us needs

Thursday, January 18, 2018

laughter unleashed

I bend my body
to tilt my head

just so

so I can breathe in bits
of your breath

I get scared

a deer in headlights

and will run, not walk,
in another direction

Your long, soft gaze
followed my form
onto the haze of the dance floor

spinning away from infinity
I felt your stare
from 20 feet away

I would rather dance
with the non-embrace
that lives in the distance
between your eyes
and my body

than with anyone

I know how to rattle around
in my own moaning brain
finding ways
to grow, slow, baby steps

so long
they last weeks drawn out to months spread out
to years

and now
the whisper songs inside
my silence
have a sound
that sings
a rhyme quite like
your name

the touch of you
like the cool kiss
of snow-like-fur tingles on the back
of my fingers

Your smell surrounds me
filling my pores and curving
around my jaw, my neck,

a scent so new

like an invisible embrace
that tickles my swollen lips
the way a dorky porn mustache might

It works
even when pictures
don't do it justice

and for the first time
in who knows how long

it's giggles
not tears
that echo

in my halls.

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Wind- bending toward hope

-inspired by Lilies, Mary Oliver-
-and you-

I have been thinking
About living
like the wind
that caresses each figure in its path

it comes from everywhere
and nowhere
 lifting, stirring the waters
cooling the edges of your skin

It belongs to no one
And touches every
One of us
Like an old sensation from
The bedroom when you were 16
She whisper-sings wordless melodies

That bend us both
Into feathery fields
Of magical memory
Where things change
And fear faded
And we both
Meandering through a maze that only WE were meant to solve
A maze
Called consent
A maze
Called incredible desire
A maze called
Trembling limbs and secrets sent through
The slowest mail

A maze, a labyrinth
Winding toward a wide open center
With no wrong turns and
Where ravishing lavender

Without protest
At your touch
On your tongue
And the dragonfly floats
On the tendrils of the wind
Winding its way across

Of our skin