stepping stones on pencil rose petals (poem)

words on a screen like
strokes across a page
each a gentle rocking
back and forth,
slightly
unbroken
but for snip-its of blank empty moments
between charcoal black, pitted page white, and graphite gray

a different dance of the same passion, safely
typing torrents of hate
hope
hallowed grounds of hurtful safety
the black and white forest
that carries no tone

when the small slate circle
of the eyes of the others
can meet
face to face
is there not
more care taken
with words
chosen?
accusations
slung?

the owl's out stretched wings
envelope
something
that cannot be defined
while the bristle backed bear
searches
for something
to consume

yet the owl hunts, too
a silent, swooping, midnight monster
deadly in its stealth, hunger, need

tip toe toward what sings
to you,

there are no shadows
dark enough to hide
the notes of a guitar that
sing sweetly
shaping soothing moments

of basement level solitude

While you wander lost
in search of wanderlust which
winds you inward
twisting
convening
converging
like mountains and rivers
reach toward each other
a babble brook sound
amplified and twisting itself
softly
deeply
into your own soul
but, softly...to no more than
the whisper
of a night whispered into
so softly, a falling rain
dancing delicately
on almost a foot of snow

like toes
around a cotton ball
curl your rose petals into themselves,
and hold it all...
hold
what is there, imperfect and needy though it may be...
Small arms, chubby cheeks
reliance
dependence
love

Love

and take small steps
on every scape...land, paper, computer screen...
 take them
a dance upon a distant shore
unknown
unseen
a vastly different shore
than any
that has ever washed you
with its salty, imperfect waters
before

poetry inspired in church and my whispering winds class

I.
Lean into hope
and let it lift you
I do not
know how
to do that

or

That is all
I know
how to do

And in the leaning
the lifting
not everyone around you
moves
some things stay
static

and the screams of fear
are stolen, so swift,
from my trembling lips
it is as if
they never existed

or

they are all
that ever has.


II.
There is love in this world
for a while
and a while
dwindles
in its entirety to partial
places
full of flawed, finite
human beings
searching for the safety
of something simple

a lap
to lay your head upon

as if the resting legs
of one other
human being
can be
like a harbor enabling you
to skirt
the whipping winds
of words flung in judgement

or like the blessed blanket
you cower beneath
to hide from magical
imagined monsters

like the path your soul
dances upon when
a tune lifts it lightly

It's like these things
because it is
these things
All of them and more

for a while

At some point
where ever the reason originates
those knees must
unbend and
in standing
steal your soft safe place
becoming a momentary
moving reminder
that the love
in this world is perfect
in its imperfect
partiality.



III.
Wisdom Within our Own Hollow Heart

Moments
were stolen
from you heart

As bits of bread are torn
to use as a tool
to sweep the plate clean

Sips
of your soul drained
as empty as the last glass of wine

Stolen torn drained ignored

Yet welcome
as someone known deeply
by and into
your own hollowed heart

The heart you once wrote
love notes to,
enough to fill a bookshelf

And peeling your own image
back
with sorrow and forgiveness
gratitude and peace
are the steps that greet you here
at this new place, your own
front door.

So that
in broken pieces
the mirror comes together
once again enabling you to face
a visage
more perfect in its shattered parts
than you ever
would have
imagined.

More than what I have (poem)

I cannot close my eyes
My arms break and
they cannot break
I've journeyed long, curving roads
turned down paths with
darkened, horrific abhorations
and paths
with playful pixie like bubbling giggles
of hope and light

My path now
is heavy...
deeply padded with tangled undergrowth
moments of magic that twist
tools that should be built
of hope
and instead bring
a bitterness, confusion, judgement

I search for strenght
inside and around me
mountains
clouds
rays of sun that reach to the smallest crevice

I pray for poems to pave my path
toward a heart of love
when love has been wrung
from mine
like a dirty rag twisted
dripping into a sink full with
crusted dishes.

I feel the hole
inside myself
there are no metaphors
I simply try to fill it
with hope and love
forgiveness

and I step out
into the world

am crushed
by the reality

in quiet corners
good people do not judge
they lift me up, open the doors
of the world to beckon
the most positive things
various versions
of strength

and
in the open
lives nothing
but
judgement

Numbers dance across
painting pallets
graphs and statistical outputs
push away
hands that hold
embrace
lift up
and nudge notes of simple
songs into mud-like mounds
of mostly meaningless
numbers

I search
for a voice
a sound
a smooth surface to trace
my finger across

and my broken arms
ache again

and my mind spins circles
asking questions
that have no answers

the judgement stands
with no
connections
no rope
no net to hold me

so
behold
my naked form
with bleeding heart
broken arms
searching soul
singing songs to search for things
that might
be
right

And none of it
nothing
is enough

The world wants
something
more

listing things (poem)

What makes me come alive? Love.
In every guise.
In diapers, or sneakers, or a fancy dress showing too much cleavage

Playfulness, in all it's forms- sarcasm, unexpected and ridiculous connections, goofy faces, puns...

Passion- full of teasing almost touches, imaginary moments filled with body paints, moisture magic, flushed cheeks and inside jokes.

Words- words strung together
With rhythm and hope
Alliteration and literal beats
Pulling you into
Slight swaying steps
Forcing your fingers to find
The volume.
Turn
It
Up
Let your body live within the motion's waves

I'm adrift, yes.
Fluttering from one small
Imagined moment of connection
To each of these ideas

Searching while simultaneously
Afraid
To search

A hundred times inside a thousand
Tries for each of these.

I
Will
Not
Lay
Down the sword
      that is
Myself

I am
And have always been

A warrior

Even when things around me shatter
And are quiet

Softly broken screams
Of womblike wonder
Tethered tightly
To a community
Encouraging, enabling energy to fill
Some
Empty places

But not all

Corners are left cavernous
Since the things
That would fill these
Particular
Crevices

Come from the list
That makes me alive.

The list that exists
To be filled
By you.

shine

I post things about doing nothing and being proud...I am trying to channel Glennon.  
Really, all I want is to do little harm.  I'd like to say "do no harm", but who am I kidding with that one?  I'm still on the journey that is taking me down addiction road...and trying to drag one foot along the dirt path beside me...I'm doing okay with that, but I can't keep messing with powers that are stronger than I am.  Like entropy.  Entropy is way stronger than me...

I sit for one day, and all of a sudden, it's my whole vacation, and we still have no clean underwear.  I think I have washed my kids three times over the last two weeks.  I have three kids.  By three times, I mean that I have washed them each, randomly, once in the last two weeks. 

I try to channel the Sweet Honey In The Rock song...There Were No Mirrors...because I wonder what my kids will get from this...from me...from these years.  I am trying to be strong...honest...real.  And the reality is that I love them so much it's a special kind of crazy.  And I still cannot expect them to fill me...and I am trying to show them how to be lost and broken and hurt and lost...and strong inside it all. 

Is the beauty in MY eyes?  Do they know that there is nothing that can make them more beautiful than to be seen through my eyes? 

Do they know that because I am broken, I am open...broken open...to all that life is, that life offers, that life takes...that I see the real for what it is...that I embrace the pain in order to remain open to the hope...do they KNOW how much I was loved and how rare and special that is?  How imperfect that is??  It's my job to let them know. 

That's one good thing.  I'm crap at lying about this...so they will hear it, one way or another.  And I pray, so deeply, that they see that the memories that leak out of my eyes

enable my face to

SHINE

so brightly...

consulting the oracle (poem)

someday I'll be ready
to lend out my smile
so that it will be deeper
than what I have now

but now
for now
I will keep trying to face the tiger
till I can smile at him
till I can get him
to roll over
and let me pet
his forbidden belly

my ache is in part for
the lost thing
in part for a sense of safety
stability

I walk in lines of life
filtered through sharp stick stones
a lack of words lined with
judgement
confusion
fear

places unsafe
unsavory
necessary
disorienting

a misaligned compass
whose magnet might be
warped

my directions follow feelings
and need alternate connections
a myriad of myopic microscopic
accidental miscreants
view me from somewhere concealed
and continue
over and over
to judge who I am
what I do
calculate scores
of calculated mistakes
that are nothing more
than moments

thus I'm borne again
forging my own iron mail
made of what I
can
believe

love
hope
fallibility
honesty
connection

will that be enough?

the Oracle
is silent
but she gestures

my gaze may be
cross eyed
no matter.
I will forge ahead
and listen to the song
of my own making

what else is there
to do?

dance lessons (poem)

Take it.
The empty feeling. Take it in and
absorb it.
Let the emptiness fill you,
inflate you.

Wear it like a gown
of glittering gold...
a ball gown for a royal dance.
Fill up with the pain and the loss...
the hurt and the fear.

How else do you immunize? Inoculation
is the process of taking
into your blood stream
that which would otherwise
Easily
kill you.
So take it.

Decorate yourself with it, my dear.
You know
you will not wear
the same thing forever...
not even a beautiful gown, adorned
with jewels of crystal tears...
step into it...
zip it up...
admire yourself in it...
for it is worthy of admiration, this pain.

It is the inside lining of love.
Feel the silkiness
against your naked skin.
You will be ready to take it off
soon enough.
Try not to rush.

Like the infancy of your progeny
it will not last.
It's brevity is a gift.
It's existence an honor. Be the queen
of grief, for his love elevated you...
beyond princess, 
the daughter of the king of all gods. 

His Love made you real...
an ephemeral version of the blue fairy. 

And you've been lying. 

Lying that healing has begun... Progressed. 
That hope was on the horizon, 
dancing on the binary code 
of a computer screen. 

Hope is here...inside the silken lining. 
Hope is what touches your bare flesh. 
Hope is what sears and cuts and falls 
like gossamer across gooseflesh. 

Hope will not grow, if you hold back 
the tears or 
disguise the pain. 

So dance. 

Let the dress swirl around you, 
flaring up for all to see...
be here and now, adorned in majesty, 
bleeding 
and crying,
laughing 
and dancing. 

Because you were blessed beyond 
so many. 
You 
had 
him. 

You tasted the fruit...
bruised and dented and still 
sweet inside it's imperfection. 
So dance, my darling. 
Do not attempt to still the beating heart, 
do not fear 
this emptiness, 
let the tears dry tracks 
upon your face. 
No make up will make you 
more beautiful.

So dance.