Can you hear me love?
Your name just leapt
from my heart to my lips
There is no phone line here.
Can you hear me?
“I love you” breathed into the night.
Can you feel me?
My arms wrapped around you,
your head on my shoulder
My hand strokes your back;
warm whispers caress your ear.
Do you know me love?
Do you know that I am here?

Writing stirs the subconscious till things bubble up into now.

feelin’ kinda small today,
just a lost kid, on the edge of this porch.
I’d meant to ask her out here, to share a glass of tea,
to watch the sun circle down, around,
greet the stars and count them
‘til we ran out of toes.

Instead I sit here wondering, again
What’s wrong with me?
What makes me so unlikable, unworthy?

Now don’t I sound pathetic?
Time to get my focus back,
take my little girl by the hand,
and tell her it’s ok.

We’ve carved a life for ourselves,
this little girl and I.
We’ve found our strength and more,
the way to love ourselves.

She is watercolor’s faint blush seeping into flesh
She is the bold stroke of charcoal that cannot be erased
She leaves bits of herself, like crumbs of pastel, a trail to home
She moves in oily colors, giving shape and texture to dreams
She is the keen-edged blade, carving out truth
She is a set of finger tips, reaching into the slip,
coaxing heart open and drawing up to ___

October 16, 2014

Beneath the Surface
There’s a cove I’d like to visit.
She’s a ways off, but I get glimpses when the light’s just right
Gentle waves lapping against rock and sand, playfully inviting, unassuming
A place that’s kind and warm, an easy-go-lucky day on the water,
. . . a pleasant swimming hole
Cobalt flips to cerulean, lifts a layer away, deep amethyst blinks beneath the waves
That’s where my attention’s drawn, the hidden depths, the mystical treasures
What passions live just beyond the reach of sun’s glinting rays?
Subtle eruditions revealed only to the invited who are brave enough to dive.

October 14, 2014

Have you ever started a fire with a twirling stick? It’s slow. It’s hard work. You think that nothing is happening, and then you see a tiny wisp of smoke. You need to be very careful then, keep up the steady motions.

There’s a tiny wisp of smoke floating around inside. It started in my chest and my brain is beginning to catch on.

I’m not one to hang on to sad anniversaries. It makes no sense to me to waste every season of the year mourning for one of the many loved ones I’ve lost. I know that each of them would rather I go on and embrace life. I can hear them tell me so. And yet this one . . . this one stays with me. And so I’ll open myself and let her come, give her the ear I should have then. Perhaps it’s not too late for wisdom to find its way. Have you a voice begging for your ear? Listen now. Don’t turn away. Open your heart; let their song permeate your soul. Better soon than late.

I see only a little
in the years someone told us
would be easy and safe
life is unfair and unkind
still challenging still testing
haven’t we grown enough?

I see only a little
grief and worry
weariness penetrates
despite our resolve
We are strong women
are we not?

I see only a little
but feel something more
a love of beauty
open and moving
depth of feeling
you are my heroine.

Wounds so big
Where do we begin to close them?
Gaping open for millennia
Oozing poison, spreading infection
Is there any life blood left
to carry the cure?

So easy to let the grief bury us alive.

But eyes are watching, calling attention
Two young raccoons, a dog, the ravens
Look at the beautiful sunrise

Some of us must choose to be the blood
Carry the light, the love, the hope
Open ourselves to all of it
The gaping wound and the cure

That’s the word that has been stewing in my head the past two weeks. Injustice shows up in politics and economics, in education and access to opportunities. It shows up in perceptions of genders and ages and what each can or should do. It shows up in families and between lovers. Basically, injustice rears its ugly head in every sort of human interaction. And it drives me insane. I want life to be fair. It isn’t. A bookmark, smudged and worn by the frequent strokes of my teenaged fingers, still chants its rhyme in the space between my ears.

“You fires belie the frailest frame. To set the world right is your aim.” Scorpio

Was it prophetic or did the chant make me as I am? Either way, the words are true.