In this moon story they enter a roiling primordial soup--where delineations arise and dissolve into lava flows and thick mud. In the impending sense of desolation, great potential looms. They enter through a feathered opening and don (or grow?) a pair of wings--tipped and dripping with luminous paint and an urge to splash the world with color. They sense the lava oozing forth from fissures in the Earth not as a threat, but as a way back to source. At the center, the lava has cooled and the rain has poured into and compacted the ground with thick mud--out of which arises a massive, old tortoise. They climb upon its back.
Faaalling Up
Wednesday, November 24, 2021
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Moonwalk
Flip-side shadows:
murky land—moonlight
uneven footsteps—assurance
of night vision
crouching in the dry,
beach grass—trees bellowing foreboding groans
blasted by the ocean
wind—skin to skin on my mother's breast
tethered—free.
Out on the boardwalk
Luna relumbrante.
Thoughts suspended in
gravitational clarity.
Luna.
Misty undertow of dreams
drawing in
the tide, the womb, the
mind, the heart.
Obscurity in reverse:
murky sky—moondark
land disintegrating
underfoot—eyes fixed above
arms outstretched on a
gusty flight—forest emptied of creature stirrings
blasted by the night's
stillness—pressed on by my mother's hand
anchored—free.
anchored—free.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
The Wall
My lover's words....
A few simple words. A request...
...the ill-treated child within my
being read coercion.
My body continued but my mind coiled
around the words and locked down until my body could no longer
continue—until I couldn't speak or move.
I recoiled, escaped.
Trapped in a mental assault, with the
bathroom light on, I latched onto the towels, hoping they'd provide
some tenderness. When none came, and the voices grew louder, an icy
rigidity seized my body. My eyes clamped open.
Each thought laid itself like a brick,
stacking layer over layer over layer, sealing me out. The bricks rose
higher and higher. Seconds became years. My mind sentenced me to an
interminable, impenetrable misery of the wall. I longed for death,
some end to it.
I removed myself to the couch and laid
out an isolation shroud. I sank down, leaden and listless. Resigned.
Some filament of something began to grow
through a tiny crack in the wall, too small to notice at first—a
memory, the scent of sap, grounding, bare feet on the soil.
Wall construction continued.
Resignation turned to a panic-stricken search for a door, some
passageway through. My eyes darted back forth until they came upon a
tiny root curling itself through, and stopped.
I reached out and touched its delicate,
silken hairs.
“Go outside,” it whispered.
An answer: I could make my way through
the wall, from the outside in, calling on the Earth. Though, at the
time I didn't recognize how I'd get through in this way, the
message was clear: go outside.
I pried myself off of the couch and
willed myself back into the bedroom.
Clothes... protection from the cold.
His voice asked after me through the
wall, from miles away. I could not answer.
Clothes, protection. Rigid mind and fingers fumbled through the dark to find them. My mind began to thicken the wall with new layers—but I could not forget the root and its message: go outside.
Clumsy hands grabbed his coat and heavy
feet carried me down the stairs. As the cool air hit my face, tears
came. Water for the root.
Wall construction hurtled on at a
frenzied pace. My mind calling me to perform some drastic,
self-destructive act—continuing to invite death, violence to dash out my thoughts.
But my feet were sure by now and
carried me down the path, over fallen branches and to a cold, dew-soaked,
mossy tree trunk. I reached out a hand and leaned in. Sobs leapt from
my chest.
The salty water soaked the root. It
began to stretch itself down to the Earth, upwards, sideways.
Braiding and entwining itself. Taking form. Taking up the substance
of the wall into itself. It was becoming an archway and light began
to seep through.
I walked out from the forest and back
to the path. I stepped out of my shoes and onto the roots of a giant
read cedar. Here was all the tenderness I needed: the girth of its
solid trunk, the sweet smells of its bark, the damp Earth. An
ancestor to hold me, to stand with.
The light flooded through the wall's
rooted archway and into my body. The thoughts subsided. I could
remember tenderness: his, my own, and the world's. I could go back
with an opening in my heart.
-->
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Forest Bathing
Full creek,
cloudy with sediment
and the rush of fresh rains
a musty, mossy scent
thickens the air
the forest is fluttering,
floating by
rivers of motion:
cascades of winter wren trills
branches heavy with buds
children
little dogs
muddy-footed runners
lovers
even the skinny jean advertisers
are taking in
the first luxurious morsels
of spring.
cloudy with sediment
and the rush of fresh rains
a musty, mossy scent
thickens the air
the forest is fluttering,
floating by
rivers of motion:
cascades of winter wren trills
branches heavy with buds
children
little dogs
muddy-footed runners
lovers
even the skinny jean advertisers
are taking in
the first luxurious morsels
of spring.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
A lover is born!
Gratitude...
29 years ago today a lovely human being was born, somehow scooted, sat, cried, crawled, walked, ran, jumped, played and eventually made it across the street into my life. How wondrous a being he is and I love him dearly.
He sits across from me now, tea slurping, burping, lips pursing now and again as he reads. This lovely human being with whom I feel so at ease, even when riding grumpy, whiny, annoyed, fearful, anxiety-ridden waves, the ones I don't acknowledge in the company of pretty much anyone else.
Well, I love him dearly, what more is there to say? THank YOU Universe for this delicious beauty I get to share in, for this man, so of a man!
Deepity!
29 years ago today a lovely human being was born, somehow scooted, sat, cried, crawled, walked, ran, jumped, played and eventually made it across the street into my life. How wondrous a being he is and I love him dearly.
He sits across from me now, tea slurping, burping, lips pursing now and again as he reads. This lovely human being with whom I feel so at ease, even when riding grumpy, whiny, annoyed, fearful, anxiety-ridden waves, the ones I don't acknowledge in the company of pretty much anyone else.
Well, I love him dearly, what more is there to say? THank YOU Universe for this delicious beauty I get to share in, for this man, so of a man!
Deepity!
Monday, February 3, 2014
Gratitude. Months Later.
One teacher recommended simply saying gratitude to oneself and seeing what arises....
Gratitude:
Safe home
stuck (can't think of anything)
Breathing...
a loving companion (handsome, gentle)
The cat, full of cuteness, curled up, warm and snug, loves it when the heater's on.
Heat.
The miracle of electricity (somehow rushing water and wind bring light and heat to my living room, power this thing I'm typing on).
Pause.
Gratitude:
Socks, the hands that made them, packaged and shipped them. Hands in Mexico? China? India?
Every item in my cluttered living room touched by un-named hands.
Interdependence, somehow it all works.
A day to rest when ill, paid sick leave.
Stable work.
Supportive Family.
Today...
Making birthday cards for friends.
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping late.
Remembering gratitude.
One teacher recommended simply saying gratitude to oneself and seeing what arises....
Gratitude:
Safe home
stuck (can't think of anything)
Breathing...
a loving companion (handsome, gentle)
The cat, full of cuteness, curled up, warm and snug, loves it when the heater's on.
Heat.
The miracle of electricity (somehow rushing water and wind bring light and heat to my living room, power this thing I'm typing on).
Pause.
Gratitude:
Socks, the hands that made them, packaged and shipped them. Hands in Mexico? China? India?
Every item in my cluttered living room touched by un-named hands.
Interdependence, somehow it all works.
A day to rest when ill, paid sick leave.
Stable work.
Supportive Family.
Today...
Making birthday cards for friends.
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping late.
Remembering gratitude.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Written sketch: cat, lover, guitar
There is a stuck bit.
Uncorking.......
Cat pouncing on her prey of air, shadow and string.
The lover whistles Star Wars and asks,
"Whatcha writins?"
addresses the cat, then removes his guitar from its case and sits.
Tuning and tinkering. Nimble fingers remember rhythms and patterns
like a young boy calling his dog out to play fetch.
It's a game they both know quite well
boy, ball and dog
fingers, strings and vibrations.
When he sits in the corner, strumming, what a beautiful dance of plunking,
strumming, pressing, face scrunching,
head tilted down and slightly to one side
encouraging the notes to come forward like shy little children,
ever so gently, ever so persistently.
There's a luxurious, honeyed serenity in his expression,
a silent joy.
The beauty of concentration wrapped delicately in each of his movements.
Squack!
Squeak!
'barassed, looking over now and again at this spy.
He stops playing.
Notes
ebb
and
flow.
And again they waSH over me.
He switches guitars and addresses the cat a second time.
Again tUnInG
again f l o w i n g notes.
His left pinky curls in and out ever so slightly about the air
while the other fingers press down on the strings, so rapidly
as to land in a blur.
He moves the capo up and down the neck
slipping from one song into the next,
yawns
protests at my request for further playing
but hugs in his guitar in for one final tune.
"What's happening?
Whatcha doin' over there?"
Uncorking.......
Cat pouncing on her prey of air, shadow and string.
The lover whistles Star Wars and asks,
"Whatcha writins?"
addresses the cat, then removes his guitar from its case and sits.
Tuning and tinkering. Nimble fingers remember rhythms and patterns
like a young boy calling his dog out to play fetch.
It's a game they both know quite well
boy, ball and dog
fingers, strings and vibrations.
When he sits in the corner, strumming, what a beautiful dance of plunking,
strumming, pressing, face scrunching,
head tilted down and slightly to one side
encouraging the notes to come forward like shy little children,
ever so gently, ever so persistently.
There's a luxurious, honeyed serenity in his expression,
a silent joy.
The beauty of concentration wrapped delicately in each of his movements.
Squack!
Squeak!
'barassed, looking over now and again at this spy.
He stops playing.
Notes
ebb
and
flow.
And again they waSH over me.
He switches guitars and addresses the cat a second time.
Again tUnInG
again f l o w i n g notes.
His left pinky curls in and out ever so slightly about the air
while the other fingers press down on the strings, so rapidly
as to land in a blur.
He moves the capo up and down the neck
slipping from one song into the next,
yawns
protests at my request for further playing
but hugs in his guitar in for one final tune.
"What's happening?
Whatcha doin' over there?"
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