2018

In an instance of abnormality

the Caucasian princess

relented in her spoiled gloaming

her stupid brooding

over this and that

And she went, instead

outside

and forgot herself for a little while.

Out here, the tree song

of wind amongst a myriad pines

of branches quickening with spring sap

blew peacefully into her ears

and her mind cleared

and was silent save for that

blessed gentle wind.

She did not feel an alien

interloping on some sacred song

No No

She did not feel anything at all

Rather

For that blessedly ever-long

moment

on that simple stroll amongst

the trees

She ceased to be the centre

of her small swirling thoughts

She ceased to be at all

She was an observer

with breaths with lungs

filled with air as pure as the

wind in the highest branches

She was become the wind

Alive, her blood quickened

in time with sap in the spring trees

This, she took back into the gloaming

And the endless spiral of this and that

was oft punctuated

with remembrance of wind

of being outside the centre

of being not at all

the freedom of peace with the wind

of blood rising with the sap.

It was enough

and it sustained her

She ventured more and more

often

on walks

outside

into the trees

And brought back more of it

into the house, the business

into the family into the bedroom

into the small talks

into the sleeping

Everyone noticed a change in her

She penetrated the gloaming

until it became light

And the spiral that had once been a prison

was now just a silly, pleasant dance.

 

Valentine’s Day Poem for Ryan

 

 I

 

If you were a wind

You would be from the West

That wind of normal, constant

That wind we take for granted

Because it blows without our knowing

No tempest, no ice storm,

neither heated haziness

nor humid rains

Yours is the wind of constancy,

of sunlight, of surety

as sure as change.

And when we walk in the forest

We delight in you

For this is the wind that

keeps animals safe

to walk the paths they know best

That moves the trees

to speaking in companionship amongst each other

A medium for natural symphony

Feather, pinecone, whisker, flight

With your wind the clouds

Fly fast and high

A marvel of movement

In the wide, ever wider arc of blue.

 

 II

 

If you were a fire,

You would be the hearth fire.

Not a candle,

for though romantic, they are

solitary insipid lights

that might sputter with a wind

or gutter out, drowned in their own oils,

Or gone too soon

Or left unattended might burn down a house.

Yes, yours is the hearthfire

Not the campfire

Out there, under the stars

Party to any one who pleases to feed you

Beholden to strangers

Thrown to softwoods or punk

Or stoked to a bonfire rage.

Yes, you are the hearthfire

You create your own blaze

with intention, and intelligence

And if its gone cold

You are happy to scoop out the ashes

Of what came before

and start anew

New ideas, new intentions

And your bright, merry flames

Are for all of us

The whole house of us

Family and friends

We delight in the heat

and the light of your jolly dancing

And the embers that glowing

sustain me through the night

Like a blanket of warm knowing

That my house is protected and loved.   

 

Why our girls are cutting?

Watched

the watchers watched me watching when I was awake

And when the winds whirled through the web

I wondered what I take

It’s not happy/hate

It’s more like nervous ticking

I watch I forget I have skin

Until my fingernails start itching.

Time slides by under the glass

The window of my watching

I hold the world within my hands

Of watchers watching watching

My sister cries, let’s go outside

See a star or ten

But then we see a hundred

And the black between all of them.

Can you please tell me the difference

Of my world beneath the window

or what’s between me and you?

It’s the fact of physical feeling.

The question of what is true.

My eyes become like little squares

My heart an empty box

My mind a simple, strong machine

My soul a shrinking dot.

But my skin has feeling

heart beats blood

Do you think I’m really real?

I won’t push the button on my watchers

I can’t sacrifice our deal.

Let me be a real thing

that can singing pump and twirl

scratching pressure of my real skin

If I feel pain I am a girl.

The watchers watch me watching

watchers when I am awake

The window of this real world

Is sometimes more than I can take….

crystal anniversary

The woman sat down

to perform open heart surgery

on herself.

The problem had been festering

for 20 years now

but it was housed in such a lovely chamber

Of course

an amputation of this magnitude

would be difficult, ugly, traumatic

That her only tool was a

rusty, dull set of scissors,

you know the ones,

shoved in the second drawer in the pantry

forgotten way at the back

you should have thrown them out

but you didn’t

because you know the good scissors

will be used by Someone Else

maybe yourself

and not put back in the Right Place

No matter

The woman almost relished

the prospect of a messy, ugly operation.

Of course it would be awful

She would make a terrible, gruesome mess of it

the wound would probably fester and puss

probably kill her quicker than not

The problem wasn’t the lovely chamber

oh the house the home was so grand

the laughter so ringing

the love so warm – soul food

She was sure she would starve to death without it

But, in the house there were two monsters.

One was the snake.

And when it spoke its vemon words

spread poison that turned her

whole mind ugly, angry, resentful, hurt

Oh, how many cupfulls of poison

of that awful green acid venom

had she endured?

had she willingly, unwillingly, swallowed?

only to transmute it into her own

viper of dislike, distaste, even hatred.

She’d thought she’d conquered the snake

Five years ago,

when she ran and sweated

And exorcised that poison

She’d grabbed that snake by the throat

“I speak my emotional truth out loud!”

I will tell you when you hurt me

And it was gone, mostly gone

But then it came back

And now she grasped her crappy dull scissors

The whole fucking house would have to go.

Its warm cozy beds

and its games

its comforting pathways

its mountain of happy memories, all slightly tinged with venom.

She was scared to contemplate

what would be left

after the operation.

He hand began to shake.

She hesitated for a whole year.

The other monster was a ghost.

Her Soul, her Creative Self

That bizarre strange creature

no one whol loved her ever cared to know.

The moans and wails

and chilly, screaming winds

of the wraith

were become unbearable

The operation would remove

the house, the whole chamber

And she would hurt and cry and bleed

For days for months for years

Perhaps a decade

Maybe for the rest of her life

But that god damned fucking snake

wouldn’t be able to poison her

anymore

And the ghost would be set free.