Lets make a new rule
that the wind blows up
the sun rises in the South.
Lets take up the light
of a bright blue moon
make it keep company
with us until tomorrow.
Lets imagine a golden boat
built by tiny angels
and drift off shore
toward a different truth.
Lets laugh together
one last time
so I can know you.
Perfect new paint shines
covers your body like silk
sheets pulled perfectly tight
across a lovely queen bed.
The scent of new glistens
where leather skin stretches
taught across seat-backs
and arms. You could be held
by a graying lover or a fresh-
faced man-child out for
a first fast ride. You
like the cool room
of glass windows, waxed tile;
equally like the heat
of street and pavement waiting
outside for your display. You
acquiesce easily, push a button,
turn a key, roll forward.
Never complaining about
what you didn’t become
unaware of what you are …
pretty painted machine without
A Birthday Poem for my daughter . . .
~for my daughter BJC on her 34th birthday
Beautiful Belle of red blood and divine light
Battling strangulation in the womb
As the tangled intentions of nature and spirit grew
To emerge from darkness, life unbound —
Screaming your first exhale on a Friday afternoon.
Beautiful Belle of sea foam and fire
Entering through a door of complexity and tangled intentions –
Newborn child to a child of sixteen, the warlike forces
Of class and culture and mystery and possibility
Dancing in the air of your birth, at the foot of your crib.
Beautiful Belle of soft pulse and warm breath
Vibrant child of bruises and cuts and fearless
Determination to run toward the waiting world
Dragging your brother by the hand, always seeking
Another adventure of happy mischief and bubbling laughter.
Beautiful Belle of purple quartz and diamond hardness
Rebelling at every teaching, refusing every lesson,
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“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.”
― Martha Graham
I missed her. She was a faint memory, a fragment hiding inside my spirit and heart. A ghost-whisper of feeling, presence, image, essence. . .
That me was a kind and gentle person with a quirky sense of humor, a bright sparkly laugh, that saw people as multi-colored skeins of yarn, unique and beautiful in their various hues. She was the type of gal that understood everyone, including herself, as imperfect individuals fighting their own daily battles to survive, grow, and become. And she recognized that those battles gave people a variegated quality of individuality that made…
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“Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” —Sylvia Plath
The words hurt.
The venom of the disease is horrific. It will destroy me if I allow it to.
The truth in the words hurts. The reality that I wish was different … but isn’t.
The words hurt because they match the actions that (I interpret to) mean I am irrelevant in this relationship. The person I love either too sick or otherwise unable to love me back or show me kindness that is normal between two people who care about one another.
And I keep trying and wanting a “different” answer, keep trying to “force a solution” that lets me find some small happiness in this relationship. But all relationships are partnerships of some sort…
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