I hope that one day,
I can be someone
Who I can be proud of.
I hope that I can look at myself
And not find reasons
To stress.
I hope that I can cherish myself
And my community
For all that we are.
I hope that I can sing out to the world
Of my frustration
With the box I am expected to survive in.
I hope that I can see the world
And my country
And be fully proud of it.
I hope to live
Without fear
And to fill myself with love.
I need to write, but my
brain is muddled by need –
I need to do the laundry,
do the dishes,
walk the dog –
I need a moment.
I need clarity with a glass of wine
and a celebration I made it today.
I need a good night’s sleep
and chocolate (not cheap),
a long hike in the woods,
garden veggies,
a pause in the chaos of living –
I need a moment.
I need to soak in the little droplets of
greatness sprinkled through my life.
I need to remember all
the whos and hows and whys
that lead me here
on this path
of green and art and words.
I need a moment.
I need wander woven into the cracks I’ve
created by living and breaking the mold.
I need a moment.
All the world in a candle,
All the world formed in
An empty room.
In the empty space of the candlelight.
Authentic/Artistic
Enthusiastic/Emblematic
Intricate/Idyllique
The edges of the wick,
The heat rising up in the air.
The warm skin, kissing the cold air.
The edge of reality.
Confusion from the first breath.
Almost destroying the world.
Making sense of it isn’t practical,
Nothing is identical to the mind.
Persuasion overrode the will,
Inauthentic and not artistic.
You can look forever at the flames passively,
But they will never burn as such.
You stand in the emptiness,
Erstwhile and cold.
I get this way
when the days drag out
the food and drinks
and shows and people
become stagnant pools
that I try my best to avoid
predictable and content
ignorant that I’m not there
and though I should feel
the happiness
around me
I just want to drag
my knuckles
across a brick wall
until the bone shows
chew through my jaw
so when I smile
I show all of my jagged teeth
pull at my face
until it’s red and sore
all of this comes on
for no reason
turns over in my stomach
like a soured stone of something
and I can’t but hate
even looking in the mirror
We wouldn’t have the banjo
without Black musicians.
We wouldn’t have any Carters
without Lesley Riddle.
Industry called this shared music
‘race records’ and ‘hillbilly music’
til they found a way to whiten,
to broaden, to erase the real shapes.
Though the African diaspora
is as much a part of country
as it is to America, this legacy
was swept under the rug–
accomplishments uncredited
and unappreciated
unless you were a scholar
or met a man who knew,
who’d lived his life loving something–
the old songs and new–a man who shared
his country love with those he met–
a man who deserved his country
music to love him openly back.
Like it or not,
we are roped together
swimming in a shared sea of air
bottom-dwellers
far beneath the flotsom cirrus
and the stars.
This morning I swam
took a turn pretending
to be a surface-skater
a high-flying goddess
observing the rainbows of
sunlight dancing on the
bottom of the pool,
watching my exhalations
pearl.
winds of time
spin the wheel of seasons
dancing down
centuries
bards and druids
chanted to
stone circles
beads and bones
carved
with runes
ancient voices lost and
whimpering
pesto, green and made from items I took my own scissors outside and cut
new flowers to replace the ones which didn’t manage
almost as if I am preparing, in my own sort of way
to usher in summer
a celebration of sorts for the wonder of longest days
days I will miss when they’re done
cherish them, I tell myself
love it, all of it, before
