Posts for June 7, 2023 (page 8)

Neither fertile nor god
Ordained a church leader
I live in the shadow of mountains

Standing here
looking at you
standing there:  

I want nothing more
than to hold you
so long and so close
that I feel the warmth
of your breasts
and your belly
through our clothing,  

to kiss you so long
and so longingly
that your taste becomes
inseparable from mine
as a part of each moment
until the universe collapses
at last in upon itself,  

to wonder even then
what sorcery you weave
and cast to change me.  

Like Persephone with the pomegranate I was hungry.
Wanting more than 1/3 of you
and I thought that’s what you gave me.

You were the smile on a screen
the secrets shared after dark.
I kept every promise that I made you.

But while I was worried about bruises
and another girl was worried about broken bones
you hadn’t really fallen. 

In every fever dream 
poetic rhyme
I never blamed you

Could’ve never should’ve
buried me in grief and jealousy
waiting for the day where your name doesn’t send chills down my spine.

One could say you came with your own support system
Waiting for me to take off the rose colored glasses
So I could realize you never really cared at all.

Disappearing into simplicity,
from my will, into the heart’s will be done,
the Divine’s will, one’s true will.
Divisions in the mind released through
inquiry, sincerity, humility.
Seeking Truth for Truth’s sake alone.
The illusion of security and persona fall away.
Lighter and freer having no attachments
and not being possessed.
Not being greater or less than anyone.
There is compassion for all.
Without image or fear,
letting go and falling into grace,
into the natural state,
of life itself, one’s own life.
Moment to moment with infinite possibilities,
endless wonders.
Down on my knees
with my thumb I push another seed into the earth.

(Gassho ADYA)

There’s a choking haze
in the days
following the strawberry moon

My lungs feel like dried up
worms on the sidewalk
pelted by sharpened shards of light

I take some moments to read
maybe 20 poems
and several are like deep conversations
with strangers,
my own heart poured out
in the mirror of their eyes
They are as much myself as I am

I try to roll my body around on the floor
stretch and move-
Like dried out dough, it resists.
I try to ignore the pounding of my head
The nausea from piles of aspirin
and week long migraines

My eyes long to open wide
through their screwed up squinting,
to kiss and hug everyone
to see myself as a deep, cold well
in glistening colors
as on fine sables
a softness that trembles
the very foundation of science

We are so much more than bodies
struggling to make functions
calculators in pails of treacle

We are more than shapely buttocks
We are more than strands of lavender
and wishes fulfilled
We are more than wonder blooming
within rocks
making time look like a toy dog
that rolls along, wagging its tail

We are more than words scrawled on a page
more than wondering what-how-why
more than hoping for what how why
more than longing

Perhaps when we die we find out what it is to be all that and nothing

And perhaps we are only here or there,
or beyond here or there
to be reaching
to trickle downhill
to never culminate any way, how, where.

What is it about love that shows us this?
What is it about contrast
that encircles,
that continues to define
beyond ends
beyond time

in my mother’s house there is a

painting called
“Self Portrait With Hummimg Bird

Necklace” tiny dead birds strung
around an old woman’s

neck like turquoise and lapis 
lazuli 

we used to ask who
killed the brilliant 

birds
where did they come from? who is the

crone with all those 

wrinkles?

“Abuela Luna,” my mother 

says

some think she painted 
it herself we

wonder is

Abuela Luna just a
character in my

mother’s

dream?

This poem is written by Rosylin Flowers, a character in my novella, “Crooked.”

Starting Old Blue
is a solid coax.

first, pat her
on the dash,

call her baby
as I turn the key,

give a little gas
and see,

too much and she
will surely flood,
not enough she stalls.

tap the pedal twice
and pray.

she rumbles
up a cloud from

the exhaust,
shakes like waking dog,

be patient,
wait,

sometimes the warmup
lasts all day.

words are seeds 
throw em in the dirt 
in hopes they grow 
into trees 
hope you reap 
what you sow 
this an ode 
to the leaves 
in the breeze 
that fall on a road 
or in a stream 
of thought 
where the meaning 
gets caught 
in between 
meaning and not 
water just leaning 
on the rocks 
that’s you and me 
but we switchin off 
cuz we’re a team 
Nah I forgot 
that’s just what we used to be 
that’s just what it used to be 

Life is heavy, costly,
relative to wonder
which is energy swimming
for light and air,
a solid anchor, wings
to lift the body.