It’s a color
it’s a feeling
every day affects you.
Blue skies
blue eyes
blue moods
blue birds’ chirps too.
Blues music for groovin’
blue blankets for soothin’
rain coming soon
when white clouds turn blue
Pretty bright blue flowers
have mood soothing powers.
Which color most soothing to you?
Perhaps it will always be blue.
the self you leave behind is only the skin you’ve outgrown
like a snake
many a skin has been shed
in slithering forth on this journey
skins discarded bringing one closer to the one meant to be
the skin of the young braided co-ed restless and determined
skin of the invincible youngin’ who jumped a freight hitching west to east
tasting her conservative history and solid stability
this travel skin lit a match in the soul of a restless gypsy
the skin of the ever-searching ever-questioning Catholic
one who sought spiritual refuge in a Guru in an Ashram
meditating, fasting, practicing yoga’s fifth limb, prudent pratyahara
skin that withdrew the senses from external objects to turn deeply inward
to peel back the skin of samskaras ~ the subtle mental imprints left by past
thoughts, actions and incarnations
a skin that served to quiet the mind and instill deeper states of meditation
now after years on this slithering journey a dire need is embraced to place self-care, deep listening and repetition of loving self-commentary a daily practice of reptilian survival
to lead with Love in the crusade of desert survival
to compliment the trials and glean the gifts of wisdom
to be charmed by the hypnotic flute of innocent truth
The ocean at moms house is the highway hidden by trees
the breaking waves is the traffic
golden hour is for watering the flowers around the house
there are hanging ferns,
hostas imported from Grandma’s farm,
pink and white impatients,
If it’s in a pot you have to water it.
so each evening as the sun slips lower she walks the boundaries,
Mom’s vigil broken only to wave at the neighbors and say goodnight to the cone flowers
the fireflies light her way home.
Crawl across the spine of Earth
drink the cooling blue of her blood
kiss the green softness of her body
show her the beauty of being alive
as she has gifted you,
yet you have not returned.
Oh constant abuser,
burning her skin with discarded waste
and half put out cigarette butts,
could you find the decency
to pick it all back up
mend the pieces fully
rather than a half-ass apology
trailing moments of healing
but not wholly repairing
the damage you’ve left
creating a lasting scar
on the sacred breasts
you’ve garnered life from?
My father served in WWII
Enlisted in the Navy
An officer of men
My uncle served as well
Early in the war
B-17 pilot, with a crew to protect
They had no protection
Down over France
No one survived
We were fighting imperialists
Power hungry men seeking control
To rule the world
There is a statement
From the rooms of recovery
Lending sanity, reason:
Lest problems of money, property and prestige
divert us from our primary purpose
To be at peace
Experiencing joy, understanding
Goodwill for all
I am waiting at the cosmic DMV
for God to call my number
and over the intercom decide
that it is now my turn.
Documents in hand I approach
the counter and am turned away
for an inexplicable reason,
to the back of the line.
The pastor uses the joke to talk
about the end times. Wait patiently.
Deliberately. But from the pew
I cannot help but scoff
as my friends have weddings
and children while the world
explodes in bombings and
loneliness. When is it our
turn to be happy?
I can barely breathe
The the rising feeling
Sorrow and rage like lava
Churning, burning, rising
Up my chest
My lungs on fire as I
Attempt to inhale
The tightness worsens
And I am overcome
The tears flow down my cheeks
As I wail
My body thrusts forward
And heavy sobs escape
In catharsis
This will not be the end
the walls that contain this world
smooth, expressionless
stark
cliff faces voices of water
pour from the shells of your throats
sounds find me
on the inside
decanting incantations
from the solitude
of my beatless heart
crafting meaning
from the noises you make
in my murky den
colors don’t exist until invented
and my shattered legs can’t ache
until I let them
every crack and hinge
caked in fronds and moss
to trap the outside sun
figment; fragment
i could not tell you what a fig tree looks like,
tho i imagine i once sat beneath one
sometime, within the field of granny’s blackberry bushes
as she often spoke of figs
and how her mother loved them
whilst doctor oz rambled on from the kitchen television
set atop the fridge
i do not know what flavor they liken
or quite how you cook them
maybe as a fill to a pie or a tart,
possibly sweet— probably soured
granny didn’t bake much; she cooked
chicken and ham and green beans with the fatty bits of bacon
i no longer eat meat, didn’t want to then either
but if i know anything, you don’t say no to offers from granny nor papaw
even when he asks you to church
and you’ve no longer anything proper to wear
nor patience to spare for that withered wooden pew
‘cause they won’t be here forever, and their god may forsake you too
No judgment
Truth-teller
Let me cut her hair
With kid scissors
When I was 4-ish and she was 1-ish
We share a voice,
Laughter, sarcasm
When I day drink, it’s with her
We engineered a friendship between our dogs,
Leading to sister/dog playdates
She’s been a fixture my world,
Either beside me,
Or declaring “this is your deal, not mine”
And opting out,
But always present at the end
With a quip, a hug
And the truth.
