Thursday, August 28, 2014

approaching 31 on stilts

Well now, I've gone quite awhile without writing on here. I'm squeaking this post in at the last summer minute, sliding my foot over the sun-faded, dusty line. I have been writing a lot, but it's all been to-do lists, budgets, to-do lists, organizational emails, cries for help & attempts at delegation, and to-do lists. My slow meandering thoughts of norm have been replaced by frenzied urgency: much to be done! Fifteen days until I happily tie the knot. Nineteen days until I take another step into this decade. I usually mark my birthday with a post. Je serai sur ma fa├žon de manger des macarons when the clock strikes thirty-one, so I'm posting this now. Happy new year. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go ahead and get married to the absolute Best.


Approaching 31 on Stilts (a tall girl poem).
Because I've got a giant writer-crush on Kimberly Kaye.
Her 31 poem kills this one into a million pieces and sends it to the wind.

My legs haven't grown, and they didn't need to;
I've been baring my ankles and dusting the top shelf
since the age of twelve. Class photo: back middle.
School dance: accessory to the wall. My shoulders
met the ceiling like Alice, and I waited
for the catch-up.

Three decades gone and I'm still a tall order,
particular & gangly,
stretched & capacitous & on my own eye-level.
I've long had the view and I finally use it:
patient strides on legs well worn and used, now, to
bridging distances; puddle leaps, deep snow,
flooding window wells and trips to the mailbox.

I long wondered what my long legs were for
and now I know: they're stems
made for the roots my life has given me.
They're for wrapping you up,
taking on the world with you,
standing cooly in the waves, feet buried,
my bones like weeds in the water; ever flexible.






Saturday, July 19, 2014

two notes



the slip the trip
the absent mind
the quarter turn
unheard rewind
the healing songs
we long to find in
accidental dissonance
 
the way we've been
and who we are
the open heart
the closing scar
there's more to miss
and less on par in
accidental dissonance
 
we stand we break
we empty out
we let our love
loud for us shout
against the rails
that hold us in
our accidental dissonance

 
 
art by Julie Morstad at www.juliemorstad.com
 
 
 
 
poetry ©afterthoughtcomposer

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Bridezilla Commencing

 
 


It's quite possible
to spend your life
calm
quiet
collected
and reasonable

then, as the date creeps closer
to feel the mad push
of a world full of brides
and those who instruct them
to get crazy

the details and the process are fun
but could, if you aren't careful
push you
into that swirling pool of white

dresses and icing
gift tags and paper choices
linens and sugar flowers
and centerpiece madness

but,
digress

fall into that whirlwind with joy on your lips
take pleasure in the calming hand
at rest upon your hips
(simple things)

let each element
wave or burn on its own
because some will,
and some won't

nevertheless, at the end of that day
you'll be married anyway 












 
 
 



Saturday, June 28, 2014

keep hoping, st francis.

 

"Pilgrimage" - Oil on Belgian Linen: Arturo Samaniego. Link.
 
Dear Friend,

That's enough, now. It's time for you to stop it. Everything they told you, every bit of praise that passed you by, every measure you didn't meet? Hurtful, deeply rooted with the passing of time, but false or falsely blamed on you. Why give them permission to keep you where they put you? Stand up, for God's sake...for your sake. For ours.

We can see it, you know; that slope you're on. That devastating pull to your underground. I can feel your clawing, even when you can't. We're watching you die, and you have no idea.

I thought about handing you this letter, but even then, I don't think you'd realize it was for you. It wouldn't sink in, because you can't let anything sink in anymore. So I'm sending it to space instead, hoping the stars will shine to tell you: that's enough.

Our love for you is big, but the well we reserve for tears is running dry. How much longer can we watch you give up on yourself? How many times more should we ask you to be honest, to do the work, to live freely in the soul you won't accept? Should we still have to ask you to be loving toward us, even when you don't love yourself? Or should we still have to ask you to love yourself. You don't even see how you could help the world by showing it what you're made of; you see a shadow where we see radiant light.

Admittedly, communal grace is running out. Most of them are tired of trying to reach you. Your saviors have become embittered; martyrs for the cause of seeing you thrive, though it doesn't work. Because you don't believe you'll thrive, you also refuse to. I'm not sure you know you refuse to.
 
It's okay to be finished with the lower hand, the prostrate, the silent, still, apathy. It's okay to say, "You know what? Watch me" whenever you're told No. The people who should have prepared you, didn't. The people who should have prepared for you, didn't. So here you sit, having survived your certain past. Nothing you swallow, no bitter pill, no bile, no sentence, can change that. It's already done. What isn't done yet is your life. You've got too many years left to watch them go like this. And we've got too much invested to let you.

There is a love hidden inside your borders, just waiting to be realized, so keep hoping -listen here.
I hear that song like a prayer for you. Maybe like the quakes of San Fransisco you'll let your pressure go, shake the dust, and settle into yourself again.

I keep hoping.