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
poetry ©afterthoughtcomposer

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Bridezilla Commencing


It's quite possible
to spend your life
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


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.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

I'll be alright

All the broken hearts in the world still beat, let's not make it harder than it has to be... I've got two hands, one beating heart, and I'll be alright. 
~Ingrid Michaelson, Girls Chase Boys
photo by Tamlyn Rose
Isn't it funny how a song can lift you?
Where are my dancing shoes,
I need to get up and move.
Where are my pens & pages?
There is a world to be written.
Something new begins;
I press play and the Universe forgives me
for my faults this morning.
Heaven skips stones and it sounds like melody,
rhythm, beat. Carefree.

There is so much wrong with the planet, and the weight of everything cements my shoulders in an eventual slump. Rest is elusive; Peace, a tricky bastard to catch.

A couple of days ago, there was a flash rainstorm above our part of the city. I've not seen or heard the skies like that since my time in Tornado Valley, USA.  It started, and my chest caught on a word & worry: windows. Windows. An odd feeling, but I stood on the porch for a few minutes to try and clear it, staring intently at the rain, made sure our cars were all closed, checking my intuition against what I saw. Satisfied I must be paranoid, I went back in. I stood and listened, said out loud, I love rain like this. Fifteen minutes later, due to Grace alone, we discover a flooded window well downstairs, and a quickly flooding basement.

Rainboots fill easily, but I wore them anyway as I stood thigh deep in the water-filled window well, chest deep as I bent to find what should have been a working drain. Our roof was a waterfall to the spot, and I, underneath it. Frantic and purposeful, I managed to clear the rocks away from the drain cover (they'd been dislodged by the sheer volume of water landing heavy on them). I helped the water escape down it's intended path, away from the house.

When you ask the world to shake, it just might. If you ask it to be still, it might quiet you yet. Sometimes I feel like that window well; I was given all the right parts at the factory, but the water in the world overwhelms me, dislodges my intentions. I mean to hold up my end of the bargain, but I end up spilling in all the wrong areas.

Admittedly, there was something healing about that waterfall hitting my back, the cold up too high on my legs. It was cleansing, almost. I've been so tired, the heavy wet awoke me. The shock of cold and water was so tangible, I felt human. I've been feeling so uncontained, the vision of our overflowing window felt like a prophetic dream come alive. A sign so clear I've pinched my heart for days. Watch your perimeters. Follow your instincts. Jump in, the house is flooding.

It's easy to get down on ourselves for the basements of our lives - all that dark space we normally avoid, or thought we'd use. But think of this: without our foundations (no matter what they're made of) our houses would sit on nothing; we would give way to the rain, and we'd crumble. Maybe that sense of urgency we have about our faulted selves is a blessing. Take a look at the storm above your head, in your chest, your belly, your gut, under your feet. You've seen it. Now, follow your instincts. We'll never get a hold of Peace if it's the only thing we're chasing. We've got to do the work of healing, too.