thorn of light
thorn of bright
trapped
in the call
of a prussian
blue night
i am gypsy
i am queen
to the hounds
of hope unseen
slipping silent
racing whole
through a screen
of web retold
counting distance
and return
with an abacus
of learn
blood roses
blooming tight
on the skin
of my lost flight
.
.
.
Lately, life has been all about getting stuff done, flitting around like a busy bee in the garden and the house. And while it hasn’t exactly been fun, let’s face it, sometimes stuff needs to get done.
The grandbaby is coming this weekend, it’s already been over a month since I’ve seen her and I am so looking forward to this visit.
And then, summer. Soaking up the sun, reading, relaxing, enjoying life.
Writing again. Paying attention to more than peeling paint and dust bunnies.
I can’t wait.
and wishing for clarity
the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything
a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker
as water runs rivulet
to river
to wash away
a tyranny
of dust
and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception
zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops
we must learn
to drop to our knees
genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect
broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us
through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance
.
.
.
I’ve been working on a big design project all week, big as in lots of work hours crunched into a very short time span, head down, late nights, no free time besides sleep.
And this morning I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, so I decided to catch up on the news because I haven’t paid attention to anything other than work since Monday. And now my heart is heavy.
It’s so hard to love the world sometimes, so hard to stay positive when all around there is heartbreak and tragedy and devastation.
Sometimes, all you can do is hold tight, and send your heart out there yet again.
Even as you know it will be broken.
Because the world needs more heart.
And sometimes, that’s all there is to offer.
xoxo
.
.
.
.
uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance twirl
lay soft or stare hard
but do not be afraid
to show the center of your
self
to the mirror help maid
sit in lachrymose silence
til the end of the sky
fills yours scent cloaked ears
and then dance
to the cloud colored music
you hear
the only absolute
is open
and your interpretation
is the petal spread of living
on a vine scored with rows
of hidden heart thorn
climb the ladder with care
and then jump
into being
scatter petals
shout perfume
nod your head at the coy
wary moon
uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance
twirl
.
.
.
A week of too much that left me longing for balance. The scales are always tipping, on way or another, and we do this dance, don’t we, to keep ourselves in the game.
Too much work, too much rain, and a tiny tornado touch-down one road over… and yet, here I am, still standing, still hoping, still growing.
Resiliency is a beautiful thing. All the ups and downs are connected, somewhere.
The birds are still singing.
And here we are, in a brand new, fresh-washed now.
I look out my window and think: lush.
Too much is just abundance looked at crosswise. Or vice versa.
There.
I wrote my way to a smile.
.
.
.
and freshly fallen rain
passing through on its way
to far-off places
leaving sparkling bits of fractured light
and splashed up drops
of holy water
to reflect a laundered sky
gone back to blue
.
.
.
purple is the shape
of letting go
and blue is the beginning
of sacrifice
all the scars and torn edges
faded blooms and broken stems
form the canvas of whole
and the soft brush of plenty
as gold fills every sky
with perseverance
.
.
.
A sun-filled birdsong morning, windows open and purple flowers, light filtering into every shadow. June is such a busy-bee month, I have to remind myself to stop and smell the roses, literally. My first cup of tea in the garden at dawn is my meditation, my morning pages, my daily gratitude. I drink it down and always, wish for another.
I find myself in getting-stuff-done mode, as if finally my body and my mind have both come to life after winter’s lack of ambition. I am like a plant, a tree, a flower. I need the sun on my skin and the birds to sing me awake in order to grow.
I reach for the sky and it’s there, right there, at the tips of my fingers, day and night.
And it’s enough.
.
.
.
and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.
.
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