I
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Yes you can, my inner heart says. But no, I swear this class is going to kill me. It’s going to break my heart all over again. I knew we would speak of disabilities but I wasn’t ready for the dying, the heartbreak, the myriad psychological connotations that take me back to days I've fought hard, written at length to get past. Those days I feel I've thought on far too often, days I gave their due and want to rent from my sleeve and slip into my pocket of bitter sweet remembrance. I only want to take them out again and smile soft with sad eyes. Instead on occasion I still weep openly and full, the triggers catching me off guard. I am weary of sadness, death, hardship and only want to seek my soul’s serenity, my heart’s content.

And yet haven’t those days driven me passionately to want to live, exploring those that cross my path that could never dream to pass by...

II
I fought hard last eve
in the wee hours, your
flesh my green jesus,
tried to articulate
in my head what my
voice could not speak
and yet still only
monosyllabic utterances
formed in quietude;

tran

scen

dence.

journalesque

I am pouring over the past, pulling out bits that strike me, old pain and hurt that can no longer touch me, hope and joy that drove me. Suddenly I am whole again - if I ever actually was once and if not then it is not again but finally.

Finally.

Can't you feel it? Listen close...






"DANCE! boogey oogey dance!"

history

I lost my history when I divorced, when I sold my house. I set aside more than letters from people I don't recall, letters from my ex while in the army. I look about at the few possessions I have that I had then or even in my youth. Even possessions I've carried through the years, even those seem foreign.

You see, after breaking my soul I found...that some things cannot be put back. During reassembly most of the pieces no longer fit for others had formed and filled the cracks and crevices.

And now? I feel whole. My history has become a story, my present alive, and my future...infinite possibility.

finding voice

I write in the dark of eve
dinner set to simmer
and I am singing slow songs
that moved me once
upon long, long time ago.

My voice feels small
echoing soft, sweet, slow
as it grooves deep and with
each breathe it grows
less faltering, finding
how to keep the beat,
stretch it out smooth...
clean and neat with soul.

sniplet

I came too late into this world
and yet
would choose no other time
to live
for I have seen a beautious thing
and turned
chakras into wine, auras into flesh
both so
tender as I press 'tween tongue and cheek.

edit: i didn't care for the last line "tongue to cheek" - insinuative of "tongue and cheek" which i don't want to imply AT ALL. this is more...the relishing of good dark bitter chocolate that you keep on your palate as long as possible, press with your tongue and savoring most passionately.

When you come in love

from my horoscope..."When you come in love (pun intended) and give love, you beam with the light of a 1,000 suns." i feel that love takes many forms and through courage can be explored. but too often do we overlook the most difficult and simplest of all; love of self.

come with me and burn
to the light of a million suns
and in vulnerability accept
we are who we are
and at this we are adept.

be your own valentine this year. :)