I came home to my body today.
There she was, waiting for me
with an embrace to wrap me twice around.
I listened to what she needed,
I shared with her my desires,
we worked together.
Partners.
I had forgotten what her love felt like,
how much she has to give.
I remember now,
now that I’m back home.
Tag: poetry
voices in the rain
Raindrops fall from the sky
soft and quiet at first,
then heavy and loud,
washing away the collections of dirt and dust,
gifting the ground, and all that rises from it,
with a new heartbeat.
I hear voices in my head.
They tell me what I’m supposed to do and when.
When I don’t listen, they scream at me
until I conform,
giving them the victory.
I recognize them, I know who they belong to,
familiarity offers no advantages.
I can hear the rain through closed windows,
rhythmic.
I wonder if it knows how much power it carries,
how much we depend on it.
Open the door to immerse my body
in this falling magic.
Wash away the voices down the gutter
to hear my own at last.
This is how I find peace today.
energetic film
Sweat dripping down my forehead,
gathering underneath my eyes and down my neck,
spreading out and over my arms
like water spilled from a glass
reaching out across the floor.
Thoughts of hot, running water and soap
traveling over my body
fill my mind through a vinyasa,
though I’m supposed to be focused on my breath.
Slowing down my breath and body
into the stillness of shavasana,
I rest in the final resting pose,
resting.
I roll over to the right side and push myself upright
to find my skin dry, the sweat evaporated,
leaving my skin with an energetic film
reminding me of the work I have done
for me.
I’ll keep it on my skin a while longer.
my needs evolve
What worked for me then
was what I needed then.
What I need now
may look wildly different
and that’s OK.
My needs evolve with me
as I do.
each one is a work of art
Trees tall and green, with
trunks wide, adjacent the sidewalk.
There isn’t a spot of pure sunlight;
only small bursts of light
falling to the ground between the towering leaves.
Each house is different.
Color, size, shape, layout, accents –
oh, the accents –
make every house its own.
Front yards filled with flowers and gardens,
or smooth with paving stones.
Verandas outfitted with couches and chairs,
or a plain front door with stucco siding.
Front steps hanging on to the last inch of paint,
or built strong of stone.
Shades of brown, grey, or pops of bold purple, red, green.
A neighborhood unforgettable.
Every house catches my eye in its own way,
all cozied together, only a few feet of separation.
Blink, and you’ll miss one;
you’ll miss a work of art.
true motives
It’s a funny thing
to realize, before my eyes
the true motives behind the plan
I had crafted for days,
perfecting every detail in my mind’s eye.
The truth stung me like a wasp.
Still, it hurts.
after some time away
Wading through the murky waters
of words that don’t make sense together
but I write them together anyway
hoping they can make it work
but realizing on the second read-through
that no, it doesn’t work.
Wading through the muddy waters
realizing how muddy they can get
after spending time on dry land for a while,
I cannot expect to jump right in
to the crystal clear blue lake on the first page,
or the fifth.
Trudging through the mud and the muck,
the frustrations, shame and self-doubt
squish out from underneath my boots
to float up and around me in a haze.
At least I’m getting them up and out
to meet them in the eye.
With each step, the mud recedes,
and the clarity expands.
Just keep going,
just keep writing.
peace in the surrender
If we can accept
the limited control we have
over the plan, over our futures,
perhaps we can find some peace in the surrender.
But first, we must surrender.
burn for myself
I’m tired of hiding,
of trying to cover up the parts of me
that express who I am.
I no longer want to be
always searching for the appropriate mold
for each situation
and contort to fit into it.
For too long
I’ve melted my wax body into a glass jar
so someone else can light the wick
enjoy the scent I burn.
Now, I burn for myself.
smooth, soft, sky
Sky painted by an ombre
blue to pink to grey to white
a continuous gradient
smooth as a hardwood floor,
no clouds to ruffle the texture up.
Wrap me in the softness
as it descends upon me like a
fresh-from-the-dryer bedsheet
whipped high above the bed to,
in each fibre’s own time,
grace upon the mattress
and skin.
Dawning Words 