Posted in Feminism, Poems

Letter to my growing womanhood | further acceptance of uncertainty

Dusky moonlight under the joshua tree, if I were to speak to you in half lit, ill-writ memoirs, my voice is husky even to stay still and I am all splinters and chaos but perhaps this is just the wind, for I sit still.  I look closer to the ground, sink in, take a microscope to my swelling heart, eyes well and fumble to grasp all the instances that came for her to beat just so.

Somedays, then, I cry.  I am afraid I do not cultivate my own garden enough, well, or well enough, even the tears help me to expand. So it is the days that I do not cry that are the scariest of all. But then, I bleed.

All scars, all blood. The color of heartbeat, the color of life, the the color of lust, I bleed, I bleed, I bleed, I bled.  I have not bled freely in months, I wonder where the blood went, I wonder if I have bled dry. I miss the blood.

I recollect, collect, know that I know how it feels to vibrate, vibrant, this is the quiet corner, corner myself in mind of my time of meeting you, first time. And I recall the scent of blood. Whetstone curdle cry, sharpen knife for the kill. To nourish the earth all things must die, to nourish the earth all things must live. To each of us our perfect time. Jack rabbit, jack nimble, jack quick, quick then, quicken, pause and I’ll light the candlestick and I’ll kiss wet lips and I’ll cradle me, cradle thee, cradle me, crack.

I, lost in thoughts, I lost then, but better to lose the thoughts to pass time than to lose a whole mind as pastime. Again to each of us in the perfect time. Always struggling to keep time, or release.  And I’m trying, or gambling–a gander, a goose, geese, a guess, and who will please me but I. Fly south with me, I am tired of being alone. Don’t follow me, I’d like best to on my own. Two feet, the moon waits closely to become the brightest circle in the sky. Call my blood, and she does.  Call my blood, it remains within my skin. Life, my blood, she is.

And I wait. Even in the waiting I calm myself to the garden. Breath becomes breathe becomes ease.

Here I grow again, here I grow. Here.

2.6.17

Posted in Poems

Stardust

Stardust

if this is what we are all born of, when did we become separated? And when did that separation begin to lead to fatality, borne of fear, borne of not wanting to be alone, borne of not wanting to be alone so badly we forget that we are never alone. Even within our own skin billions of microorganisms working to keep us breathing, keep us moving, keep us alive in these bodies. I shoulder the burden, or try to, take the mantle of what ill has been done since before my time. My ancestors borne on the backs others, refused to look down, or just refused to see. I fall into their footsteps, fitting the well trodden path and wonder: so they were of the old, so they were of the North Country, so they were of my heart before I was borne, so what.  Love does not render perfection, nor cure all wrongs. But it elevates, creating space to grow the good, tend the well-intentions, begin to breathe into the rest. Stitch the wounds back together. Breathe. Pass your sister the needle and hold her while she witnesses her own pain. Stand strong in ceremony, together. Nurture each other.

Heal.

When this is done, it will be time to brush away the dust,
made mostly of skin, mostly of stars, mostly of us.

1.29.17

Posted in Poems

The Dugout

I walked through the dugout this morning
and the sky on the other side was brown

and the cage was the dugout.
and the cage was empty.

And the trees reached for a sky
they could no longer touch
because we cut them down
because we pushed the sky back

and the cage was me.
and the cage was empty.

So I stripped down to my skin and shivered
among bare trees
then I shed my skin and let my bones fall away
and I emptied my veins
and then I was all muscle, all heart
and I opened.

I watched seven birds sing across the brown sky
I echoed the trees as they danced in the winterlight.
And then I let my muscle fall, too.
I was only a prayer, now.
For an instant, no more or less than the light and love
of this whole earth.

And my body asked for me to return.

and I was full.
and the cage was empty.

12.3.16

Posted in Poems, Updates and Musings

Down to the river at first light | Vermont

they tell me autumn is a time for death, but this is only another quality of life.

The river’s voice is louder now, I want to swim, but it is snowing and the trees no longer protect naked bodies from view.  I kneel and listen.

She sings, wild. I sip of my tea and this is the same water in her body, in mine.  All water is connected, all water is love, all water is life, all water is sacred, all water leads to home.

The source!  I do not see this, but still I KNOW this.  (A mountain spring) within me.  All water be free. Yes!

The water rushes high, river bed full.  Keeping the rocks on the bank wet and warm enough to stay without snow.  The undersides of the trees, too, are bare and the world grows light.

Colors take their qualities into their own hands, dancing in the freedom to dress up in their winter finest.  Together, the earliest part of morning colors and I, run amok.

Panting, breathless now. I am arrived, whole, whole hearted, hearty, and revived.  Inhale, there is movement in my peripheral vision.  Hello shadows.  Good morning spirits and ancient ones.  Thank you for joining me.

My tea is chilled now and I take baby steps back the way I came, not backwards at all.

Good morning wild ones.  Good morning soul and good morning heart.  Yes.

It is morning. Now.

Posted in Photographs, Poems, Travel

desert stars

the wind does not pull me subtly from sleep but wake my nylon nest into waves, creating an ocean in the land with no water.
I am encouraged to emerge and this land is singing, making no movement to elevate itself towards the sky nor emulate his light but thanking the sky from her very core, the earth and the atmosphere dance to each other’s blessings; these desert stars are magic.

I’d like to dance, too, nestled in the dry sand, laying on my back, this is soaking in the earth, grounding, thanking the sky for the depth of its mystery.

This is good to be alive, this is good to be awake in the middle of night.

excerpts from the days on the train