drifting Earthward

 I love you, even though I have never met you, 

 never felt your tender cheek in my palm, 

never whisked away an errant tear that

 left a glistening trail as it's heft and gravity pulled it earthward. You are part of the tissue,

 part of the threads that wove my heart into this form.

 I'm so thankful for your life.

Stone City

  the buildings stand,

granite strong against the wind,

they seem to lean.

stately old ladies, 

edges slightly softened.

the wind does take its toll.

and rain,

and snow.

peaceful now they rest,

they have survived the bad times

the fire.

they scorn the youth,

the chrome and glass Mies Van Der Rohe nightmares, 

looming tall and ominous,

casting straight-edged shadows.

labeled modern.

and the tallest of the tall watches with a silent eye

and sways precariously in the wind.

and you would think that they would cower,

but, no.

proud and strong they stand,

granite strong

against the wind.

The Palms of your Hands

 I’m going to weave a cloth of light,
a cloth so fine,
so strong and soft. 
a cloth of light,
of kindness,
of gratitude,
of peace.

A cloth of love,
of laughter and tears,
of threads forged in my heart,
so tender and mighty.

And I will hand you a corner,
of which there are many,
one for each of you,
so that when we are all
connected by threads so strong, 
so light,
I will rest,
And my heart,
Will rest
in the palms of your hands.

I give thanks, for you.

The shopping trip

shopping...alone
l I was able to trace my sadness back to my early 'Mom' days going shopping with my kids who are all so filled with energy and laughter. Even though their absence in this activity happened slowly, over time, it now feels sudden to me at this advanced age. Sometimes I hear the sound of laughter that is elevated above the constant din, and I stop and my heart, illogically, quickens because my mind slides back into a dream, and I am lulled. The sound of their laughter, their voices, is what I miss the most, all the time, but in the grocery store, it, at times, is especially poignant, and sad, and just as they are right now, tears escape and slide down in rivulets from my eyes to catch in wrinkles that have formed like ruffled satin on my face.

side by side, hip to hip

…and in the darkness of our nights
       We gather,  one by one.
A fire is set and sheds it’s warmth
  And calls to us,
     To each of us.
Alone we come, and together,
                                  into the light
                                          and warmth.
    …and sitting side by side,
                       shoulder to shoulder,
  As if to hold each other up,
                   we share our tears
                                           and joy.

…and the darkness of our night becomes
             another thing.

   Shoulder to shoulder,
Hip to hip.
In the circle
  We become
                another thing.

…and the stories emerge,
One by one,
           and merge
                    and flow
                         and join
                                and shine.
Together.
Shoulder to shoulder to shoulder
Hip to hip.

to write the song.....

I sense it,

   treading lightly,

      poised on toes of dust.

Shadowed fingers

      reaching for my shoulder.

A charcoal sketch,

Sentient.

It is memory.

A squeeze, a pinch, a caress.

There to remind me, that all life

                                       is a ticking clock.

And each tick

A still life,

A memory.

societal ambiguity

my deep down heart is confused and bruised. the tenuous veil of civility that evidently hid a grinding, mean spirited cancer that weaves its tentacles throughout american society has fallen and we discover the real alien, the one who lives next door, or down the street, or across town, and whose goal has always been the de-struction of the illusive american dream. brotherhood, open, accepting arms, a place where anyone has the opportunity to succeed. illusion. delusion. illusory invention. designed to keep the natives appeased. the veil has fallen. it is exposed, and we of kind heart are gut punched.

Response to Amy Ferris re: suicide

 I feel the pressure of your shoulder, leaning into mine. The gentle heat, the perceived light. The true vibrations. The truth. I sit with eyes closed, limbs tightly wound, head down, mind roiling; and your words, your presence, bring me back to my own truth. My circle reconnects and suddenly I remember sunshine. 

Spirals

Spirals

We are spirals
floating freely
like dust motes
in sunbeams.We are spirals

Breezes flow
surround
the spirals
spinning
some fast,
some slow.

Some sparkle
some drift
out of view.
We are at once
new
and old.

remade
remade

We are all spirals
some drift
some spin

together
yet apart.
some drift,
some spin.

Who walked here once?

Who hears the voice of rock, of tree, of vole?
   Who steps in silence,
through forests damp and dim?
   Who leaves no trace of passage?

Lives once lived,
   In autumn’s dancing color,
Danced as well.
   Now gone,
To sleep in dreamless ether.

But walk through forest paths,
    In footprints left
 beneath the duff and detritus
 of years,
   and wonder
              what remains?
Who trod here once?
   Who left their sigh?
Drifting vague, through treetops
   Sway and shiver?

No fear, but know
   The air is limned,
the line,
The shape
Not gone, but drifting,
   vague, in treetops sway
                                    and shiver.

What the Shadow knows…………

I sense it,
  Treading lightly,
    poised on toes of dust.
Shadowed fingers
  Reaching for my shoulder.
A charcoal sketch,
  Sentient.

It is memory.

A squeeze, a pinch, a caress.
There to remind me, that all life
  Is a ticking clock.
    And each tick
      A still life,
A memory.

A Slightly Scary Story...

   “You’ll need a rain slicker.” said the man behind the counter. “The rain comes every day.”
    Lucinda checked her wallet for money and handed over the correct amount.
    “Now ya’ll be careful out there.” he drawled as she reached for the door.
    “Excuse me? she asked.  “What do you mean?”
    “Well, “ he said, “been some trouble up there in the forest preserve lately.”
    She backed away from the door and looked closer at him.  He would not meet her gaze.
    “Trouble?” she asked.
    “uh, yuh, been a long summer it seems.  Seems some kids have gone missin’.”

    As a rule Lucinda never spoke to strangers, but this man stirred her curiosity.  He was probably in his seventies, paunchy and pale, with watery blue eyes.  She could see the reflection of the overhead lights in his slightly sweaty brow.  But still, he would not look her in the eyes.
    “Missing? You mean ‘never found’?”
    “ …uh, yuh.”  he spoke quietly.  “Never found.”

   A decision needed to be made…

Tiny, sudden sparks that float behind my eyes, periodically slip forward, open their coats and expose themselves to me.

Tissue paper carnations

Third grade…….tissue paper carnations.  I can do this.  I can help.  An island of calm amidst my shattering life.  Shattered and uneasy.  Always uneasy.
    But today I am making tissue paper carnations.  All the children gathered closely around the work table.  Laughter and talking, loud and joyous.  
    But I am quiet; concentrating on my flowers, happy to be in this place. Safe. 
    For several hours there will be no changes, only this thing I can do; tissue paper carnations.

...my father was a gypsy

     They emerged from the train squinting and blinking in the clear, pure Florida light. The train smell and grime clung to them along with the fear and longing for what they left behind. The memory of the train, ticking off the miles and hours like a long, sinuous clockwork, still vibrated inside their heads and aged them, rubbing their tender flesh raw, their tender thoughts numb.
     No one was there to meet them.  They milled around each other, shedding blankets, pillows, wool and cracker crumbs.
   The fragrant, deceptive future of their lives hung, invisible, around them.

Errant Thoughts

Intermittently Sparking Synapses #249

Today is no different….
   The game was always the same: girls taller than me, blonder than me; girls chosen first, first before me. Laughter and talking melding into a constant din; the din rising and falling as each girl was chosen.
   And alone I stood, an island of crackling nerves, shuffling my feet, hands holding on to each other for fear they might do something regrettable. 
   And at last I was chosen, last as always, at the end, unheard, unseen, unwanted.

Green Briar Park

In dreams they come,
  Slithering, flapping, 
Leaving dust and shards and feathers in their wakes.
  No scent, just flailing, viscous eddies 
More thought than force.
  And skies of mud, soundless.
Leaving in their wake
  apprehension.
To go, not go,
  I stand, and shudder, small 
And deep within my cells
  They push,  I stand.

Age 13.  Somewhere between baby girl, and half grown woman.  A simple weekend walk becomes a war zone.  The park, my destination.  I can see them; all long and lanky arms and elbows, legs and knees.  Raucous yelps of pleasure and something desperate.  All 13.  Somewhere between baby boy and half grown man.  Playing b-ball, at GBP.  I am not able to move forward,  I am too entranced; trapped between my desire to swing and repelled by their cruelty and derision.  They are in my way.  I don’t realize that this is the true beginning of who I am to be.  I will learn, in time that if, and when I want to swing, I am so much more powerful than they will ever be.

Brown Velvet box

Sometimes, in the dark hours, when the birds in the parking garage are silent, and all I can hear is the shushing of the tires of the homebound late shift workers, I think about you.

I try to remember the good times, the times in Technicolor, filled with heart and soul so deep all I could see was rich, brown velvet.
In a box,

that velvet climbed up the walls, caressed the bottom, contained my heart and closed it in, with cover tight. We had a thing that I am unable to name. Your face was my face, I was you and you were me…I think.

But when the chips were on the table, when it was time to show our cards, you folded. Folding, for me, was not an option. I played my hand, but it wasn’t big enough for you, wasn’t high enough, wasn’t dear enough, because you walked away from the table.

The ripple from your exit still nudges my boat.

Your hateful, negligent rhetoric and absence ripped great, bleeding wounds so deep inside me, that even now when I remember then, 
the scar tissue tingles faintly.

I was never able to let you go, because you see, you were careless enough to leave part of you with me. Funny that you didn’t even miss those parts. You were so full of yourself that those tiny, flickering flames you left me never had the power to make you turn, to look, to see how, as time progressed in my world, those flames became the light with which I traversed my world.

Now I am just I.

And you are living on another planet. I would not want you, or anyone to open that box for me, because you see, my heart was locked inside it. Lid tightly closed, It sits, in shock, unable to move beyond. I’ve tried. I don’t have the technology.

But I’ve learned to persevere. Which is different than to thrive, and in persevering I was able to release my self to those brilliant flames, that you chose to ignore for year upon years. 

So you may now have one of those flames, and I dearly pray you don’t do or say anything to snuff it out. This one needed you; she had always possessed the uncanny talent to get exactly what she wanted.

It’s not for me to say whether it’s right or wrong, it just is. But let me assure you, here and now, if you hurt or damage that flame in any way, I will come after you with a wrath you’ve never even imagined I possessed.

The day named tomorrow

When the day named tomorrow comes to stare you in the face,

to set your blood humming in your recalcitrant veins.

and tomorrow will remind you of the pain of loss,

because that's what it means.

You may have only a tiny sip of relief.

Of this luminescent, sparkling relief,

to slake your thirst, a sip

and then no more.

Tomorrow looks you in the face and turns away.

It has no sympathy for your thirst.

Petitions of the Heart #3

I have been here before. I have danced to the rhythm of the indolent breezes. I have been lulled to a sleepy torpor by the gentle patter of the summer rain. The exotic scent of wet grass is intoxicating. Even more piquant is the aroma of dusty asphalt, summer baked, exhaling fine tendrils of mist; weaving upward, dodging raindrops.

I have been here before. But then you were with me. You who protected me. You shared the Earthy splendor with me. You were my partner, my lover, my friend. And now, when the elements are just right, as they are right now on this uncommon January day, I miss you with a part of my soul that has been hidden away. The longing is hot under my skin. My eyes burn with unshed tears. And so, I dance alone. We do not reach for raindrops together. Our hands cannot touch. My eyes cannot feast upon your face. And so I dance alone.

I have been here before. The shiny streets of Chicago. Blasting out heat, angry at the summer rain. Repelling the water as it cascades through the alleys, and then heaving a sigh of resignation as it begins to soak it up. Perfume. The soft susurrus and rustle as the Earth settles down and takes a long wet drink. And I find myself turning, and searching, for you. A kindred soul who felt the Earth with me. But you are not here, and my mind skips a beat as it adjusts. I have been here before.

Losing Mudpuddle

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away there lived a tiny, short legged pup named Mudpuddle. This pup was loved so truly and deeply by her adoring humans that any sense of her eventual demise was never even consciously considered.

But during an excrutiatingly difficult time in her Mommy's life that resulted in her Mommy almost losing her life, Mudpuddle became concerned to the point of lowering her natural immunity to illness. So, as her Mommy bacame sicker and sicker so did Mudpuddle. But no one knew that Mudpuddle was sick.

Eventually, Mommy crawled back from the brink of 'who knows what comes next'; but Mudpuddle didn't. Mudpuddle was only 13 tiny years old.

As it turned out, Mommy had to go back to work to support herself and her boy, Josh. So the care of Mudpuddle fell to Mommy's oldest child, Jenine. Jenine is big and brave and very strong. She took care of Mommy from the very beginning of Mommy's sickness. She has nerves of steel but a Pure Heart of Gold.

And so it came to pass that Mudpuddle could no longer walk, or see, or control her bodies natural functions. And one day, while Mommy was at work, Jenine called her and said, "It's time Mom." And she took Mudpuddle to the CSU Vet Hospital so they could help Mudpuddle along her path to 'who knows what comes next'.

And still I cry, bitter tears filled with pain, when I chance upon the oh so sweet memory of Mudpuddle and Jenine's bravery that day. Alone she went, with Mudpuddle cradled in her arms, sweet tiny pup, and gave her over the those who helped.

And Jenine cried big, gloppy tears, that fell and stained her t-shirt. But she knew it was the right time and the right thing to do. Did i tell you she is the bravest person I know?

And now Mommy has another pet who is not going to make it much longer, and she needs Jenine. Because Mommy is not brave. And Mommy's tears are already falling and staining her t-shirt, and this is a decision that she doesn't know how to make herself.