I’ve grown to see the stars
flicker out
until they die
one by one
like lost friendships
lost loves
and missing memories
and with my hands under my head
eyes to the sky
I watch the inky black night
wondering what happened
flickering
Sense
Book after book
after book
and I will the passages to make the world make sense
but they don’t
still,
word after word
after word
and I’m hoping something will make sense for once
and some things do
and some things don’t
what is She
the woman in me
is unfurling like a new leaf
the divine feminine
being birthed like a star
I’ve hidden beneath the shade of
the masculine,
the hidden,
the shamed
my womanhood doesn’t look like
magazines
or movies
or art
but it looks like the familiar
it feels like the earths breast
and the worlds womb
it dances in the fires of the wilds
and dresses in gowns of leaves and
petals
the decades of uncertainty
of misplaced feelings of
ugly vulnerability
peel from my skin like a sunburn
I am a woman
I am fierce
I am gentle
and I am aglow
with the light
of wonder
a real love poem
I’m thinking of you,
the way your body feels
the smoothness of your skin
and the protruding bones in those certain places
I think of your chin at the top of my head
and your arms enveloping me like a gift
I feel small next to you
and somehow it’s comforting
Your gray eyes hide away soundless thoughts
but it doesn’t feel scary, or empty
there are no expectations or concerns
just thoughts that are yours
I find peace in the warmth of you next to me
the space you fill up
and the acceptance you have
when I rest parts of me on you
There aren’t many love poems left in me
sometimes I think I wrote them already
and feel empty for it
but here is this, for you
and for me
February Snow
It’s snowing today. It’s snowed a few times this winter, but all the more than the last.
The snow makes the world seem still, and quiet. It makes me want to bundle up and just watch it sugar up the earth with it’s cold glory.
I’m still yearning for the dessert sun and warmth, turn to hot, but I’m glad I’m able to see this winter happen. There was no snow last year and I’ve felt slighted ever since.
I’m sipping on my second cup of coffee and thinking about how this time, one year from now, must be so different. I’ve heard the weather feels like spring this early in the year there. The winter’s won’t be the same, but I don’t think I’m very sad about it.
I look at the snow falling this morning and I have an ache in my chest, a hope in my throat, and time ticking at each day goes by.
Soon.
Peace Lily Words
The winter frost has settled in more in late January, and February’s looking like snow. The excitement at the white flakes falling still gets my skin tingling but already I ache for the sun.
The plants in this house have gone dormant, lack of sun and lack of true warmth; we keep it cool inside. The blooms and growth fill me with prosperity and elsewhere, it could work.
Even though I bounce between different thoughts, different wants, different dreams, this is the one I’m going for. My own baby roots are going to be moved and I hope I don’t suffer much from shock of a transplant.
I think I may be a peace lily, easily to weep for what I need, easy to spring back once I get it.
Anew
I’ve taken deep breaths and searched. There are so many voices telling you what to do or how to do things, including how to live. I got lost in the storm of everyone’s thoughts and forgot mine matter most, to me.
So, I’ve decided to pack my bags of the life I’ve been living.
I turn 27 in a few months time and I have not been living for me. Until now. So I will cast aside the way others tell me I should live so I can be free of the things that make me curse this life.
My skin now aches for the sunlight I once cursed. Maybe I won’t go back to California, those golden hills were never mine, but maybe I’ll still go somewhere west. I’ve got my eyes on another desert.
The dreams and aspirations I have are finally mine and I’m going to hold tightly until my hands bleed; it’s all too easy to let it go and listen to the world when it’s telling you to do something else. That something else doesn’t make me happy, it’s not simple enough. I need simple. Life is a storm and I want to watch it under cover of a large tree. Not fight it. Not chase it.
I will say goodbye to this swamp. I will say goodbye to the fancy things and bountiful objects. I will say goodbye to things I just do not want. And I will welcome light. I will welcome growth and life and…
Simplicity.
January
The pain will come and go
like the dawn
like the dusk
like the push and pull of the waves
there is no beauty in it
but there is life
and there is the hope
the chance for something new
the chance for the cycle to be broken
instead of you
A Seasons’ Change
It was quiet and still when the first frost swept over the morning dew. It would crunch under our feet if we left the comfort of our home to wander in the cold air outside. We wouldn’t.
We would put on soft clothing and warm socks, make ourselves comfortable in our chairs in separate rooms while we rummaged through our phones thinking of each other at certain pictures that made us smile.
The window next to me makes me smile at the changing of seasons – I never like to stay still and I never like to become stagnant. I’ve dyed my hair recently, already thinking about a cut. Never the same, never sated with the stillness that comes.
It’s my hope you think of me in the summer sun or the springs rain; when the fall leaves swirl or your breath greets you in the early morning.
I long to pack my things and leave, like a bird in migration. As surely as the sun sets, I know that will never change, and I will never have the roots I so ache to have. The wings I sprouted as a child in that cage of a stable home have never been clipped and they seem only to grow instead.
Like a storm-chaser, I hope you will follow my restless legs and my wandering soul. My hands will be open and ready to bring you with, if only you are willing.
Let the wind lead us, and let us feel and live and travel through the world, from place to place. We can be our own home.
More Mundane
She waters her plants with the magic of the universe, though some will only see water.
Her cooking is imbued with power, but most will only see the spices.
She daydreams and wanders through her home, although she will see the worlds in her mind and the people who aren’t really there.
Those around her may think purple is her favorite color and she won’t correct them; purple is for intuition and maybe that magic can be hers to know.
There’s power in words, and there is power in action. She says only what she means and she does the best she can.
That’s all magic really is.
