day 22- something you miss
I miss climbing a tree.
As a child, I had no fear of heights. My curiosity and sense of imaginative adventure propelled me up. My eyes and hands looking for a firm grip, pulling myself up, higher and higher. Finding a sturdy branch. Sitting awhile, swinging my legs back and forth, a satisfied expression lingering on my face as I examine the tree, the gnarly bark and leaves grazing my head, smelling the greenness. I would pluck a leaf to break it open, exposing more greenness into the air. Green, it just has that scent. I never looked too into it and would let the broken leaf float away with the wind.
At sunset, the world wasn’t so scary. A magical thing was happening, the sun is going to sleep. And from this height I swore I saw it wave goodbye, yawning, leaving trails of pink and purple staining its yellow and orange robes, finally wrapping itself in a navy, star filled blanket. I would stay for some time watching everything coming to a slow halt, doubling back and leaving what’s left to be done for another day.
As an adult, now of afraid of heights I miss gazing at the world from such a platform. I’m now content with a window framing a city. But oh to be in the country again, on a sturdy branch bidding goodnight to the sun. I miss it.
(from a 30 Drawing Challenge)
A wall of snow
How is the world now
As you leave it silently?
An illusion of rainbows
A light that struck the clock
How is your world now
As it leaves your eyes?
I’ve been too cold
As always, no better- I can’t be no better-
But coldness is too familiar
It becomes the only warmth I could ever know
A wall of snow
Those stained glass gaze of yours
Left you blind
I’m now silently mourning
The death of this heart…
I hadn’t even realized
Until I drank this mug of tea…
How to begin
When I cannot bury
What is still left?
If it took so long, a century at most
a few years or less
would I still fall in love with you?
If winding roads flew off the map
sent me to forests
got me lost
would I still end up in your arms?
If all the sky fell as snow
and nothing would be left for the birds…
If all the grounds swallowed itself whole
and nothing would be left for anyone…
would I have a chance to see you?
If it took a lifetime or two
falling through someone else’s heart
would I still end up meeting you?
Beloved soul who seeks me in dreams,
is this truly enough?
wouldn’t a real warm embrace
make this lifetime
-a life full of bitterness
sweeter and more meaningful?
Your name in my mouth like a rose
Velvet against the waters of my desire
Your name on my finger tips
A few tears and a soft kiss
Your name rising like blood
Red and warm, red and opaque
Your name on my lips
I hold a whistle and blow the vowels away
I’m left with you, I’m left with breath
I’m left with mmmmm and
somehow I will never get the chance to truly savor it
hiding between the breaths
sigh into my heart darling
let it seep into my blood
tell me where I’ll end up
when you don’t want me anymore
hiding between carresses
grip a little tighter darling
let yourself dig into my bones
carve your intentions
before you decide to leave me on my own
the distress of a voice
saying a name for the last time
each intonation a grave…
and it never lasts does it?
you want to be bigger than this mortal flesh;
loved and loved by another
comfortable heart to grow into
and seed immortality
you want to be grand and say, “God has my face”;
praying in temples
hoping to reach a peace
by their unwillingness
sit on a mountain and see with me
sit in the water and feel with me
God is not a person, not anything you can hold
sit with the birds and understand
to seek God is to try to make sense
the birth of the first wind
fragmented pieces; ice pick, pic axe:
and here you are yearning to fuse
but where’s the fire?
racing along timelines
dutiful pen checking off boxes
one by one
stay wilder than the wind
stray far from everything- ice pick, pic axe:
to your fragmented self
and fill in all the crevices
and burn with all the lightning
set ablaze and
one by one
you become part of the god
that birthed you
gods who reach for the blood filled chalices aren’t gods
who are they, these monstrous, hungry things?
a spell, and burning flame
waiting for the ashes of those that have died for you to stay a little longer, to pass on as you leave to burn for those now mourning you…
gods who drink deeply from from blood filled chalices aren’t gods
“aren’t you a heathen, heretic?”
I’ve known them, sat at their feet and saw them feast from flesh. I waited for the whispers of a drunken fae who said, “if you feed on your own blood, you become a god”
I looked at the stars and understood
what is good love?
lover of the plasticine pirouettes crafted by hungry, hungry girls
what is it?
these sad relations have caused a tremendous wave of sentimental confusions
what is good, love?
lover of the intricate weavings crafted by hungry, hungry boys
what is it?
these yearnings have caused sleepless nights that free fall into daydreams that char my fingers, those incendiary devices waiting between lips that choose to say, ‘maybe honey, maybe’
good love can go wrong, you say?
wrap me in the wave dear then
tell the gods they cannot have this blood
I’ll drip over volcanoes and evaporate
this heart is mine
searing into and breaking apart
fleeing and running
saying all the prayers
reciting all the psalms
dear god of the hearth, where is home?
sitting and holding
waiting for the ticks and the tocks
musical time frames that suffocate
so I sear into and break apart
thrown into the abyss
but fleeing from all the demons
-just shadows snaking along my own
dear god of the heathens, where is home?
I threw your psalms in the fire
and held my heart in my fist
ate the entrails of my own monster
dear god of whatever is left of me,
where is home?