my mid morning…

She is a tiny thing, like a little pixie 
but of the older order. Her age sloping her form. Her cane, a counter balance.  
She wears a long green flowing skirt. 
Long enough it kisses her ankles so femininely. A stark contrast to the 
the masculine beige orthopedics 
shoes shuffling underneath. I imagine they so very necessary now since she seem to be the type of woman that once wore pointed toe, high heels. Her hair is strawberry blonde frosted with aging white. I think it as more striking in her youth, more of a sun streaked copper. Tiny curls frame her forehead and the pinned bun at the back of her head implies she still treasures it’s hidden length. I imagine her sitting at her vanity, slowly removing the pins, watching the snow laden, sunset streaks fall to the top of her shoulders. Slowly running the hairbrush through the strands, smoothing the roughness, brushing the weariness of the world away. I notice her lashes are pale, more of a indication that she is ginger. Ginger, a reddish spice with zing!  Teehee! Perhaps she was a willful child. The cornflower blue of her eyes needs no dark lashes to frame their beautiful color. That’s only cosmetic anyway. Her eyes clearly speak she has lived a life as loved. Her love? He was sitting right besides her. Writing down the date of her appointment next week. He did it intently. Checking to make sure he wrote it down right. She softly answered that he did have it right. His actions write their own story and it would seem the plot is that his only job ever in this world was, and is to take care of her. Although, I giggle quietly to myself because she was the one to leading the way as they leave the building. They talked of going home to eat leftovers…their own home. I imagined those walls have a few stories to tell.

As I sit alone in the empty waiting room, waiting for my daughter, I feel a small tug on my heart. Nudging my need to write of such an ordinary interaction. Perhaps my heart, my mind, my soul, needs to speak of such simplicity. To remember that in the end we are fortunate to have love stand beside us, through the easy and definitely the hard times of life. And of course I am a woman that observes all the beauty of my surroundings. I’m finding that my passion, although late in my midlife, is writing of such things, as truth, beauty and love, and all the feelings and emotions that come with it. I want to paint tiny little pictures with my own unique color of ink. In the stillness of this moment, I think to myself…I hope I will be and will remain so beautifully loved, and wildly feminine as she!

walking towards more

I am slowly walking towards more
 unwinding my way
from a path once wide open
which started narrowing
suffocating my viability
I became caught in dark clouds
a distant storm I couldn’t outrun
nor did I want to
sheets of tears and uncertainty
rained/reigned inside my heart
Flooding cracks and crevices 
slipping into spaces
drowning even the beauty 
eroding my strength 
walls were falling
in front of my walkway
threads from my heart
were unraveling and tripping me
getting caught under the weight
rubble and threads wound tightly around my limbs
making each step harder
the more I struggled
the more tangled I became
I knew to pull out the shears
and cut the the threads loose
but I resisted 
thought if I held fast to my want
I would make it through
it took me a long while though
to realize the delusions I held
as each strand was snipped 
the heaviness began to lift
and I started to see truth
I didn’t want to see though 
not at first and I started to feel
ashamed that I somehow was to blame
so slowly every so often
I started trimming 
and clipping more threads
and the veil was slipping
and I could see a little more clearly 
a little took to the winds
a lot dropped onto my pages
I rearranged them to weave
beautiful stories of loss & restoration 
I know there has always been
a little stardust in my soul
I only need to slip my fingers
into the delicate membrane
deep enough underneath
to stir the brilliance
to grasp the stardusted specks 
let my palm cradle its brightness 
use the starlight to guide
my direction once again 
I start to remember to love my 
blue and black ink of my pen
let it write of my dark matter
kissing it as it dances away
I ask the immortals to take it
to swallow the darkest
blue of my pain and lay it to rest 
in vast dark space of yesterday

As more threads
are trimmed and cut away 
it opens up space to 
let more beauty come in
I have been given some
beautifully gloriously light
in the past few days
by some pretty amazing people
I am grateful for their gentleness
and kindness. And I am weaving
some pretty beautiful stories 

…this darker version

what could I do
but come completely
strip bare
kneeled and collared
touch the darkest air
dominance daring
my submission
with grazed lips
as they tug 
bite deeply 
my sweetest flesh
the rise of swelled nips
eager red promising 
deeper shades
of purpled blues
tether my bones
read my eyes
as you watch me move about
squirming in moans 
use your desire
my good girl 
with a lashing 
poetic tongue
for my surrender 
if given 
only driven
by your darker version
a secretive
deeper need
found undulating 
under your
languid voice 
stunning poetry

there’s just no title for this…

I beat myself up enough
I don’t need anyone else to do it 
I know I’m fully flawed and painfully imperfect. I think most, if not all understand perfection isn’t attainable especially women. But we are petted and groomed to believe we just might achieve it if we try really hard to align the malformed, pin, curl, lower, straighten, plump, deflate, nip and tuck everywhere.
At some point I think we feel we might stand a chance to make it,
until others throw our imperfection
into our face. We can try to apply just the right amount of color and materials to paint the canvas unflawed, but underneath it all, if you search close enough, pull off the soft filters, point the spotlight, take out the magnifying glass, hold your scalpel with a wickedly steady hand, you will always find enough flaws to scrape together enough to forge nearly perfect weapons.
Yet, the most beautiful thing, the most nearly perfect thing we can do is to choose not to use all that scraped messy matter as a means to self harm or to inflict harm onto others. The nature of the world is harsh enough to kill us instantly and/or rather torturously slow. Let it remain the murderer, judge, and jury. Stay with your writing. You truly are so beautiful in real and poetic form.Your soul understands so why hurt me for bearing mine. We all are flesh and bloodborn with beating hearts and breath. I carried life in my womb, it strengthened me, softened me too! Maybe if you were me you could understand how painful it was. I labored to deliver them safely into this world and it’s hard to shield them from attacks of those more clever and forked tongue, but I help them stand with a strong back when attacked and show them it’s ok to feel the wounds, show them how to tend to those wounds so that they heal from the inside out. I don’t want them to have to wear a mask or so much heavy armor they become unmovable, incapable of love. They’re smart though and brilliant, and are aware of just how people are. It’s not easy to heal especially when the pain caused comes from someone you care about and love. I’ve been knocked down, thrown back, stabbed, and bloodied by words so much so, that it forever changed my perception of myself, I think I’ve told you my story. And it isn’t pretty…its diblitating, and humiliating, and all that venom and ugliness only taught me self-harm, self-hate and self-loathing. Even now when I feel attacked I want to run and hide, curl up in a tight ball and stop breathing.  But I don’t!  I write it out, I work through it. I don’t blog it so others can read it, I blog it because this is my medium I’ve chosen. This is my place, created to be a safe place for me to discover the inner workings of my deepest truest self. I am finally trying to learn to appreciate what beauty is inside me. I’m trying to write myself into beautiful. I write to release that which tries to keep me chained to what “society” believes is acceptable. I write and let the ugly come out to learn to let it go, to grow beyond boundaries that have been place by me and others, to stretch my imagination and my limbs so I don’t remain stiff and impliable, and I write to move water and moutains, and headstones that have prevented me from living beautifully full and complete. 
I am trying to break free from those chains. I would think other writers would understand this. It just seems as necessary as breathing…Doesn’t it? We are fallible and human after all. All of us are just mere mortals destined to be taken dead from this place  No! I don’t need anyone to point out my flaws, it’s been done enough; I slash my heart and soul enough that I bleed all over the screen and on the ground, in cups and chairs, inside the bathtub and silently  broken bones lay resting in my bed. I hurt enough. My sidewalk is for my sidewalk chalk.  My canvas is grey and blue, and black with splotches of very dark red. I am dirtied, muddied and stained, Chaos and tessellated rain falling into a shattered mosaic form. I can only say I am so sorry I ever was this!

only then shall she…

walk her into heartbreak
abandon her felled in ruins
chain her neck in your direction
secure her eyes in a bold lock
tether the crook of her arms to her ankles
tattooing her skin in desire
then drown her in a ocean of unforgiven
drop bombs of starbursts
and burdens on her chest
wrapped pretty and gritty 
dripping in brilliant poetry
watch her wither and pale
pour out waterfalls
finger-tracing blood rivulets 
running down her torn breasts
suspend her in deafening silence
slam shut her gilded cage 
see her be stilled in the corner 
erased and deleted
torched and clipped
burning feathers lay in
piles of smouldering ash
kill to die alive to be resurrected
again and again
feed her more assassinating poetry
offer romantic swill
that will coat her throat
taking dominion of her breath
recite sweltering words that melt her sex
behind hymnals 
psalms and song of songs
hint of the finest vintage 
rarest sips of ageless love
give her velveted wildfire dreams
of tasting her flames
layer her with deep throated moans
then douse her in disdain 
roughed upped by salt-pelted tides
and cut by time glass shattering
as the last grain of sand drops dead
yes please love do 
do weave her in those
threads of color and shamed
for her pain and capacity to love you
and only then shall she
define dirt label caste