the prowler and the prey

some may think me

a hypochondriac.

 

no, i’ve just had visions of sickness and death

for as long as i can remember;

 

and, visions of flying and

birthing and being at home

 

in my new-found skin as a

lion, man, circus performer.

 

this is the human condition:

 

to watch for what is coming,

to be both the prowler and the prey.

flock

a long stem of pulse_picture2

in the late, late heat of summer

crickets click their last relief-song.

 

when i wake from wise dreams

i will be a stranger to myself,

 

toddling this globe-head around –

filling it with forgetfulness

 

and random etchings: love, war,

electrocutions, flesh-colored candles –

 

asking to be filled with wine,

begging to be drunk.

 

just being alive

is a liability.

 

it used to be so simple;

it used to be seven white cranes

 

stretching in a parade, lifting their slender

necks against the blue-green blade.

 

to truly attend to

this

 

is pain: all you see

is a long stem of pulse.

a long stem of pulse_picture

-photographs by sergio mora

 

 

four-teen

20140825_083527-1

my daughter is

writing poems and

 

playing piano

keys while the

 

world is spinning, telling her

she should be working.

 

the singing apple is still falling

from the tree

 

in slow   motion

ecstasy;

 

obelisk of beauty and utility:

reaching, perching on the edge

 

of still pools, longing

to be space-craft.

20140730_162545

the passing of pax romana

she sits in her space and feels a stirring,

much like the wind, much like a calling

to another place not yet

known, not yet her own:

her fingers buzz with forbidden

magic; her mind moves mountains.

the invisible warrings

of love write themselves

quietly on the back-side

of her heart-quilt, sewn in

tight like jewels, like journals

coming alive on the inside linings

of her organs, playing out

their orange chicanery.

just outside the monastery

of her own making, she

gazes at her mother repeatedly

riding in on the tide, her spirit

slipping into her shell sides;

she holds the best close

to her core and lets

the rest follow back

with the moon.

tiny & full

on my way to flying school,

late as usual,

taking the lady liberty boat

since i just missed my bus.

 

i was up all night,

dreaming of teeth

falling out and digging in

to chase me;

 

of cruising over

bridges and swimming

under cities

(naked, of course);

 

of moving through non-time –

a star for a pocket-watch,

a string of white moons ’round

my wrist: tiny & full.

open

20140725_092733

you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

20140714_165043

happy belated birthday, baby blog <3

one year old

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet.

 

Yesterday was one year since I began blogging here in this little corner of the world. It has been quite an adventure, and I have crossed paths with some wonderful people.

 

Mostly I have continued to learn and grow and make mistakes and feel joy and pain and hear my own voice and put myself out there and pick myself back up after falling. Yep, sounds like a full first year.

 

This card from my mother seems to sum it all up well, this thing we call life:

20140628_075355

Happy belated birthday, baby blog. <3 Thanks to all who stop by, read, comment, and toddle along with me.