Tag Archives: transformation

Nakedness, dawn breaking. Feel.

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Nakedness, dawn breaking. Feel.

Emotions,
Wet blankets hanging us
The guts wrench
With twisting sensations
Of sickness
Bodies and lives

A song can take us by surprise
And just as quickly, kill us

Our ideas for tomorrow from the wilting of the spring’s tulip
Take their lead
In this oppressive summer heat

Unquenched kisses for woman primed, for a lady who will and has
Wait
Like knees in the fold of an ironed slack, a tug,
A pull, an infinite night for years upon years
Heaps of them all piled
Are piling

Can the forward motion go on
A lifetime without being kissed back

Empty lips, hollow soul
Unfold into nothing, explode

And still the winter will swallow
The seeds from the tulip inside,
As if tucking a death into one’s self
Should be so easy
…It is, in this small way

Seamless greed, the autumn keeps
Its secrets free of shame
And me, uneased
Unhinged and thieved
And always never being the same

But I a lonely nocturne came
And in
The shutting doors
The fruitless branch
The hiding place
Will be remained

A tight-rope walking
Dance of flame
A lonely girl
A nameless name

The breasted beak
Will speak and break

Out, away, forever

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If Only For A Moment May I Touch The Wild Twist

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I stand alone upon the sentence of my grave
It keeps no form of weeping
No telepathic takings have their measure
No hush-hurries have their place
No one thing or soul is safe
If in reason-seeking came

Embers to be faced
From a fire which could not be traced
Stamped out
Pressed in around its edges
Told its name
Assigned its space
Dare we call Earth’s Mother
Tamed?

Here upon the wild froth
And crashing of its waves
There lies a subtlety
A saved and wretched madness
Unembraced
A lingered still breathing
Unlabored, though
If not in vain

Hopes collect in mass and come unkempt
Together, here remain
Tempt and torn
Undressed in haste
Of that which guiltless keeps the blame

Hard, unforgiving hands beat down
Of time
And laws of reason;
Soundness
And its often wake
Collapse upon the cleaved-leaning martyrdom kind

Not a one
Shall find complaint

Be stilled, unsorrowed, soothed

Like footprints
Be them far removed
Scattered in and off the path
Variations of a purpose
Deviated from degree

Still, the skilled wisdoms of the ancients unfortold
The blind–but not the sightless-heart would seek

Be it bound
To thee, in chains
To endless fuel
Of longing
For knowledge
And for innocence
Dichotomous belonging

Matrimony juxtaposed
Mortality in duty
Bind the seagull, searching seeking
To her own refusal shore
Emptied of her wanton sight
Unthieved unclaimed
Uncoward braved
Forevermore, Foreverstays
The treasure
And its troves untold
Or if at all, then too untake

She came–not once did hesitate–but crash arrived
In versions; sighs
The truth a disappointment
Perpetual, in nature

She was Compassion
Without permission
Sympathetic of all sakes
But came, she nonethelessing did
To have her bite
Her bitten dust
To taste
Its dew
The morning midnights
Too
A legacy, abate

Familiar should be as the gate
The worms shall have their meal

This of course, is what is meant

By patience, terms of virtue

Cyclical in terms of sense
In feel, it be serene
Portion filled divinity
The quiet keeping bliss

Simplicity reducing us
Duality, to this

When The Words Won’t Come (Say Them Anyway)

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Recently my life turned itself inside out. It’s less unpleasant than I expected but the feeling of it all has me on my toes and rather dizzy.

I am busy, but I’m here. Thinking of the many incredible and diverse people I encounter on my blog. Reflecting on the countless ways every single one of you contribute to my heart, my spirit, and ultimately my life.

Despite this relentless wilderness I’m in, I find myself still yet contemplating how the world is unfolding its endless majesties for each of you.

Just so you know.

You matter to me, amidst the infinite other things. If you have a minute you can make my day. Whisper your goings and comings my way; I will welcome the news and the sounds of you.

Your ordinary acts of love and hope point to the extraordinary promise that every human life is of inestimable value.

Desmond Tutu

…FEEL…

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…FEEL…

I never — and I mean NEVER — get stuck behind a train while driving. I can count the number of times it has happened on one hand.

I drive across a set of railroad tracks every day dropping my kids off at school. I have never seen (or heard) a train crossing them. Not once.

To my great surprise, I was brought to a stop this morning as the wooden slats came down and the flashing lights began their ceremonious display of ‘haha! you’re going to be late now’ and I parked in a sudden sense of simultaneous confusion and wonder. (‘Wow, this railroad track isn’t just some outdated decoration of our old-fashioned small-town Main Street?’)

Anyhow, I sat in keen observation of the railcars, anxiously anticipating the caboose’s arrival. What really got my blood flowing was not the train’s eventual passing, but this breathtaking image I discovered on the side of a centrally-positioned railcar; on its surface was the most exquisite display of artistic and philosophic graffiti I have ever seen. Simply, it said …FEEL…

I was moved beyond measure. So much so, that I was brought to my senses by the sudden symphony of car horns screeching the serendipitous and unanimous impatience of all the drivers behind me, proudly pissed off by my daydream-moment of speechless awe.

As I continued throughout my day, I found myself moved even more deeply by “…FEEL…” than I had been from the start. What gang member, artist, delinquent, or bored, unsupervised minor, or unemployed, unmotivated, disenchanted grown-up could have possibly had the foresight — and the INSIGHT — to scribble such profound and simple truth for the sole purpose of simply REACHING somebody… Even if that somebody turns out to be only one somebody, and that somebody is me?

I’m not quite self-absorbed enough to imagine that my tiny little existence would matter that much to anybody else, to risk heavy punishment and to waste a minimum of forty-five minutes for some random woman in Randomville, USA seeing the depth of …FEEL…’s beauty and be instantaneously transformed… But that’s exactly what happened; on my end of things, and on mystery person’s end of things as well.

It reminds me of a certain weekend when I was twenty-three. I had an 18-hr courseload in college and a full-time job that kept me going-going-going non-stop, all the time. But on one weekend, I decided to take a break from it all. I pulled out my art supplies and spent all day Saturday creating massive, colorful posters and laminating them. Each one was different. They all made absolutely no sense, and served absolutely no purpose to the uninformed eye. Randomly, they were an assortment of various suggestions, quotations, and big bold words. “LOVE IS A VERB,” “be who you are,” “TRUTH IS MAGICAL,” “you are the coolest you that this world has ever known,” “HUG A STRANGER TODAY,” etc. Many of you will no longer ride the fence, confidently asserting to yourselves as you read this that I am, undoubtedly, a complete and total whack-job. And I’m cool with that. Because the best part of that Experiment in Ridiculousness was not the part where I made tons of cool posters and thought of borderline-nutcase things to write on them. The best part of it was the many photographs I took (from a quiet distance) all day Sunday of various passers-by, pausing in the course of their journey that day to observe the nonsense before them and turn their head with an involuntary grin across their face, absorbing the thoughts I had shared with them.

I imagine the train-sketcher and I hold much in common. Except for him/her, the process was more about the possible than it was about the actual. And I must say, it’s just as mind-blowing to be the stranger experiencing what’s possible as it is being the artist experiencing what’s actual.

Magic: possible, actual, and quantified.