Today is the Day

Today is the day I get to vote for a woman to be president of the United States.

Today is the day I can say enough is enough.

Today is the day I know I will need to roll up my sleeves tomorrow.

Today is the day I know I will cry if she wins.

Today is the day I look at this impossibly blue sky and dream something my grandmother never would have dared to.

Today I can look at my daughter and know the future would have her back.

Today I am proud of her and every other woman.

Today I shout out my voice.

I hail it to the ceiling.

I sing my essence to the stars.

I rejoice in my strength within my heart, my veins, my womb, my mind.

That strength allowed me to deliver a child.

It has rendered me compassionate toward others, even when they differ.

It allows me to bow my head yet not break, when needed.

I want to say it now.

And this may be trite.

But this is a historic moment.

Let’s do it right.

Let’s follow our conscience.

For us, the people, the women.

The children.

The bridges, not the walls.

The healthcare.

The schools.

The jobs.

The immigrants.

The possibilities.

Today is the day I get to vote for a woman to e president of the united States,

And I want to say, thank you, Hillary Clinton

For all the hard work you have done to get here.

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Your eyes keep me glued

Horse.jpgYour eyes keep me glued
The glue that holds the heart together
In the heart I recognize the source of breath
The breath is a bridge
The bridge between body and mind
The body walked down the rainbow till it found the threshold
The threshold between light and dark that marks life’s journey
The journey my feet walk on
My feet tell the story
The story is old
The old part is new
The new part is forgotten
I forget a little each day
The day isn’t long enough for my dreams
Each dream is a little world
The world is a small place
My place is where I am
I am a girl in a woman’s body
The woman in me is a mother
The mother in me is ancient
Ancient is my heart
My heart is in your eyes
Your eyes keep me glued

I sip mint tea and ponder

IMG_0743The day yields forth precious dewdrops
in the hour when all lie sleep.
I sit.
I sit and read.
I sit and write.
I sip mint and nettle tea slowly.
I let dark chocolate melt on my tongue
until it is only a reminiscence of itself.
I feel the tiredness behind my eyes.
I savor the delicious
silence around me.
In this time to be me for me.
I feel the radiance
of all the other versions of me.
I sip mint tea and ponder
the raindrops falling.

Ardently burns the little flame

WolfShine your light into the darkness.
Behold the flickering
fall of shadows.
Echoing and thinning
booming and blossoming.
Their dance brings you back to the sacred circle.

Ardently burns the little flame.
Candid, as a rose, she opens your heart.
You stand beneath the trees.
Whisper into the wild cold of the night.
Stars tingle. Owls hoot.
In awe, each moment, a little deeper
you find your journey.

Autumnal Collage

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Let us go then you and I (1). You crawl onto my lap and pull me to you. I sit and stare at the November afternoon. Its grey seeps through me in sullen dampness. When the evening is spread out against the sky, (1) my mind travels back, sifting memories, words, poems. Outside golden yellow leaves hang in a sporadic and precarious dance against time. The wind is whistling through the now almost naked branches and the rain is gushing down in sheets.

We walk beneath the tree. You look up. Inquisitive. The tree’s black bark speaks out in stark contrast with the matte whiteness of the autumn sky. Large raindrops balance like bubblegum bubbles reaching the maximum of their capacity before they glisten and drop, on my hood. Patter, pat. You smile at the sound. You notice a dog walking toward us. You point at it.

I notice the coat of trodden leaves, summer’s release.
But why make so much of fragmentary blue,
in here and there a bird, or butterfly, or flower,
or wearing stone, or open eye? (2)

I notice the leaves now kneaded into a burgundy-brown mulch. I wonder if you notice them too. You like holding and twirling them. On the surface a few just fallen maple leaves, blood orange, saffron gold, lemon yellow create a pattern, almost a mosaic intaglio.

I find my heart going back to memories of summer. So many walks brought us down to the lake’s shore to bathe in its mermaid green coolness. We were inseparable during those heat-drenched days. You and me linked by the hip, the heart, the breast.
The heart can think of no devotion greater than being shore to the ocean—holding the curve of one position, counting an endless repetition. (3)

I think of these days with you. These first months turning into a year. I think of the intensity and the flow. The sublime beauty and the hardship. The lack of sleep. The aloneness, which is different from loneliness. I think of the absurdity that in our culture mothers are silos each one to her own, working just one in a home, doing the work that used to be shared by many hands, mouths, hearts.
For I am the first and the last. I am the honored one, and the scorned. I am the whore and the holy one. I am the wife and the virgin. I am the mother and the daughter, and every part of both. (4)

I miss that. The companionship, the help, the support of other women close by, living life together in an every day kind of way. Sharing tasks. Cooking, singing. The tapestry of our own stories.

Yet even in my own life there is a rhythm, a kind of silent meditation which happens each day, each month, that brings us together especially in those dark nights of rocking.
Watching the moon, at midnight, solitary, mid sky, I know myself completely, no part left out. (5)

Let us go then you and I. (1) You are calling as I write. Pulling me away from these words, jotted down, haphazard on the screen. My life becomes a mosaic of time, fitting in the missing pieces. Finding delicious short moments to write, in between other moments just as sweet with you, to sew together a few words into a fragmentary piece.
The gauge of a good poem is, the size of the love-bruise it leaves, on your neck. Or, the size of the love-bruise it can paint, on your brain. Or the size of the love-bruise it can weave into your soul. (6)

 

1. TS Eliot, from The Love song of J Alfred Prufrock
2. Fragmentary Blue, Robert Frost
3. Devotion, Robert Frost
4. Thunder: Perfect Mind, Gnostic Gospel, Nag Hammadi Library, Women in Praise of the Sacred
5. Izumi Shikibu, translated by Jane Hirschfield, Women in Praise of the Sacred
6. The Size of the Love-Bruise, Hafiz, Translated by Daniel Ladinsky in The Subject Tonight is Love

A Song in the Night

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I sit by the sea
it whispers to me,
secrets I’ve heard
a long time ago.
Between echo and wave,
glimmers I hold
of stories told.
In which Heroines,
alone, rode in the wind
their tale to be sung.

A long white veil
draped on my face.
The wild mist before
dancing on the shore.
Soaring the seagulls
call to the sea.
Their cry arcane
cuts through to my bone.