Mother

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Mother is there at the beginning

Mother is who you came out of

Mother is food

Mother is sleep

Mother is love

Mother is the first teacher

Mother is nature

Mother is nurture

Mother Nature is Mother

Mother is who I need to separate from to become me

Mother has a wound

Mother is who’s wound I must heal

Mother is who I trust

Mother is who I roll my eyes to

Mother is almost always woman

Mother is taken for granted

Mother is who rejects me and I reject

Mother is who I feel smothered by

Mother is who I am

Mother and daughter

Daughter to my mother

Mother to my daughter

 

May I feel all the wounds

May I speak them

May I heal all the wounds

May I heal my mother wound

May we give back to all mothers

All women

May we give back to Mother Nature

May I give back to my mother

May I give a new future to my daughter

Mother is the beginning

The rhythm of breath

The strum of the heart

Of all that is me and isn’t me

Of unity and division

Mother is the beginning of 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.

The happiness I feel when I see Selina

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I feel so happy I could explode. (Sleep is a miracle that works wonders).
The happiness I feel when I see Selina:
Her nose scrunched up in a smile.
The light in her eyes.
Her expression of delight mixed with a touch of roguishness.
One hand pointing: “MMMM” (Gimme that) she shouts.
Back-a, BaBa, DaDa.
A dialogue in many acts.

We nestle and snuggle in the morning, after the long night.
We play and explore in the afternoon.
She splashes in the tub in the evening.
A wave of love connects it all together.
Her heart to mine.
A conversation that spins tapestries of meaning.

Connections woven by her imagination.
She pretends she is drinking from a cup.
The cup on her head becomes a hat.
Her left brain naming, labeling, compiles information, sounds, shapes.
A bus pulling up and lumbering to a halt.
An ambulance wailing by.
A motorcycle puttering.
A plane flying overhead.
Crows cawing.
The bark of a dog in the distance.
Her right brain sings and wallops back to the left in exultation and recognition.
It layers longing, imagination, fondness, attachment, sense of self, and other.

She is beginning to speak. In English and Italian.
She says “No, no Numa, when our cat, Numa, scratches the couch.
“Adie” (for Grazie) when she hands me the cat’s bowl to wash.
Mama, Daddy, Bye, Bow, Ba(ll), (D)Ow (Ciao). Baby.
She sees a flower.
A bee.
A butterfly.
She smells the lavender and rosemary in our garden.
She is careful not to pull flowers off their stem.
She learns to climb the stairs in both directions.
She sucks the butter and jam off her tiny pieces of toast discarding the rest.
She devours salmon skin.
It’s her favorite thing it seems.

She follows and lopes after me whenever I come home.
She makes the milk sign and indicates her favorite chair to sit in.
When I see her my heart leaps.
I melt.
In love.

The apple blossoms pink and white

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The apple blossoms pink and white.
We sit sprawled out on a blanket
that belonged to nonna in our backyard.
You are eight months old.
Your whole body is round and lovely.
You have soft full cheeks and the bluest of eyes.
You play busily, observing the world,
flowers, bees, branches, specks of dirt.

Interspersed into every action
are the looks you steal at me, furtive, gleeful, curious.
There are moments when you laugh
in short staccato ha-has,
your whole face puckered in an impish grin.
I am imbued by a love so wide and deep
words fail to paint its full picture.

I look at the apple blossoms, and wonder
whether we will have apples this year.
There is a serendipitous connection
between my fertile outburst and the trees’.
Life moves in mysterious ways.

You are holding up one of the pieces of the rainbow,
the yellow one, thrusting your arm
back and forth in happy motion.
I look at you, at my life.
I feel complete.

The Secret Gift

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The foothills of the heart loom large
among shadows deep and purple.
I climb the winding path
through silver sage, and elderberries,
the song of the stream whispering in my ear.
From within a hermetic voice, a friend
I have not listened to in a long time:
timid, yet hoarse.
It speaks the truth, and flies on a winged arc,
glistening in the mystery of the folds.
Uncovering, discovering, recovering.
Flaming leaves rustle in the twilit breeze.
In the palm of my hand I hold a secret gift.
I will carry it to the mountaintop.
There I will bury it, release it, give it new life.

Glistening Lake

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Glistening lake reflects the dusk hour
in lapping waves
of azure, black, and peach.

Sun low on the horizon,
disc of fire
moves faster than flicker.

Sense of open wideness
as I sit on the dock
arms locked around knees.

People walking circles
around the basin of water
exchange words
immersed.

Birds swoop low
to kiss the water,
in one graceful movement
of flapping wings
and singing heart.

Sky tangerine
Vibrates in cellular beauty.
A stillness so sound
it mirrors holiness.

Beneath the willow
I walk on the path.
Unlocked.
Searching gaze.
Intaking.
Breathing.

Three-part movement

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Heart.
Carnation rose –
unfurling being,
rings the bell of images,
beholding memory.

Dewdrops of saffron light
sing in the echo;
the rising source,
pure, subliminal, ever-present.

A wondering wish
of wild revelry.
The reckless dreamer
gazes into the blue beyond.

Rhythm.
Unlike the steadiness of beat.
Rather the varying harmony of waves
washing the shore,
from hushed brushes,
to crashing tides.

Or the sacred proportion within
a fern unfolding,
Spiraling in golden unity –
its green-apple transparency against the rays of sun.

A visual graph marking,
in progression,
the irregular order of the cosmos.

Trust.
A symphony in endless acts.
As long as life.
My work in progress.

Sleeves folding back repeatedly.
Breathing.
Allowing the process to happen.
Acknowledging the other.
Saying yes to being.
Knowing that I am enough.
Smiling when I get off balance.

With each turn, the core
opens, in contrast of light and shadow,
a little more, exposed.

I clad myself in rain

red-rose-sideI clad myself in rain
donning the color
of the morning sky.

My cheeks unfolding
in the spiral movement
of the rose.
My breath whispering
like the rocking of the tide.

Sometimes I sing in the stillness,
sometimes my voice is clear
like spring water,
or the gurgling of an infant.

Sometimes I stand inside a cave:
In front of the door
there is a stone.
No one can enter or exit.

But this morning
dewdrops form
on the silhouette
of my body
in the newfound light.

I wear a wide hat
shaped like a cloud,
and in silent requiem,
I compose an ode
to the seagulls
floating effortlessly on gusts
of wind–swooping,
screeching,
a call as wild as life.

A pattern so arcane
and mysterious
it trembles in my throat.

Brine

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Blue and white extend far beyond
the open sky, melting the sea,
its turquoise expanse crashing
into white waves. Bubbles of foam in a mad
rushing caress caught between water and shore.

Brine mixed with the smell of fish and seaweed
evaporates into the air.
Earth and sea emit a primal sound
that rocks me to and fro
soothing my tousled emotions.

Beyond the coastline, wild palms
frayed by the careening wind,
their fronds point arrow-like
toward the cobalt sky.

Snowbirds in groups stand huddled
and distant. They observe my approach
in a diffident stance, and shy away
as soon as I am too close.

Pelicans, one body in flight,
swerve gracefully above the horizon,
each part of a greater whole.
Their motion, a symphony in action,
touches me deep within.
A beauty so perfect
it sips of the divine
and startles my uneven breaths, caught
between whim, and insight.

Barefoot on the sand, I spread my feet
wide to the touch of broken seashells;
somewhere in between pleasure and pain,
I imagine a massage of organs churned
in the motion, and my foot opens, unfurls
distends, breathes.

The sun glows tangerine before sinking
below the horizon, pulling with it
my discomfort and any critical sense left.
As the night descends with
its loose cloak of velvet blackness,
humor enlivens my own shores:
this country of impatient physicality
now approaching acceptance.

I stand in my flesh,
more compassionate,
distilled by the pickle of vodka.