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

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When I Write

When I Write
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When I Write
I write because it is part of me.
I write because it makes me happy.
I write, because when I do, I feel better. On those days it is as though a cloud lifts, and I see the world with brighter colors.
When I write, sometimes – most of the time – I write poetry. I feel images surfacing. I hear words in my head. I need to write them down. To give them a home in black on white. To see the undulating scribble of my handwriting. I hear the juxtapositions of sounds, the sometimes alliteration, the short and the long, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore, the allegory, and the symbol.
When I write, I hear bells in my head. I watch raindrops fall on mushrooms. I glide under the lid of my own fantasy, hurled into a sky of rolling clouds. I ride a magic carpet on which I am truly me, more than me and also, at times, petulant me. I let the child me roam. She picks wildflowers . She smells them, and plucks petals pitilessly.
When I write, afterwards, I sometimes discover hidden secrets. I find thoughts that were seeking to be expressed, emotions that begged to be unleashed, feelings that hoped to be felt.
When I write, I oscillate between poetry and prose. I let my pen roll in its own ecstasy on the paper. I am transported to faraway lands; sunset in a dusty red desert, full moon in a mossy old growth forest, populated by elfin maidens.
When I write, I see with my ears, touch with my eyes, hear with my heart. I am called into the House of Language by an ancient muse named Synesthesia. I have been courting her since my teenage years. She is a rebel at heart, yet as old as the hills. She carries me to lavender shores, where monkeys drum, butterflies hum, and mostly everyone else dreams
When I write, I am saved by words. I am purified by the emptiness that follows. I let myself lay on the brink of uncertainty, even fear. I walk precariously on a tightrope that I tried to challenge many moons ago for the first time. Now I yearn to each day. It has taught me to take risks. Within it I see the river flowing. Through it I am shown that no moment is ever repeated. No context can be remembered so accurately that the imagination wouldn’t need to be beckoned in as an ally.
When I write, I write in the present. I write in the past. I write in the future. I write from the first person, from the second and third; I write for all the people. I write to pour myself into all my parts, to fill all my pores.
When I write, I feel my heart swell and get bigger.
When I write, I am me.

Magic in my pores

IMG_4494The fresh air works its soothing
magic in my pores. I breathe in
rain drizzle and salt spray.

Seagulls veer overhead.
The sun shines a glimmering
stripe over the Cascade Mountains
in the bay beyond.

The day has passed
indulging in passions and care.
Soaking, cooking, playing music,
reading, yoga. Now it’s time
for the most attended arrival.

I have sat down, picked up
my black journal, uncapped
my fountain pen, and started
writing.

I let words flow without searching
or effort. Images flit across the mind
like black and white birds flying low
and fast over the water.

They thrust their wings and bodies
forward and back in a tension
willed toward freedom, love,
nurture.

Each year the seasons turn
the wheel of time, arching
their smile in chromatic hues
over the months.

In her own bird and beast,
flower and tree, resonate
from nature’s call.

Responding to an inner will,
a promise to the gods,
or a drink from the tree of life.

Like them, my words are willed
to grow, transform,
move toward what is felt,
yet unknown.