Sometimes Maybe

Sometimes I want to be a kite

Ripped and tugged by wind’s whim

Rising above spectators

Admired for my brightly colored dips

That write nonsensical whispers

Of promises made to a forever not witnessed

Sometimes I wish I were a bear

Raw with raking power paws

With heavy duty claws that help me eat

People I don’t like or those who disturb me.

Sometimes I wish I were a siren

One that rests on rocks singing sweetly

Lulling sailors to their doom upon my rocks

Jutting breasts and flirty hair calling to boys

“Beware! Beware!”

Sometimes I’m glad to be me

A chubby tubby funny woman with dimple cheeks

Cracking open frozen hearts, not of ice

But stuck in places not so nice

Places that don’t remember their worth

Burying their beings without much mirth.

Revision

Rolling down the road before

Been there, done that, know the score

Crossed that bridge, then burned it down

Trapped myself in my hometown

Ghosts of me walk laughing by

Anger driven, cocaine high

I barely know the face of then

But I wear them as my diadem

Broken heart lay broken wide

Spilling love from what’s inside

Trains of childhood sing forlorn

Don’t chase those tracks. Don’t heed those horns.

These Are My People: Aunt Lizzie

The turning of the Wheel is honored in her space

the breathing of the seasons accounted at her grace

With eyes the color of summer sky she observes the holy

Appreciating each season as its revealed so slowly

Her hair is the color of bonfires, of cider mills or pumpkin pies

When she laughs, I mean really laughs, it could make you cry

She sees the world in music, notes upon a page,

Not a moment passes by that she’s not fully engaged.

She can make a piano dance a jig or an organ sing to God

But she believes, somewhere inside, that she is somehow flawed.

When she gives the gift of her, in whichever way she does,

There is never any doubt in mind, that you are truly loved.

 

The Silent Key

girl-with-keys

When I talk to the ceiling or look to the sky

I gaze upon God as both you and I.

When I pray with love, bowing my head,

Instead of my questions, listening to what’s said.

Joy fills my spirit, overflowing my cup

I remember my blessings, remember to look up

When I walk in the world with wonder in my eyes

It’s easy to remember to sing to the sky

But when shadows crawl, as they sometimes do

I can’t see me and I can’t feel you.

But, when I talk to the ceiling or look to the sky

I gaze upon God as both you and I,

And when I stand with breast open to light from above

Then my fears fall away into the light of love

I miss you, my muse

alone

There is a place where we can’t meet

Where your face remains unknown

It is a place where silence stands

It is the time when I’m alone

Muses holding my creative reprimands

It is there where I turn from cheek to cheek

Longing for the words you speak

But in this place, organically grown,

Is a haven for me to be completely alone

It is a place that refuses other’s hands

It holds me warmly to meet its demands

It is there, where my rivers peak

Giving me the words I must speak

 

I can’t deny, I can’t erase

The billowing spirit

from your face

Emanating fiercely

From your own within

Reaching through

my waters

forbidden

 

 

Late September

leavesdried

The late September thunderstorm drizzles gray on dark pavement.

The wind physically throws a tantrum of plants, chimes screaming alarm.

The trees relieve themselves of dead branches onto accumulated decayed leaves.

Darkness portends a bitter battle but refuses to acknowledge the calm.

The cars slide by with deeper tone, like a man’s voice taking over a woman’s.

The blinds clap merrily against the windows as I rush to keep dry beds.

The thunder is unexpected, rumbling like bowels filled with beans and broccoli.

A flash, a roll, a grumbling of disturbed pressure pockets, then wet, dripping, silence.

 

The woman of indigo

waterlakeriver

You can throw me down beneath my homeland

The earth beckoning my bony flesh

Glorified and holy as the stable creche

There I will deny your victory fresh

As I bloom again within my familial heartland

You thought me shallow, but I am buried deep

within the tributaries of river roots overflow

deep enough to honor the woman of indigo

I raise my fertile froth as surging archipelago

As I rise in my power, return to your garden to weep.