There is a raking
a scraping
in clearing away
be it darkness
or debris
a clawing at
that which endangers
suffocating
obfuscating
before we can heal
before we can be healed
There is a lighting
a righting
that must be done
be it biological
or psychological
a transformation of
that which encroaches
a reclamation
an immolation
before we can heal
before we can be healed
There is a turning
a learning
to our evolution
be it revision
or ignition
a demo-day yearning
for returning to wholeness
for renovation
and invocation
before we can heal
before we can be healed
SuzAnne Wilson Regalia
8 March 2020
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
“Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.”
- attributed to Teresa of Avila
Yours are the hands
that cup the rain
to quench the drought barren field
Yours are the hands
that sow the seeds
to fill tomorrow’s empty mouths
Yours are the hands
that play the chords
to make a chorus of us all
Yours are the hands
that pull light down from the stars
that lift fire from the depths of the world
that mold the darkness into a vessel
to hold the quenching fullness of
a single note sung in unison
SuzAnne Wilson Regalia
7 March 2020
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
The hike to the waterfall
multiplied
my fear of falling by
my fear of passing out from exhaustion.
The hills climbed like
terra cotta slices of cheesecake
cut for giants. To the south, hoodoos ringed
like wedding cake, encrusted with
shimmering slices of Anjou Pear.
“She’s better at hiking
than she used to be,” Mike said.
“She made it further
than I expected,” Leilani said.
“She didn’t stop;
she’s right behind us,” said Celine.
I missed
my dogs. I missed
the way they would tug at the leash to
propel me toward good smells. I missed
the way they would tug behind when they felt
something looked dangerous or difficult.
Dwarfed by the stone cliffs, I felt
like a gnat
at the Marin Farmers’ Market. The sky and stone
weighed heavy on my soul.
My mind clawed at
purple seas armed with
chisels slashing at the landscape.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
To shine
she lay before us the night sky in
somnolent waves dusted with
her own chimerical astrology
studded and dimpled with
compressed carbon and
time made material
sweeping her hand across it
like Asteria hanging her mobile
over the cradle of civilization
nodding gently to Zorya
brilliantly conjoined twins spanning
the Slavic night sky
dotting our lives with
multi-faceted tears of joy
like champagne held immobile
bubbles suspended in gold
at unions and births and
fading scrapbooks with worn edges
as a pulsating joy vibrated
trembled
meanwhile
shared
like the wind chime hung near
though not next to
the one disturbed by the breeze
a breeze that bends the path of raindrops
glistening toward new summer meadows
to kiss blades of grass with
a dusting of diamonds and
pearls floating on the wind like dandelion fluff
seeking a relative weight
and a landing spot
with color
to call home
with clarity
to rest easy
a cut above
and
to grow
to bloom
to shimmer
to sparkle
to shine
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Swimming through organic almond butter with an empty scuba tank
I rise to the surface of the day only to be caught in an avalanche of
sleep-deprivation before rolling into a tumbleweed of
Donna Summer-esque Workin' Hard for the Money on a day
that should be branded by Dyson
I arrive to a twenty-one gun salute presented by
three-year-olds
who don't even lift and I
am flipped and tilted from
Q to A until tossed salad slides through my ears and out my mouth
I boomerang to the outback
and back out
backing out of the blank draft card
before tug-a-war with a bungee cord and
Then I'm back to swimming through organic peanut butter with
an empty scuba tank and you peer over the edge
of the jar
glaring as you hold the spoon
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
On Monday
you are sponges
Squeezed empty by
Pokemon tournaments and
Supernatural Watchathons
On Wednesday
you are dictionaries
lexicons of hyperbolic histrionics
thesauri of sturm and drang and
angsty angsty goodness
But Friday
you are IMDB
airbenders and Fassbender and
light bending across the sails
of a ship bound for the
unreal
implausible
impossible
unnatural
illogical
while Monday
you are rabid
like word-eating mongrels
and Wednesday
you are 1930's radios
spewing never-before-heard myths and mysteries
but Friday
you are careening
between the moons of Jupiter
ungrounded
unfettered
untethered
unrealistic
imaginative
but Friday
you are
gone gone gone gone
gone
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Seventeen
is an oversized
triple-xl
sweater with arms and neck to fit
a toddler
and as you puff up your chest
with pride and indignation
designed to fill the Hefty-bag-sized body of
cheap acrylic yarn,
you struggle to push your arms through
sleeves like penne pasta
and a collar like a stale donut.
Seventeen is
unfinished
like a great American novel
stewing in a powerless crockpot
that bubbled briefly
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Sometimes we are a foggy day
a brindled mist that hangs like a beaded curtain
across the doorway of the altered bikers from down the street
and walking through us requires a
machete of caution and silence and
a flashlight of sixty-percent honesty
Sometimes we are a Thanksgiving break
a respite from the weight of responsibility and
a monster dustbunny of anticipation that tumbles from
beneath the bed requiring
a broom of clarity and Potter-esque frenzy and
a damp paper towel of decisiveness.
Sometimes we are a banana
Spring-green on the precipice of perfection
only to tumble into the ravine of
only good for banana bread or compost
a sliceable bite of tropical gratitude and
a sticky sweet batter of hostage taking.
Sometimes, not often enough,
I reflect upon the void you fill which
I never imagined existed until it was filled
like concrete between flagstones
Grand Canyons made plateaus by
a surprise and a sigh and a homecoming.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Art is an unshaven stranger
with a delicious
rainbow of candy
inviting you
into his van.
The danger is that
you'll get
lost in art
and never
crawl back out . . .
which can be
both delicious
and deadly.
He scatters
doubloons of butterscotch at
your small, wary feet
dancing a jig of joy and
fear, walking a tightrope
of excited tension and
nervous expectation . . .
and we are hummingbirds
seeking the nectar of
creativity and abandon,
lupine and columbine of
words and pigment and harmony,
and we flutter forward,
amnesiacs to the cost,
for the sweetness
of genius marrying
peril and possibility
in a ceremony
of light,
a flurry of color, tint, and shade,
both particle and wave.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
First, Tom Cochran, and next, Rascal Flatts,
sang that
Life is a Highway
and that's partially true if
you're willing to consider that
coasting is not an option
that you rarely have the opportunity
to drive hundreds of miles without
rubberneckers or blue Q-Tips driving
forty in a sixty-five
to drive from Napa to San Diego without
stopping for mixed nuts and a frozen coffee
and Smartfood
to drive with movie-like abandon without
the Thelma & Louise slo-mo sending you
careening toward the crevasse
Life is a highway riddled, web-like, with
unexpected off-ramps and
unforeseen on-ramps and
inconvenient detours that take you places
you never dreamed you'd go
you never thought you'd end up
but there are
rest stops and
diners and
fruit stands offering organic sunshine
and there are
flat tires and
empty tanks and
road crews repaving your path in 104 degree heat
and there are
national parks and
natural wonders and
the world's largest frying pan
the world's largest ball of twine
the world's crookedest road
the world's newest you
Your life is a highway that is made of
choices
which lead you on your own
Choose-Your-Own-Adventure
with epic battles for good and evil and
pots of gold at the end of sprinkler-rainbows and
endless hints that
YOU MAY ALREADY BE A WINNER!!!
Your life is a highway and
if you miss your off-ramp
accept your new path
. . . because there's no going back and
if you miss your on-ramp
enjoy the scenery and the cows and the Texas Stop-Signs
. . . because you never know when you'll
see them again
Your life is a highway and
this is your off-ramp, so
take it with
your eyes open to wonder
your heart open to magic
your life open to change
because that is you evolving
Honor the view in your rearview mirror as you
keep your eyes on the horizon and
with joy
with fear
with electric anticipation
Take your exit!
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC