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1d · 79
Rooted in love
“There is nothing more important to true growth than realizing that you are not the voice of the mind - you are the one who hears it.”
- Michael Singer, The Untethered Soul.

Our seat of consciousness is our vantage point;
The rock of prominence from which
We watch the rivers of our torrential emotions
Cascade through the boundaries of the self.

We are the space behind the rain,
At the edges of the mist,
Just out of reach of the drifting fog’s touch.
Your spirit rests there.

She is safe.
She is smiling.

Go, find her.

The rage of your pain tumbles through the rocks of the river
Unbridled and raw.

Rest with your spirit on the sunbaked sands of the shore.
You are not lost.
Your seat of consciousness is always rooted in love.
5d · 129
Precarious skies
I recognize this season of precarious skies.

Shapes on the horizon undulate and spread in a thickening mass
Like monstrous imperial ships
Approaching the lush, ****** coast of the Americas.

Relentlessly, they advance.

Super cellular layers crash
Like wild seas so vast that
My spirit is infinitesimally small;
A fragile particle of hope
Emitting only the faintest glow;

A tiny window in a solitary prairie home,
Alight with innocence,
Against the blackness of the storm.

It is like a war.
The walls shake.
The air vibrates.
I lower my face into my hands and cry.

There is no basement
No safe space
To escape

A storm inside.
May 5 · 165
Between Us
Caroline May 5
Something indiscernible and gentle
Rests between us,
Like the caverns behind the rushing of the falls.

It lives in the hidden spaces
Beneath language and gesture
And the deafening chatter of
Humanity,

Deep within the rivers of the spirit and the oceans of the soul.

I can feel it in the quiet places;
In the silent pauses when you are
Only breathing,

My face tucked in your neck and
Our hands entangled.

Come here.
Every time,

Fall into a love so sweet

Your sharp edges will fade away
And I will melt into your skin.

It is like drowning and I don’t want to find the shallows again.

Hold me here in the shadows, far below the harshness of light.
Hold me here within the harbors of your body and the indifference of the night.

Hold me here and never, ever,

Let me
Break the bright surface
Of waters
In a world
Without you.
Caroline Apr 27
Up in the hills where the tall pines are
Just along the rippling creek
Where the cut banks rise high
In rough granite faces and the eagles glide,

There is something I have forgotten and
Left far behind in the remote corners of childhood,

Something just beyond where the water carves into the rock,
Within the beating heart of the mountains,
And above,

Inside the infinite, blinding sky.

I remember breathing in the taste of wonder in the clean, alpine air,

Watching my father cast his line,

His tall figure at ease with the gurgling flow of the mountain stream, and I, blending into the forest winds,

Leaving an imprint of myself in case I should return again.

Today, she stood with me along the edges of the turbulent waters that polish the bottom rocks.

Her five year old fingers held mine.

She pulled me along the banks, laughing.

Did you see it?

Just for a moment,
In my eyes:

A child in an unnamed, unbroken place,
Watching the dipping of her father's line

Into the waters of a moment
Forever suspended between the mountains of time.
Apr 23 · 203
Solid things.
Caroline Apr 23
Where does this sadness come from?

As if every beautiful thing is washed in the eroding waters of loss,

I see teardrops fall down the mountains.

On their edges, the sandstone cliffs divest their prominence
To the drift of the desert winds.

Even our hands are not solid things,
Held together by a brief
Measure of music
Ricocheted through the stars,

But fading, always fading, into the inevitable arc
Of time.

Every heart beat is eventually silenced,

Even those I claim as mine.

As I child, I naively thought I had the power to decide,

But

Love is always released like a dove
Back to the universe,
Perhaps,
Captured in the cold light of the stars;

Yet, even they burn out and send their energy, where?

Back to God?

Funny then that we hold on;
That I ask you to pull me to your chest like this bond will never
Break,
Like there is some solid thing we can create.

We are all stubborn flames,
Burning through a drenching midnight rain,
Warding off the chill of death with love,

Though we cannot escape.
"I'm gonna love you like I'm gonna lose you."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=le1beNegYQE
Apr 18 · 692
An animal near death.
Caroline Apr 18
When I look into the eyes of an animal near death,
I feel their innate humility.

They accept their degeneration as much as the sun that rises, and
They do not ask for opulent eulogies.

No one will stand at the podium and orate their qualities as if by Speaking them into the air they can
Stave off
The decomposition that is intrinsic to mortality;

No, careful embalmment and a final red dress will not disguise the Roughness of dying
In an animal near death.

They fade into pain and disintegration like dust kicked up in an Indifferent wind, and unlike us,
They never ask,

Will I live again?

I see her vision is fading.
Her bones are grating against one another.
Each breath is a struggle,
But unlike us,
There is no space for complaining.

She accepts her fate and
Wags her tail
And I just feel that the world could, maybe,

Heal

If we all possessed the simple grace
Of an animal near death.
For my old black dog and all of the others that did slip gently into that good night. I'll remember you even if the world does not.
Apr 17 · 90
Easy transformations
Caroline Apr 17
I’m watching an easy transformation.

The prairie lands, once frozen under the last
Grasp of winter’s wrath are melting;

Melting into wetlands
Where the water birds dive.

The swooping songs of snow white cranes
Crest through the breeze
Bringing with them the essence

Of the sea.

The land is not bothered at all that
Where normally dance wild grasses

Now, float little ducks on water like glass and it seems

Everything has changed
Everything has changed
Everything has changed

But you see, the prairie thrives because it never fights to
Stay the same;

Instead, it slides like paint on a canvas as wide as the blue-toned
Dakota sky,
Between abundant
And dry.

So, why can’t I so easily withstand the winds of change?

What if I could move through the transformations of life and death
Like the prairie remembers and forgets,
In an instant,
In a breath?

What if I didn’t cling to everything I so desperately love?

Would I, then, be as beautiful as the wild prairie lands below, and the infinite sky above,

If I could just

Let go?
Caroline Apr 15
Sometimes, I just want to disappear
Into a soft space
Wrapped in you and the lingering heat of a summer day,
Under stars stretched out like an infinite canopy
Of hope.
To be loved
Like that,
Tightly held,
Supported,
Rocked like a small boat in a light breeze on tropical waters;
Sometimes, that is all that I need
To feel the dream restored;
Rivers of comfort spilling into my core,
Feeling whole just in time
For a tiny hand to turn the handle of my door:

Mommy, I’m thirsty

And I remember,
I’m not the baby, but the blanket.
I will get up
And be the comfort that they seek,
Even when there isn’t a drop of surety left in me,
I will fill each of their cups to the brim.

Mommy will always give to them.

Sometimes, it is so hard to be strong;
To be the solid foundation that they need when all I want to do is
Fall, crumble, curl up, and make my own body small.

Each time, they watch me crawl to my feet.

So, tell me it’s okay; that I can lay here with you in these quiet
Moments when your strength gently heals what is broken
And I can fill these oceans, again;

For me, for you,
For them.
Apr 11 · 895
Heart fragments.
Caroline Apr 11

“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it.”

-E.E Cummings

What a talent to hold a heart within a heart;
To find that deeper resting place so
Two hearts must never truly
Part,
But I don’t have it.

I watch pieces of my heart stroll away,
Leaving slivers of my strongest bones
Out there in the fickle sun,
Exposed.
I wish I had a whistle to call them back;
To draw them through my ribs and whisper, “stay,”
But instead, I feel the throbbing of my own veins in
Heart fragments walking out on other plains,
Like galaxies of stars expanding.

Children are like this,
Born as tiny aching magnets.
The pull to keep them safe
Floods through distance like blood displaced;
It makes us fragile.
I want to call the pieces back inside and reassemble my heart along
The fault lines where each birth caused it to divide.

They are portions of my heart outside my skin,
And as with them,
You are my heart beyond my edges.

I put my faith in the universe to protect us.
Apr 9 · 84
Crazy Horse
Caroline Apr 9
I won’t chisel a spirit to make it resemble some other formation,
Like the sculptors of the faces on the rocks.
I love the mountains more
When their jagged edges and sun-kissed outcrops create
Patterns all their own;
Granite spires, volcanically windblown,
Unabashedly wild,
No artist’s signature
Laying claim to the beautiful potential of the stone;
Only the forces of the universe
Determine our growth.

Like Crazy Horse, I want to be brave,
Paint streaks of lightning on my face;
Look to the mountains and scream,
“I love you!”
Just like that, untamed.
Caroline Apr 6
“So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, "Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc. etc." - Anthony Hecht

All I’ve ever been is a little girl with the mind of a poet and the
Heart of a flower,
Breath of a lion, like a Harmattan wind,
Rising; A fog that disguises
The slaughter.

I mean, I can still see the bodies,
Though the plain is now darkling;
The ignorance is markedly
Growing.
The children bleed out in Aleppo,
Yemen, Caracas;
Tiny bodies floating
Across vast oceans,
Like little flowers crushed in hard bindings,

Or so many
Crucified prophets.

The puppeteers of these armies are
Just
*******
Heartless.

Regardless, let the wildflowers bloom.
We can reclaim the beauty that is ours to
Own. I command my heart to open like a sunflower to the moon.

Here, take my hand;
Let me show you how to grow
Wildflower roots in the frigid sands of a hopeless beach that
Everyone else has abandoned.

I won’t ever give up.

I keep standing

For me, for you,

For all of us falling, kicked down the cliffs on bleeding knees,
Crawling.

Dig into the sand,
Plant your flowering heart in these arid crossings:

Grow here,

Bright fields of humanity.

Let them bloom for our sons and daughters.
Apr 4 · 192
Break the night.
Caroline Apr 4
You are my morning
Every time I can’t break the night.

Have you ever had to fight your way out of a dream,
Like a magician shackled inside a submerged coffin,
Clawing at the chains,
Dropping the key?

I’m always on the verge of giving up when, somehow,
The thought of you wakes me,

And I open my eyes,
Laughing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UStt6kIRFII
Caroline Apr 3
Gandhi’s Satyagraha or
Foucault, speaking truth to power,
Articulate a certain bravery,
Like a fearless April flower.

She breaks through the cover
Of hardened snow that wants to hold
The northern plains in stasis,
Forever, never letting go;
Yet, how delicate her petals open
To the radiance of the sun,
Shining with a valor that belies
The fragility of her stem.

Ah, but she is not afraid
Of breaking.
Her truth is like molten iron,
Solidifying in the blinding light
Of every new morning.

She wears her colors without shame.

She heralds the dream
Of summer,
Like a lonely soul that
Still clings tightly to the image of some wild lover

She may never hold.

Sitting here in the grass beside her,
I want to thank her for being bold;
You see, I know,
A final, triumphant, colorless, cold
Will **** her;
Yet, even in brevity,
The rich vibrancy of her prophecy,
Gives us all
Hope;
The chance to believe in

Brighter colors.

They will rain down upon us
Like petals across our dying souls.
Caroline Apr 1
Postpartum depression is a *****.
She calls you a failure in every version of
Your own voice.

“You never should have had another baby.
What a huge mistake you made,
Like everything else you do in your life.
You can’t do anything right.
You know what?
Your kids would be better off without a
**** poor mother
Like you.
You’ll never be normal again.
You’ll never be you again.
You would be better off dead.
See that ditch right there?
**** your wheel.
**** it.
Flip your truck
Do it.
See that knife right there?
Grab it.
Slice your wrist.
You deserve it.
Bleed out so people can
Can see
The monster
You really are.
See that dark highway in the moonlight?
Run out in your bare feet and
Lie down on it.
Let your tears
Splash on the pavement.
Do not rise.”

That’s her. That’s how she talks.
That’s how she lies.
That’s how clinical depression
Speaks to you inside.
I tried to hide from her voice,
But in the end,
I believed every word.
She consumed my mind
And every second,
Of every day,
I thought only of
The various strategies
Of suicide.

So, that’s how I found myself
Hospitalized,
Holding
The rattle of happiness.
75 milligram capsules,
With little, jingling grains inside,
Pre-designed to control the chemicals that
Splattered like exploded paint
Across my mind.
And they worked,
Bringing not really happiness,
But rather,
The ability
Not to die.

And now, many years later,
Having survived,
I finally opened a drawer
And shut the rattle inside.
I think I can make it
On my own.
The **** voice of depression is
Mute inside my soul,
Leaving only vast
Open lakes of hope
That wait for me to
Walk the fertile paths
Around their edges,
And float upon their waters
Of forgiveness.

Now, I will fill this space with my own rhythm;
Holding in my hands,
Not a rattle
But a drum.

See how I beat a steady cadence, repeating only the words,
“I won.”
Mar 28 · 164
Patterns
Caroline Mar 28
Sometimes it feels like
A single pane of glass encases my heart.
The surface is wrought with tension,
Imperceptibly trembling,
As if caught,
Within the distant rumble
Of an early summer thunder.

This glass teeters on the edge of breaking into
Something beautiful,
But I hold it taut within the
Deepest recesses of my chest,
And through my insistence on independence,
Keep others from chipping its essence.

Except when
You kiss me,

And some form of astral matter
Crashes into the glass
Until it shatters
Leaving the most beautiful patterns
Across the sky.

So, forgive me, my love,
If each time,
I have to catch my breath;
Reassemble myself.

I know I have to come back down;
It is just,
The pull to the leave these fragments where they're thrown,
Is a full moon
To the hidden tides
Across my soul.

Sometimes, drowning in you,
Is the only thing that makes me feel whole.
I can't explain why you have such control,
But I'm going to trust you with it

Because somehow,
You remain my favorite person,
In this uncertain,
****** up world.
Mar 25 · 279
A very fine thread.
Caroline Mar 25
My mother walked a very fine thread
Between normalcy
And death.
Her love for me
A wildfire
Torched to the sky,
Like a circle of desperate protection
Around a nest that
Holds the most precious
Baby bird.
You see,
She held my body against her chest
And whispered,
Beyond the safety of a mother’s hearth,
The demons lurk,
And I, wide eyed,
Watched her shape-shift like a hologram;
Once a rock
And then a dying lamb.
Mommy; a comforting embrace.
Mommy; darkness across a once familiar face.
Mommy; recessed, wrecked,
Fragmented into myriad forms of
Post-traumatic stress.
When she held me,
I wrapped my arms around her neck,
But sometimes all that I could grasp
Was a very fine thread that,
Wound around my tiny fingers,
Was the only thing
Keeping her from
Death.
I tried to hold on, but sometimes the thread is too thin, and too worn. I see these threads everywhere; the fragile lifelines keeping so many from giving up. I wish I could sew them all into a blanket that could hold up the world.
Mar 19 · 474
Entropy
Caroline Mar 19
Our souls are little embers glowing in the darkness of the universe,
Beyond and within where the atoms glide,
Pixelating space,
Like a painting by Seurat;
Your limbs are mine
Your edges undefined;
We are only energy bleeding into the entropy of time;
Little fires, our soul’s cinders, waiting
Like August flowers
For the sun to die.
And I will freeze from the outside, in.
My skin will slide into the earth
Preserved through the energy transferred;
In every cold death,
Birth.

My consciousness, so divided by entropy, will one day rest across
The universe like dispersed dust;
My voice reborn in the ocean tides, falling from the sky
In a sea bird’s call,
Or resounding through the jagged rocks
On the coast of Rossnowlagh.
And as with me,
So with us all.

I wonder, when you hear the cadence of my voice on the edges of
The ocean’s squall,
Will your astral fingers like dancing flames trace the outlines of
My face?
Through the entropy of space, will you recall?

Will you recall when we were two bodies, whole?
Mar 12 · 364
Maestro
Caroline Mar 12
I can still see his weathered hands on the piano,
Maestro of the living room.
He often fumbled with the keys,
But I didn’t care;

He was Beethoven to me.

I can still see us sitting side by side,
On that wooden pier that stretches out into Silver Lake,
Night crawlers on shortened lines,
Watching the colorful little fishes bite.

Perch, sunfish, tiny bass,
Flapping in his palms;
They were
Prize winning Marlin to me,
And adrift in our little red canoe

He was the intrepid captain of my
Childhood seas.

I can still hear his lilting voice
Spinning old ghost stories from a childhood spent
On the Scottish moors.
And the Celtic lullabies he would softly sing;
My little voice chiming in, mimicking him:

Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing.

Daddy, master of bedtime stories.
Daddy, maestro of my seas.
Daddy, once a giant,

So small in that hospice bed.

I was supposed to hold you and say it would be okay,
But you held me instead.

I miss you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1CTxa-FuKc
So many memories, Daddy. Thanks for loving me like you did.
Mar 11 · 97
Yet, somehow I
Caroline Mar 11
You had the strength to survive the devastation of war;
The height to overcome, to surpass;
Yet, somehow I, so small, on my tippy toes, chest to your core,

Still hold you like the most breakable glass
Mar 10 · 230
Moon soaked roads.
Caroline Mar 10
Somewhere along these moon soaked roads,
I will find it,
Radiating from the darkened spaces where
East and west river meet;
A renewal, an integration, a peace,
Birthed in the open places
Where the rugged snow covered plains
Undulate like waves
Along the highway's edges.

The silhouettes of lonesome trees reach up towards stars
So clean,
They almost pulse with a
Living
Breath.

Beneath them, I release the tears that drip
Quietly along the insides of my bones.
I pour them out like rain
On dark pavement.

So, run your hands up in my hair and
Save me.
Wrap me in your moon soaked soul.
Let me travel your illuminated roads,

Forever

Home.
Mar 7 · 102
Butterfly wings.
Caroline Mar 7
I can feel the tiny flutters down deep,
And I know they have awakened;
Those butterfly wings of freedom.
Caroline Mar 1
I don’t know where I am,
And yet,
I’ve been here before to
This silent forest,
With the old oaks
Reaching to the sky
And the pines
Thick on the slopes of the mountain behind.

The air is fresh
With the hint of winter’s approach,
But still the stars burn
With the lingering heat of summer.

I can see the full moon,
Red, between the peaks,
And I know you will find me here,
Beyond the farthest reaches of time.

You are like the wind
That gently caresses my shoulders
From behind,
Leaving me shivering
At the touch.
Though my heart pounds like a torrential
Rain against the ground,
I stand still.
Every fiber of my being
Rooted to the ground,

Waiting for you.

I have known you my whole life,
But only now, tonight,
Have I followed this red moon
To this place
Beyond the prison of time,
Where you can touch me

Everywhere.

Align your body with mine
And slip your hands beneath my shirt.
****** me, gently,
Where I, so excruciatingly, hurt.
Cup my face in your hands and kiss my trembling lips.
Trace your tongue in aching circles
All
The
Way
Down
To the quiver of my hips.

Lay me down,
Right here
On the rich, brown earth and
Raise my skirt.
Push apart my thighs,
And move into this dripping, molten fire
Inside.

Like lava, it will consume us.

Pulse into me beneath these stars,
Let me convulse over you everything that
All of these years,
Has been yours.
Now blend into me,
Press your body so close that we
Desperately shake together;
That we leave a piece of ourselves in this
Space forever.
If you imagined the most intense encounter with someone you love, or someone you imagine, where would that be, and how would it take shape? There is something fun for you all to consider tonight ;)
Feb 28 · 301
Cleaning up.
Caroline Feb 28
I wear my heart on my sleeve,

So last night, I ripped off my shirt and threw it in the wash. Watch me bleach the **** out of the dark stains

You left.
Caroline Feb 27
There is a place
High above the Valley of the Gods,
Where red rock mesas unfurl
To the crimson horizon;
Finally, falling to the banks of the San Juan.

This is an enchanted spot,
Where ancestral Puebloan voices whisper within the rocks,
And beneath the desert stars,
The presence of something ancient hangs heavy,
Like a fog.

Is this where we were born?
The poets, the drifters, the lost;
Those of us who cannot tame the windswept wilds of our hearts?
Were we birthed among these canyons
And do they echo with our songs?
Feb 24 · 454
A season of neglect.
Caroline Feb 24
In the hopeless abyss of a brutal winter on the northern plains,
Does the frozen earth remember the succulence of summer days?
While the wild horses huddle in deep gullies,
And the Black Angus cattle cluster closely
To bale feeders and barns,
Does the icebound ground tremble with a remembered
Thundering of hooves,
When herds hot with the fat of abundant grains and grasses
Ran wild and free
Cantering over miles of buffalo berries, sage
And clover cloaked crevasses
As far as the eye could see?
Does the silent, white washed, winter sky
Cry for the singing of the summer birds?

In a season of neglect,
Is there a single grain of hope that remains deep within the rock?
And is it the same with a heart?

I am gazing out of the window now,
Quietly observing these endless seas of snow,
I slipped into this hopeful, summer dress
For you,
But still you turn to go.
Feb 22 · 457
To love a poet.
Caroline Feb 22
His voice is like honey
And she shoots it up like ******,
Tying off her arm,
Finding a vein he hasn’t already burst,
Thirsting for that sweet release of pressure
That comes with the ***** of the poisoned pen;
A destructive rushing of heated venom
Straight to her heart.
She begs for it
Cries for it
In the dark,
Clutches the sheets
In her fists,
Bites her lips
Feels the phantom of his body
Heavy on the contours of her hips;
This sickness is an addict’s curse;
He is her drug, saturating her blood
In the desperate throbbing of his
Verse.
Ever loved a poet? Could be dangerous and beautiful. The heart words that we speak; are they magic or poison? Are we in control of our words or controlled by them? How much power does a voice have?
Feb 20 · 294
Core
Caroline Feb 20
Like the earth, I have a molten core,
Churning with unrelenting fire,
Simmering, wracked by violent waves of rage
That roil across deeper trenches of desire
Suppressed by such immense pressure
That I am afraid my heart will turn to iron,

If I do not break.
I can feel my tectonic plates shifting,
A subterranean shaking
That barely trembles my fingertips;
Escapes my lips
In the sweetness of a song
That was written as the suppression of
My screaming
All along.

But like the earth, my tranquil rivers curve towards the sea,
Masking these darker lakes of fury with the gentle babbling of pastoral streams.
And so I beckon you to sail with me,
Smiling, as if softly rocking beneath the moon is
All we’ll ever be.

You can’t see,
Below the darkened waters,
Under the soaking sands,
The mantles of myself that,
Like a wasteland,
On fire,
Will consume you in ways
I am scared that you won’t understand.
I guess it takes a strong person to deal with me sometimes. I figured the "poetically inclined" might understand. We feel things deeply and sometimes a little too much, stirring up, not just the beautiful in us, but the **** too. I guess I have my mother's temper after all!
Feb 13 · 684
My first time.
Caroline Feb 13
He was French,
And Moroccan,
“Pieds noir” they called him
In the streets of Toulouse,
“Black feet.”
The French can be crass like that,
But when he walked shyly over to where I sat,
I only noticed his eyes, like two warm cups of dark coffee,
And I wanted to take a sip.
The way he couldn’t speak English,
And so I tripped through my burgeoning fluency
In French, tinged with that accent so prominent in the south;
Endings of words extended, emphasized with a flippant
Toss of the head, like
“T’es tres mignonne, toi.
Tu veux aller te promener avec moi?”
Yeah, I blushed at that one and took his hand,
Yes, yes, I said, I would walk the streets and these
Endless sands of this fairy tale Mediterranean Eden
With you.
Down by the waters of Languedoc he told me,
“When you are not here, tu me manques,”
And later, holding my hands in an Algerian restaurant,
He finally said “je t’aime.”
And so, I decided I would give it all to him,
In the depths of the night near the river,
Garonne.
I gave this French boy with mahogany eyes,
The gift of my first time,
And I haven’t a single regret.
A true story of a magical spring and summer in France when I was just nineteen. I knew I would never see him again and I never did, but that hasn't dampened the magic of the memory.

Translations:
"T'es tres mignonne, toi. Tu veux aller to promener avec moi": You are very cute/sweet. Do you want to take a walk with me?

Tu me manques: I miss you.

Je t'aime: I love you.
Feb 10 · 379
The Poet
Caroline Feb 10
My heart is a smoldering ember
That too easily ignites,
Melting this skin of modesty
Releasing feral things to flight.
Feb 10 · 816
Thaw
Caroline Feb 10
Exhaling, my breath drifts through this frigid air like a living,
Languid smoke,
Sharpening my senses to the immaculate cleanliness of a northern
Tundra, delicately glacial and remote;
One that thrives on the absence of fertile growth.
Frenzied atoms approach
Near total repose.
A death-like calm
Preceding the germination of hope
That arrives with spring.  

And in this space I can finally breathe,
Release my burning places,
All the faces of rage,
Supplicating my unbridled spirit
To the numbing fingers of
Subarctic days
That are washed clean of shame.

And so, I wonder if you can see me,
Poised quietly under these winter stars,
Barren figures of deciduous trees reaching up their ***** arms
As if to plead
For this arctic clean to descend into us all;
To permeate the torrid edges of my soul.

But what of the thaw?
When the frozen rivers once again run
And the lonesome trees begin to bud,
The wind carrying in the scent of cedar, sage and mud,
What then?
What then of my wild blood?
When the frozen plains no longer restrain me,

Will there be any way of taming
The reckless burning of
This
Love.
It has been up to -50 with the windchill on these northern plains where I live. It brings a harshness, but also the absence of complications; a certain purity.
Feb 7 · 1.2k
Tease
Caroline Feb 7
Perhaps I am a tease of some kind.
I think I like the power.
I like to make you wait;
The piercing pleasure of milking the nectar from the hours.

Sit in that chair with your blue jeans on,
White
Shirt
Barely
Tucked.
Place your hands down on your knees and attempt to
Catch
Your
Breath.

Look at me in this half-light glow;
Your eyes cut glass and fire.

Burn me with that desperate gaze;
Let it slice me like barbed wire.

Don't flinch at all,
Stay still and let me play.
I want to gently trace your muscles;
To track your tremors
As if
As if you were my favorite prey.

I am a devil in a nymph’s disguise.
I take pleasure in this hunger that we
Suffer;
Climbing slowly in your lap,
I need you to feel me shudder.

There is something holy in this craving;
Something beautiful that only
This restraint
Is making.

Rest with me here in this space of aching
And wait;
Wait within the slow rotation of
My hips.
Wait within the throbbing heartbeat of
My lips
Wait until the universe
Drips
With
****.

Then give it up,
Smash these tortuous walls,
Slay me
Slaughter me
Shred me

With

Your

Love.
What can I say, sometimes I'm a bad girl haha Sometimes I just have to explore those delicious realms that can exist within the intensity of two wildly connected spirits.
Feb 5 · 455
How I have been loved.
Caroline Feb 5
There is a stone, stratified in innumerable layers
Of the richest grays,
Round and breathtakingly smooth, like sea-glass-; polished by the Unending tempest of my spirit,
Relishing the most cantankerous, cyclonic waves.
It rests in my chest, just below my lungs,
Creating a stability in my core.
You see, it is this stone that alone possesses the ability to merge the scattered, and sometimes dissonant, songs of my soul.
It is a grounding stone, a fragment of the earth to call my own,
And like a Celtic dryad’s favorite dove,
I have aptly named it, and that name is,
“How I have been loved.”

It began with the drifting sands
Within my mother’s ****,
Her lullabies magnetizing embryonic silts,
Coalescing disparate forms through the ethereal beauty of her voice.

I vaguely remember being cuddled to her chest,
While she fiercely defended me against the monsters
She herself had faced:
“You will not be hurt, hit, *****, thrown!”
She threatened to brace herself between my tiny form and
Any darkness that would make my life even remotely reflect
Her own.
And there began the cementing of the stone.

And though the unforgiving cruelty of this life has easily tossed
My body to the ground,
My inner core, like stone, remains stubbornly resistant to the force;
Mercifully sound.

I don’t think I deserve these other loves that come to me;
The ones that wrap their fingers in my hair and
Smother me with kisses;
The ones that press me to the wall and take my breath with a
Desperate rhythm;
The ones that trace the outlines of my eyes with such tenderness
That even the hardened places within me

Cry.

Can’t you see?  I should ascend these impenetrable mountains
Within me, this solid stone, and perched above your pain,
I should be the one to reconstruct 'your' soul
Bone by bone.

And this is how
And this is why
I am a seeker of the stones,
Scouring the wild river beds for pebbles to present
To those who need a solid thing to build them up;
To call their own.

This isn’t boastful.
In no way do I ever picture myself somehow “above;”
It is just that, I now realize;
Every blessing that I live;
Every single thing I have to give
Is derived from
“How I have been loved.”
Feb 2 · 1.3k
On these sacred things -
Caroline Feb 2
The darkness filtered in across the Wind River Range,
Drifting through the ancient spaces of Arapaho plains,
And I, still a child of sixteen,
Huddled in a sleeping bag,
Staring up at a vast black sky,
Patterned with the scattered dancing
Of a million stars.
And the wind, it felt like freedom
And the mountains they were beating
With some kind of barely audible drum.
But I could feel it in my bones,
Like the faintest whisper:
“This is home.”

And so I let the darkness
Fall all around me.
And later, in the depths of an Arapaho ceremony,
I felt my skin cascade
Away
My ribs break
And suddenly, from my ***** heart,
I just knew how to pray.

That opening, it never closed,
So that, even now,
The dust of sacred things
Clings tightly to my soul.
And in the blindness of the crowds
I desperately chase it,
Through the veils of common day
I find new ways to trace it.

That light.

It is there, you know. Can you see it?

When just born, we can.
I see it in my children’s eyes,
The lingering of a love
Stronger than all the love of man,
So devoid of fear, unfaltering, pure,
So beautiful that when I hold them
My heart breaks apart in tears.

And I don’t want to lose it.

That light.

All my life, I’ve sought the broken, held the strays,
Caressed the wounded spaces,
Tried so hard to mend the pieces,
Trailing blood along the way.
And the blood it bleeds from a place of honesty;
Yet, selfishly, washes away the layers of protection
People create
Exposing them to me
Feeding my soul the light that I so desperately seek.

And now, you.
You, burning with the same light that I’ve always known,
And I, like a child again, facing the Arapaho moon,
I can feel these sacred things move
Between us
Like remembrances of some other home.
From William Wordsworth's "Intimations on Immortality:"
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Caroline Jan 31
I am a tiger and a fawn.
The she-wolf that screams to the moon at dusk
And the meadowlark that whistles to the sun at dawn.
I am darkness and I am light
Flipping my tangled hair to the cascading stars at night
Lifting my hands in prayer, releasing the morning birds to flight.
And I will protect them,
These birds of freedom.
I will carve their songs
Deeply into my heart
And set aside a space
Where the cruelty of this world
Cannot, ever, tear them apart.
So laugh the little children,
And sing your songs of glory,
You are safe
You are heard
And you are worthy.
With every fiber of my being, I will strive to protect what is sacred in this world, though anger and hate and violence and rage, seeks to tear us all apart.
Jan 29 · 892
Reach For Me
Caroline Jan 29
You are sitting alone by the tallest trees of the forest,
Perched quietly on that stone that was turned over by the erosion of silted banks;
The wild river, a little ways off,
But still the roar of it fills the air.
Your hands are clasped in front of you
And your backpack is slung to the side.
Above your quiet form,
The mountains rise like citadels
And their alpine slopes abound with pines
Like sentinels, watching,
Hiding the yellow eyed wolves
That dart within.
But they will not approach you.
They also attend the dusk,
And the secrets it brings.
The singing of the coyotes
Calls the stars out
One by one,
Emerging in a deepening blue,
While the fire of the sun’s descent
Subsides too,
Into blackness.

The night birds call.

I am here, my love.
Can you see my silhouette against the moon?
The darkness between us thickens
Like blood from a wound.

Reach for me

High above you, a white owl alights,
Beating its ragged wings against the thickness
Of the wilderness;
This coniferous witness to the excruciating ache
Between us.
The dark shadows of the pines, motionless,
Yet, I shake.

Reach for me

You shift your weight and turn to face
The space where I stand.
You lift your hand as if
To gently place my hair
Behind my ear,

Remember how you always loved to do that
When I was here?

You touch me, almost!
We are so **** close!

You are crying now, alone.

The night birds sing to a ghost.
This deals with the pain of loss, of any kind. The struggling in the darkness to remember a face, a body, a sound, a smell. To bring him, her, it back to life, or back into your life, and the constant failure to do so. What if the lost ones who are ever present in our minds are watching us too?
Caroline Jan 26
Sometimes I close my eyes,
Just to see the great ocean that rocks inside of me
The rolling tide filling my chest
Cresting over my heart
Spilling through my eyes
And saturating my upturned palms.
I catch your spirit there,
And sometimes imagined scenes:

You and me,
In the half light of dusk
In the light winds of spring
Alone but for the flutter of wings
That is really my heart,
Beating wildly
Against your chest.
Close enough to feel your breath
Along my neck.
Can you feel my tides rise,
My rhythm quicken?
Always you
Stirring these waves of desire,
Churning my waters
Into fire.

Sometimes I close my eyes
Just to hear the music of the sea birds
Soaring and dipping to the surface,
Which is now like glass
Held motionless by your enveloping warmth
Held still by your unfaltering strength
The waves calmed;
The birdsong of my soul free at last.

This ocean is mine
But you carry its depths in your palms
And when I close my eyes
Only you can release
Its power.
Crash with me like these waves beneath the stars.
Close your eyes now.
I am yours.
A poem for the wild seas of passion; for the depth of chemistry between two people. May we all experience it <3
Jan 8 · 1.4k
Moments Like Glass
Caroline Jan 8
As I get older, I am content, sort of. Aren’t we all?
Now, there are some things that are so precious
I can barely contain them in my soul.
Moments, encased in glass as thin as fly paper.
A single harsh movement, or a careless thought, can shatter these.
Like when you touch the toe of your boot to the delicate crystals of ice Spread out across the sparkling grass
In the midst of a mild November frost.
How quickly they dissolve!
How quickly they leave you reaching for a memory;
A pattern you can never reconstruct,
Like building enchanted forests out of dust.
Mostly, these forests are of love.
My children’s laughter in the morning,
Their footsteps beating like tiny hearts against the floor.
My son, growing strong, yet still reaching with toddler arms,
“Mommy, up,” and at bedtime, little voices calling,
“Mommy, love you more.”
Moments, encased in glass as thin as fly paper.
I am afraid to touch them in my mind,
I am afraid of the needle of time
That will shatter these,
Melt these,
Dissolve these into memories
So precious that I will try with all my strength to conjure them back to life,
But as I get older,
I recognize their flight.
This poem reflects how I feel as I approach my forties. My young children are my world. I've finally found my place in the world, in my career, with my husband and family. My home is warm and filled with pets, kids and love. We may not be wealthy, but we are so, so lucky; however I recognize how fleeting this all is, how one day, this house will fall silent. This may be a dark way of viewing the life cycle, but that is just me sometimes - caught in existential thoughts!
Nov 2018 · 648
My Family Tree
Caroline Nov 2018
The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
The sharp rocks of drunken nights
Slice upon the roots
Disfiguring, pummeling, smashing,
Rendering mute the stories their craggy hollows could tell
Dissolving in that same fear
My grandmother must have known so well.

I don’t know how to find her,
To reconstruct a broken form
From all of these pieces
These fallen leaves that
Drift like secrets,
Like the ones my mother
Whispered to me in the dark
When I was nine and old enough
To hold them, to hold her,
When she fell apart.

Because they took them, you know.
My mother, her sisters, her brothers,
The county clipping the roots like
Plucking flowers,
Like it was nothing at all to scatter
Children in the wind,
Like fallen leaves upon the shallows
Of some lonely pond,
Like broken branches
Overpowered by a system that
Only wanted them
Gone.

So, you see,
It wasn't just the wind that ***** the tree,
But a system that decided
Whose voice to wipe away and
What to keep.

My ancestry is incompletely buried.
Sometimes, I'm sure I can hear her sobbing,
A broken, fragile song, emerging from the earth
Just where the roots, interlocking, stop
the dirt from completely blocking
The story of a battered woman
Buried for too long.

The vague shadow of an ancient oak pulsing
Like an image through static
Through drifting fog
So thick that only the wind
Can lift it and let slip
The outlines of
Where I began.

What if I run my hands along the bark,
The broken pieces, the empty spaces,
Where her voice might be?

Grandma, speak to me.
Just a poem for what I don't know about my grandmother and wish I knew. She had a hard life, grew up in a poor farming family, married an abusive alcoholic, lost her children to foster care, and died when I was small. No one seems to know anything about her birth family, or anything about our family history on that side. I wish I could ask her!
Sep 2018 · 5.0k
Widespread Rain
Caroline Sep 2018
Widespread rain descended
In the corner of my dreams;
A monsoon of drenching relief;
A tide to wash the slate clean.

I am a woman now;
Not a girl.
And all of the wounds I’ve won
Unfurl across my body
And my soul
Like shiny medals of valor
Or one, fragile, papyrus scroll.

And thus garbed, and so adorned,
I will wade through the cooling waters of
This cleansing storm.

Widespread rain descended
Filling my outstretched arms;
Quenching the memory of the battle;
Bringing the strength to end the war.

I am worthy now.
I am enough.
And in my hand, I crush the dust
Of guilt, of shame,
Releasing these bitter grains
To the absolution that comes with  
The drumming of
The rain.
Jun 2018 · 505
Home
Caroline Jun 2018
It’s dark out right now and the aspens quake in
A light summer breeze
That only shakes the screens on the windows
To the east
Where the dog lies prostrate
On the grass,
The ground still warm from a sun-baked day,
The stars above like galaxies of silence
Saying nothing at all
About what we were once, perhaps:
America, the beautiful,
The merciful.

In the north, the summer night
Still brings a chill.
A breath like icy fingers
Around your neck,
Between your thighs.
“Shhh, little one. No te preocupes.
Our secret game is made of only tiny lies.
Tócame aquí”
He says, “let me do this, and perhaps,
You will be free.”
The dog ****** his ears
At something predatory,
Some scent of purgatory
Quickly descending into ****.

I think I can hear them crying
Across the miles.
Or is it the sweet breath of my tiny son
That is filled with
The desperation of some other child?
“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
He cries, as if I am not already here,
As if my presence might allay the fears of
How many?
“A mere two thousand seven hundred children,” they say, imprisoned here.

Our old house stands,
Picturesque,
A beacon of Americana,
Set off the muddy road out front,
Perhaps, a chicken has run loose and
The deck is set with tubs of pretty flowers
That in the evening, the falling hours,
Attract the humming of the bees.
How glorious to be free!
The spacious skies!
The fields of grain!
The lights out front, beckoning,
Come in, and bring your huddled masses!

But my old dog out front, he feels the darkness that has grabbed us.
He tastes the wind and knows
The evil that grows deep in the core
Of a country that could steal from children
All that they have ever known as home.
I will not stand by as we abuse children; as we use children as pawns. This is not an America I want to be a part of. I will not join in the xenophobia and racism. I will not lose my humanity. I pray for the children and their families. I pray for this evil administration. Please let the families be reunited. If I was ever separated from my children in this way, I would fall apart. I would die. I cannot stand it. Let it end now!
Jun 2018 · 175
Soporific
Caroline Jun 2018
I’m so soporific baby
With a velvet touch
I’ll lull you into ecstasy
Like spreading thighs at dusk.

I’m so soporific baby
Like melted poppies on your spine
Soak me up like whisky  
Or lick me up like wine.

I’m so soporific baby
Like an incense smoked
Drifting down your body
An unsatiated ghost.
A little sensuality and rhythm this morning :)
Apr 2018 · 325
Sheltered corners.
Caroline Apr 2018
These sheltered corners can’t breathe.
On purpose.
Three minutes   struggle
Five minutes       smother
Press the pain out, press the pain out, press the pain out and
Drown
Way
Down
To
Negative space      black hole atoms
Shelter in                 silence
Dark matter
Secrets
Away
The
Ache.
Wait! Please, don’t
Breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don't
GASP THIS AIR!
Water vapor escaping, condensing, raining
Tears cascading,
Disintegrating walls.
And I cannot hold them up.  
Sheltered corners flood.
The secrete spaces of our selves are both our freedom and our prison.
Apr 2018 · 192
To my children
Caroline Apr 2018
If I could keep you safe
With only the strength of my love,
I know that you would be
Immortal.
Mar 2018 · 308
How Dare You!
Caroline Mar 2018
These children saw the gruesome reality
Of classmates begging for their lives
On trembling knees,
Screaming for mommy and daddy.
After all, they were only in their teens.
Still babies that
Once a mother rocked to sleep.
Now, she has a box of pictures to keep
As if dry pieces of paper are ever enough
To hold, to hug against her chest,
To try to find a space to rest her love
When all she really wants is
Death.

Because that’s where her baby is.
Because she can see them now
Cowering under desks.
These children saw it all.
Friends from kindergarten
Now backed against a wall,
And slumping in a pool of blood
Brains splattered on the floor,
Last gasps of air in punctured lungs
Still dragging their bodies towards
A bullet ridden door.

And just like ****** laughing
While children burned in Auschwitz
You mock them.
How dare you!

Making every excuse
Because you just can’t live without the
Cold piece of metal
Some politician tells you
Embodies more truth,
Than the bodies of real children
That, if you have any integrity at all,
Should be all you need for
Proof.
Jan 2018 · 460
A Blessing
Caroline Jan 2018
How do you hold on to a blessing?

Tiny fingers and tiny toes
Wrapped in a blue cotton blanket.
The evening laughter in the hall
And the silence after
Made of living, breathing bodies,
Complete
Under a single roof and a sky
Brushed with falling stars.

And once when you were six
And sat upon your daddy's knee
And he, gazing at your mother, smiled.
A moment caught
Like a weathered painting
Upon a broken wall.
The bricks like ragged remnants
Of Rome before the fall.
Because all greatness crumbles
Because all young men stumble
Into useless, wrinkled bodies,
Raging like blind ponies
Against a locked and
Shrinking stall.

So, how do you hold on to a blessing?
And how do you even love at all?

You see, I used to count them
Like notches on an immortal tree.
Naïve, stacking each one like
Little petals from paper roses
Or brightly colored falling leaves.
Holding them tightly against my chest
Afraid that they would scatter,
As if by clutching them there I could prevent
The winter that comes after.

But I am left
Trembling in a deep and unforgiving snow
The flowers dead, the petals buried
Clutching only your picture
And that wretched question:
“Why did you go?”
For anyone who has suffered loss. I know this is pessimistic, but looking around at my beautiful little children, my family, I cringe when people say "you are so blessed," because, yes, I AM, but with that comes the knowledge that all of this is so fragile, so temporary, so illusory, and I don't want to let it go! How selfish I can be. I want to hold them all here because they complete me. Life is a series of losses, or so it seems lately. We have our memories, at least.
Sep 2017 · 1.0k
Tiny Daggers
Caroline Sep 2017
Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
Draw your sword instead.
I see you sneaking around
The edges of the battle,
Flicking your venomous tongue
From a reptilian head.  
Just come at me with your saber,
Unsheathe your anger now,
Like the thundering clouds
That are brave enough to
Scream,

I hate you!
Your poison leaks across your face,
Absorbed and erased
By osmosis.
Your thirsty skin,
It drinks the bitter river
Of sin that pools in the corners
Of your smirk.
Your lips are dripping toxins;
Your mouth is spitting dirt.
A nuclear meltdown,
Imminent.
Let me have it,
Make me hurt.

Don’t burst my heart with tiny daggers,
They’re not strong enough to ****.
I’m here in all my luminescence,
My ***** essence,
Just bright enough to spill
Your eviscerated anger,
Which drips like  
Deadly ink
From the sharpened edges
Of my quill.
Passive-aggression is the worst! I hate it in relationships and I hate it on our national stage. Just reveal the true depths of your hatred already. Lay it all on the line! Don't dance around the edges of a battle with a fake smile plastered on your face. I'd rather see the demon inside, than some fake snake.
Sep 2017 · 570
A little man
Caroline Sep 2017
There is a little man
Staring at me,
Cradled in my arms
With eyes so wide,
It is as if
They could hold
All my stars.

And yet,
To him,
I am the universe;
All the darkness
Folding gently
Around his innocence.

And in this galaxy, I will hold
His hands forever,
Cloaking these tiny fingers
In the astral winds
Of memory.

Always my tiny man,
Clutched to the shores of
My skin.
An ocean to my moon,
Forever sheltered  
By the gentle pull of
A mother’s lunar light.

My little man.
My tiny shooting star,
Your blue eyes pierce my night,
Two meteors,
Ripping through all of my defenses
With their unadulterated light.
Born from my core,
Breathing with me there,
Forever bound
By an indestructible force
That once formed cannot be undone;
A gravity of love
Between a mother and her son.
For my little man. I love you forever, son. E.E. Cummings once wrote, "You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars." Inspiration for this poem and how I feel about all of my children, though there is a special sweetness between a mother and a son.
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