Oh to be a blade of grass
Caressing her thigh
Gazing up longingly
Upon Persephone
And her spring of warmth
On a cold winters day

Would that I could;
That I should be so lucky

If only it were more than a dream

They mistake my softness for weakness,  
Like petals scattered in storms of hurt;  
Not seeing how deep my roots extend  
Through layers of wisdom and lessons learned.  

Each kind word I choose to speak  
Is backed by mountains moved in silence;  
Each tender touch I dare to give  
Springs from battles fought with resilience.  

I've learned that armour weighs down the spirit,
Thorns can wound the hand holding the stem;
While my quiet strength flows like morning light,  
Warming others without consuming them.  

So let them wonder at my gentleness,  
Let them question my peaceful stance;  
Because I have found that mighty rivers  
Flow with grace and not arrogance.  

In a world of sharpened daggers,  
I choose to be the sheltering tree,  
Not because I cannot withstand the storm,  
But because I’ve learned to just simply be.  

My strength lies in understanding  
That my heart does not need to prove,
The power that sustains its caring beat  
And the quiet force that dares to love.  

©️Lizzie Bevis

It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions

is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?

I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?

some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house

the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms

both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions

I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?

Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.

There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful

Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack

I don’t know how to say it.
You know I only have one word for this.
Ineffable.
There’s a reason You've inspired so Many instrumentals.
Prelinguistic feelings in the strings.

Sensory one. Out in the night.
Just to catch a bit of the cold and
hold
it
in wonder.

It’s been too long since I’ve loved someone this fast and fully and requited.
I feel the edge of a selfish obsessive nightmare,
hard and calloused scar tissue.
A long, old wound that I tried to peel. To open. To uncover.
To admit. To accept.
Examining every gut and thinking “wow, I’m really full”
It’s still tender to touch

I’m reminded of it when you hold me. When we make love.
I can feel obsessed. Fully dominated, To behold you.
To kiss someone so incredible.
It boggles my mind that life is allowed to feel this good.

That’s why I worry in the space between.
I am afraid of being blind. Sense-deafened to the color of red, or the shape of flags, or the temperature of a storm, or the habit of huddling together to survive it...even if it never comes.
Codependency. Enabling irresponsiveness. On the rocks.

How is this little life of mine?
Seeking deep interdependent connections with clowns.
An arms-length attachment with a masseuse of the wound.
Where does pain come from?

Journey toward security:
We play so easy. I feel like kids with you. I feel like its after school
and we don’t want the sun to go down
because if the sun goes down
we have to go inside
so we don't want the sun to go down
so we don’t have to come inside.


Come inside. And stay awhile.
I am warm and full of love.
My bones are made of cosmic dust.
My eyes are explosions and I am a constellation.


Or stay out.
Gaze at the stars.
Catch the cold.

and tell me how it feels.

We'll never admit
     we are each a hybrid:
     the world transferred
     into our very blood and flesh-

    our self we never did create
    copying, imitating and reproducing
    has long been our estate
    too much indeed for regretting-

    in this our bud-grafting
   our intrinsic has been stolen
   we've lost our original voice
   gone are our moments golden

   and what's left
   is but the living numbness
  our will and hope have vanished
   and our heart is  bereft and homeless