my mother was
the kitchen of our house
the place of practical, purposeful sustenance
and my father,
the useless, flapping, broken
back door,
that was ripped away one
night in a storm...
gone forevermore

my mother's father, the strong beams, hardwood,
that held us altogether,
kept the roof over our head
held out the night....

my mother's sister, the soft
places to fall, to cuddle in to
to cry and bawl...

and us the kids, all three
i hope, we were the joy
the bright, painted things
the hope for bigger,
better days....
the windows that,
allowed the sun's gentle rays.

we were the laughter,
that i know....
as we grew,
out past the rafters ....
and into ourselves.

my mother was the hearth
around,
which we all where
warmed,
my mother,
was the architect
of how the house,
was reformed...
after the storm
and gave us all a strength
of beam and a go get the world gleam.

the house, was a metaphor,
for the childhood days,
understood, more and more now,
with the passing of days.

justice eludes reality
for in its elusiveness,
it cowers in the darkness of its origin.
the ego is its master.
a voice that chants I matter...
I mean something, not necessarily
more or less
just something.
justice uses the voice of the many
speaks in the tongue of the people
bred to seek justice. so that justice
has a voice.
because
concepts cannot actually speak.

ripple effects of
conversations of justice
and of death seek
all who seek their frequency.
ripple effects shock
me at night,
vibrate my senses.
I seek ripple effects.
I am charged in the current
of inspiration
and creation,
cooperating with the flow
of things.
all things have a flow.

all things have a flow.

conversations of justice
and peace
(anywhere outside oneself)
create a charge of energy
and we feel it
as it passes through
our senses.
since the conversations of
peace and justice began
people have been
confused.
we no longer understand
the language of
the senses.
we get hung up on words...

my heartbreaks for his mother regardless

A mother
prepared for motherhood
is a rarity
waiting for the
right time
right man
to be what
she was born to be
reproductivity organs
rest within the mothers
womb.

A mother prepared
to continue the race
aware of her permanent
embrace
of her children…
to know a mother
look within
the human desire for
love.
her love is infinite
gut wrenching
consciousness capturing
species supporting
emotions of pure
reward.

A mother prepared for
the time
any time
of her child's life.
out of her mind
shifted to their perspective,
temporarily.
personally stagnated
and yet
developing among the heights of
the Mountain Men.
where is this
civilized woman's women?
men request gurus
mothers are the re-quest
of women.
and men too…
but the commitment is meant
to be shorter.

A mother prepared for motherhood
is a rarity.
her tribe has been
robbed
from around her.
her grandmothers wisdom
is buried
in layers she's not
hip to yet…
then her hips stretch
motherhood calls,
and she reclaims them anyways.
because its her intention.
she's a woman.
in some cultures you're not a mother
until you're a grandmother!
I better understand
old wives tales now…

the massive movement
away from matriarchy sees to be a major
point.
are we prepared to rise up?
rise up our sons
mirror for our daughters
submit to our birthright?

…hey I couldn't live with me mom either.

I dream of not being.
of fading, reduced to gratitude
for all that flowed, floated,
glimmered and shone.
then unbecome.

every day a dream.
every night aware of
daybreak unafraid.
we must all awake into
the othernesses

of belonging.
let the last grain of my person
be lifted on a wind so gentle
it carries; holds with
nothing but care,

and know with the last of
what once was heart, that to
love and thank was all I was
supposed to do.
if so, I did very, very well..