it is the cloth

that bears the stain.



sbm.

moving on from friday
we use running stitch
to catch the thread.

we use cloth to cover
all that is. comfortable.



sbm.

When winds at night on windows roar
wax runs out dies candle's flame
you would hear a knock upon door
a familiar voice calling your name.

Don't respond nor open the eyes
the voice is keen over winds' howl
grows it louder its pitches rise
scaring even the brave barn owl.

Pull the blanket up your head
you are safe so long you hide
lie dead quiet not move on bed
with mom asleep by your side.

Between the pause your fears mount
if is a chance to be found out
one two three the calls you count
but count it right leave no doubt.

Three times the voice would call your name
for it has no power to do any more
but move onto where dies a candle's flame
and a child is awake behind closed door.

Sometimes you are cold
But deep inside you're warm
You are strong
But I see your vulnerability
You're an oak between the pine trees
Yet like the willow in a rainstorm
You don't care what others think
But there's a glint of insecurity
You're clinging to a history
That will only bring you down
Your smile it is a beauty
But I only see you frown
You're flying with the eagles
Amongst the giants you stand tall
But know this in your heart my love
I've got you ....
When you need to fall .....

(C) Pixievic

I am given this right
to  feel to try
I with the next breath
expand my chest and might

I flex my aura my
lungs my being
I strive like every living
thing

I stand as tall as I was made
by the rich dirt
nurtured by the falling waters

I stand  in the rain
arms spread wide taking in
my birthrights
the worth
of me

I give each and all
every sprout every tree
every gnat and flea
this right also

I cry when
the rain falls
when the sky clouds up

the heavens must breathe ,
too
thankfully

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.