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 Oct 2013 Frieda P
Eulalie
I have half-written confessions about you
And all of them are simultaneously as weak and gauche as the struggling flight of a butterfly with half its wings ripped off.
I have no coordination when it comes to dancing, Darling, and it's probably becoming more and more prevalent as you catch me tripping around my declarations
Because I am filled with so much self-doubt, but I can't help it that this new piece of my life has me second-guessing the placement of my feet and the rhythm I'm swaying to.
And with you being so honest from the dawn of our affair, it's made me guilty for doubting anything at all.
But I can't help it that you're a natural dancer and I'm just a mess.
I felt that the strength in my emotions were something to be ashamed of and in turn I've put them on display
A lewd circus performance to weigh the mass of my words and predict the approximate level they could wriggle down beneath your skin
Because I can deal with the stern looks and careless scoffs from sporadic digital strangers,
It's just that you aren't one and that means your opinion counts most of all.
I want to dazzle you with crazy dance moves like the Charlie Brown or Jitterbug or even twerk a couple of times because I can't impress with my mastering of the Hokey Pokey and the Cha Cha Slide
But I digress;
It just seems that all I can talk about when you're not around is how swell it'd be if you were.
And making our sweet dancing anything but comprised of candlelight and champagne and red roses just insults the beautiful parts of myself I want to so desperately share with you.
I'm no poet, dude,
And I've got no graces in dance,
But I'll rearrange the constellations in the sky to help better express myself if it meant figuring out how I managed to fall in love
With you
If you're patient, I'll learn to dance well enough. Give me time.
 Oct 2013 Frieda P
K Mae
when gardens go to rest
and dawn is slow to rise
may I know my way
surge my pulse
feed my dreams
with swirls of blooming color
from palette fertile moist*
*and release myself in throes
of fervent writing
Thanks to Rebecca Askew for inspiring and gifting me with the phrase, fervent writing
The color is red…..
It’s the love, the sunset and the tears shed…
The color is blue…
It’s the sky, the water, and the emotions so true….
The color is black…
It’s the magic, the depth, the spades and the jack….
The color in pink…
It’s for the flowers, the sweetness for the eyes of a doll in a wink…
The color is green
The trees… the envy the deep sense of thought within….
The color is ash…
The smokes buried… the dimes and some lost cash….
The color is yellow…
The brightness, the aroma… the lakes so shallow…
The color is brown…
The old chair,  the sculpture , the queen’s crown…
The color is gold…
It’s the necklace, the ear-rings and friends so old…
The color is mine…
It’s the rhythms… the experience, the life –line.
 Oct 2013 Frieda P
Jack
Fly Away
 Oct 2013 Frieda P
Jack
~


“Seagull, you fly across the horizon”

Parallel dreams and sifted thoughts
on an amber thread, thin as the beliefs
once found as hope, now falling
beneath sorrowed wings, gliding


“Into the misty morning sun”

Through hazy eyes and broken hearts,
tarnished memories flow within this dawn
as you fade off in the distance,
soaring ever higher, disappearing into the east


“Nobody asks you where you are going”

Silence fills the maze that is your mind, leaving you
staring at dead ends and fractured turns,
as the realization that you didn’t matter
forms on clouds of whispering truths…no one cares


“Nobody knows where you're from”

And in the end, you are not sure yourself
from where you once came, a blotted image
on empty shorelines of tangle debris
which you easily have forgotten, as you as well will be


“And you fly away…”
Written using the opening lyrics of Bad Company's "Seagull"
 Oct 2013 Frieda P
K Mae
heartwood
 Oct 2013 Frieda P
K Mae
and when kindling
    will no longer suffice
             those dried fragments
                 so easily sacrificed

   i am called to surrender my heartwood                
             may it burn slow steady and bright
          through the length of freeze and darkness
            until miracle tender brave branching
                     when blessed returns our Sol
               *burning Self that we may thrive
                        keeping vision fires alive
I do not want to conform
I do not want to be relevant
I do not want to be common
I do not want to be routine

I was not made for those kind of things
I was not made for the temporary
I was not made for the substitutes
I was not made for the limited

I was made for more
and more I will be
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