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Helen  Feb 2012
Blanket
Helen Feb 2012
Fall surrendered, snow fell, and Ruth’s mother bought a blanket for her daughter’s seventeenth Christmas. It wasn’t a very expensive or spectacular blanket; it was extraordinary only in the fact that it hadn’t been picked mindlessly from a Christmas list but had instead been chosen lovingly and thoughtfully. She knew her daughter was forever chilly and would love the blanket’s fleece side, and she laughed to see that it had snaps just like the blanket she herself had spent her evenings cocooned in when she was Ruth’s age. So she wrapped the blanket more beautifully than the other gifts and set it gently under the tree.

The sun stretched, adults yawned, and Ruth opened her mother’s gift on Christmas morning. At the sight of the blanket, her grandmother’s eyes welled with memories of Ruth’s mother, looking almost identical to how Ruth looked now, wrapped up in her own blanket with the snaps. Ruth admired the gentle color of the blanket’s slick side and stroked the fleece side against her check before setting it on top of the rest of her gifts. She thanked her mother enthusiastically (she’d always been acutely aware of her reaction to gifts in front of their givers) and laughed good-naturedly at her grandmother’s hovering tears before hugging them down her face.

Naked trees shivered, frost iced the landscape, and at her mother’s suggestion Ruth spent the winter with the blanket layered beneath her covers. She nestled beneath it every night, but felt guilty when she couldn’t love it any more than anything else she had in her room, and she never snapped it around herself as her mother had done. She’d tried to wear it like that the day she was given the blanket, but it had made her feel uncomfortable and constrained. So instead she slept with the blanket spread flat beneath her sheets through that winter and into the spring.

Spring sprung, flowers bloomed and Ruth bounced for a moment on her toes before diving headfirst into his eyes. The weeks passed for her not in hours and days but in giggles and kisses, and she was surprised when her usually analytical, suspicious mind released her heart and allowed it to love recklessly and entirely. Making her bed one giddy morning, Ruth stroked the soft, fleece side of her blanket and then the slick, smooth side, and she thought of sweet picnics and stargazing from quiet hilltops. She folded the blanket and kept it in her car in preparation for any such spontaneity.

The moon beamed loudly, prom streamers fluttered, and Ruth danced with him wildly. Her classmates all felt just as immortal, and everyone laughed and spun and anticipated together. When they finally left the dance, Ruth’s body was still coursing with the night’s excitement, intoxicated with young love and the bright eternity that stretched before her. He brought her to a small hilltop where she spread the slick side of the blanket against the grass, and the two lay trembling there beneath the stars. Finally, he wrapped his mouth and his heart and his body around hers, and her innocence leaked slowly onto the fleece.

The moon slid drunkenly behind the hills, birds began to wake, and Ruth flew home on her own audacity, leading the dawn behind her. In the dim light, she noticed the garbage can her father had brought to the curb the night before, and she decided to spare her mother the pain of discovering the once soft fleece now stained with rebellion. Quietly, she lifted the lid and dropped the blanket inside. Its snaps scraped loudly against the can for an instant, but then the morning quickly swallowed the noise. By the time the lid banged back down, Ruth was rushing back to the house, her blanket already forgotten.
Mitchell Duran Jun 2012
The night rested in a humid Spring night as the cable cars
And taxi cabs lazily made their way around the
Soft and silent streets of the city. Stray cats and dogs
Picked away at half-eaten lunch meat and
three day old bread as the moon slowly began to rise.
The restaurants that lined the alley ways and
Side streets were filled with the Saturday evening crowd. The
Clinking echoes of wine glasses and dinner plates spilled
Out onto the sidewalk and into the street. The passerby's would
Occasionally turn their heads to look inside, some envious that they
Were not smiling and drinking and eating that night. Across the
Street and throughout the town, lonely men drank from half empty
Beer mugs, wondering where their passion had gone.

On the corner of Barry and 3rd stood a man alone with
A suitcase in his hand. He wore tattered brown dress
Shoes - two years too old - a black neck tie with a half
Button-up T-shirt and a pair of dark brown slacks he had
Bought from Goodwill for $3. His free hand hung open,
Letting the night breeze snake around his fingers. There
Were the stars above him that shone down onto the street
And the sidewalk and a few spotted puddles that had
Built up from an earlier rain. On the corner of Barry and 3rd
There was only one thing to do with one's time, and that
Was to stand around and think of where to go to next.

Up on 17th, there was a bar the man had heard of
From a woman who had tried to pick him up at the bus
Station, some kind of ******* that was really only looking
For a couple of free drinks and a packet of cigarettes. The man
Thought of this place, and weighed back and forth if it would
Be advantageous to wander up there and see if he couldn't
Find someone to shack up with for the night.
He decided it would be.

As he passed the busy restaurants, listening to the insides
Of the building and its occupants churn like silverware
In a blender, he remembered he had placed a half-loaf
Of bread inside of his suitcase.
He stopped on a rough concrete stoop of a Catholic
Church, where above him, stood a large wooden cross.
Around the cross were plaster sculptures of baby angels and
Gargoyles and a snaking vine made of black stone that made
Its way around the cross, tying itself around the center
Where the horizontal met the vertical, and continued
To spin around and around until it reached the top.
At first, the man thought it was some
Kind of snake signifying Adam and Eve, which was all
He really knew about religion, the basic kid stories, but
When looking closer, realized that it was only an innocent
Plant seeking a spot of sun.

The man placed his suitcase on the 3rd step of 8, where he
Then sat on the 4th. He leaned his weathered, bent back against
The hard stone concrete and listened to the faint cracks
Of his spine inside his body. He realized that he hadn't sat d
Down and relaxed since he had gotten off the train. He threw
His head back in a exaggerated and child-like yawn, and felt the warm tears
Of bashful exhaustion fill the sockets of his heavy eyes. The night was
Warm and he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt
To let the air blow over his sweat drenched chest.

"There are certain times to be alone in life," He mused
To himself, "And I do believe that I have
Found one of them."

In a room above him the window was wide open
And the curtains danced outside with the wind. A head
Poked out from the window sill and peered down to
Look at the man musing, but did not say anything. The man
knew nothing of the stranger's eyes above him and felt
No other presence around him, other than the passing taxi
Cabs and street walker's and - if you counted the one's inside
The church - the saints and the angel's and God that lived
In holy silence enshrined behind him.

"There are things in life that are never meant to be
Solved," he philosophized, "And maybe I am
One of those things. When I think of my life, my entire
Life here on Earth, I don't think I ever found
A straight line to follow that I was ever comfortable
With...not one straight line I could follow that would
Bring me true happiness or a sense of accomplishment.
Now, am I bad in feeling this way? Am I no good
For never feeling that the good ain't ever good enough?
I do my laundry like everybody else and I walk the
Street just the same, but, there is something else that
Smells and feels and can taste the eternity in all things
That makes me restless so I can't sleep sometimes, forces
Me to stare into black infinity with only a mind I feel
That I will never truly meet. There has got to be a word
For whatever feeling this is, but I can't seem to think of it now."

The head above that had poked out before ******
A dark object out the window. It wavered for a moment
In the still warm air of the night, then, whooshing and
Splashing down, a full bucket of water cascaded down
on the man's head and suitcase. The man sat frozen, unsure
Whether it was from the Heaven's itself and paused before
He began to swear and curse at the tenant above him.

"You rat **** eating vanilla ice cream eating convict!" he
Screamed up towards the apartment complex, "I'm going
To come back with a gallon of gasoline, 10,000 tooth-picks, and
Find out your favorite magazine subscription and bring 1,000
Those by, and burn this place down - gifts and all!"

His voice
Echoed in the street
And down the darkened alley-way,
Where the bums of the city
Slumbered, not hearing a sound
Of the rant the man in the now wet
Two year old dress shoes rambled
On with; for bums sleep with
Absolute peace with their lack of
Care or fear of time.

"At last," he muttered underneath his dripping hair,
"I am released unto the Earth for what I truly am: A hung
Sheet - fresh out of the washer - meant only to be
Basking in the moonlight so to be dried by
Morning for the house-guests in the evening."

The man snapped his fingers,
Clicked his tongue, and looked up,
Once more trying to spot the culprit, until
Another bucket of water came crashing
Down upon him.

"QUIET DOWN THERE,"
The voice from above hollered,
"THERE AIN'T A SINGLE WORD ANYONE
IN THIS BUILDING WANTS TO HEAR
RIGHT NOW! CHILDREN ARE SLEEPING AND
THE OLD ONE'S ARE WATCHING THIER PROGRAMS!"

The man ran his hands through his dripping wet hair
And flicked the droplets of water out onto the street. His
Suitcase, which sat to the right of him, was soaked as well and
The man worried about the single baguette he had stored
In there in case he had gotten hungry. He knew it was ruined
Now, but was happy that there was only an extra pair
Of 50 cent socks and an undershirt he had found underneath
A bridge on the way into the city. He cocked his head up to the open window.

"You speak for everyone here in this building?" He
Asked the black and blotchy figure above him.

"I speak for everyone that doesn't have the nerve or
The cajones or the energy to holler down at you at
This Un-Godly hour, if that's what your asking."

"They vote you into that position?" He asked, prodding them.

"No vote. I'm a volunteer," they defended.

"Ha. Always going to be some kind of
Volunteer when there's power involved."

"Isn't power, it's responsibility."

"Responsibility," the man repeated, chewing the
Word in his mouth, seeing it spelled out in his mind.
"Responsibility is quite a subjective thing: some people
Take a liking to it and never want to stop being responsible and
In charge, and some just don't want none of it and
Would rather lay back in the sun and act
Like their in charge, while whoever believes
Their power works under'em and for'em; which one are you?"

"Neither. I'm just here trying to ward off some
Rambling *** with what looks like nothing but a
Suitcase and some old clothes and shoes."

"Well," he said, "You must have some pretty good
Eye-sight in this setting dark, because that's
All I got at the moment."

"Where you hail from?" the voice asked.

"Originally I hail from here, but where I was
Before I hailed from as well. To tell you the truth, I don't
Truly know - that's a good question."

The man tilted his chin up slightly and
Rolled over his response. The question had
Dropped an icy fire into the pit of his stomach and filled it
With hundreds of gnawing, fluttering butterflies; he
Hadn't thought about home in a long time and
Had forgotten why he had even chose to show-up in the first place.

"I'm here for reasons I can't seem to remember at the moment,"
The man admitted to the voice above and to himself.

"Can't remember?" the voice laughed, "How
You gonna' forget why you came home?"

"Don't know," he said, shaking his head," Just
Can't seem to recollect it."

"Scary thing."

"Yes, indeed."

They both paused as a taxi cab passed slowly by. It stopped
And honked its horn trying to signal the man to see
If he needed a ride. The man waved his hand to send the
Cabby off and looked down at his wet clothes and suitcase. The
Chill of the night had gotten its way into his skin and
He noticed that his teeth were chattering and his feet were
Beginning to shake. He worried about getting sick because he
Wouldn't be able to buy any medicine if he did. He looked up
To see the figure still looking down at him in silence. Suddenly,
An object fell, back and forth in the air like a feather,
Down towards the man and onto the stoop where he stood.
It was a blanket and wrapped inside was a tattered pillow.

"Bring it back if you want," the voice called out to him, "Don't
Even care if you sleep on the stoop, but, it's a little wet, as you know."

"There a park around here?"

"Down two blocks and a left. You'll see it."

"Thanks for your kindness," he said looking up at the window.

"Thanks for your silence," the voice said stubbornly.

The man brushed off the remaining water on his clothes
And suitcase and tried to squeeze the water out his hair.
He picked up his suitcase and wrapped the blanket around
His body and fitted the pillow underneath his arm. He walked
Two blocks up from where the figure had told him and took a
Left, illuminated by the stark orange and white street lights. He looked
Around after he took the left and spotted a small children's park
With a few benches spotted along the sidewalk that snaked through it.
He picked a bench near a water fountain, unbuckled his belt and took
Off his wet pants and laid down, wrapping the thick wool blanket
Around his body. He placed his suitcase underneath the bench and
Positioned the pillow so it fitted gently under his head. After he
Closed his eyes and rested for five minutes, he reached down to
Touch his suitcase. He felt the cool, damp leather of it, and
Quickly wrapped himself back up into the blanket,
Eagerly awaiting for dawn to rise and bring warmth back to his body.

At dawn, the sun painted the man's body with dark yellow streaks
of sunlight, heating his body up so much that when he woke, his
Clothes were close to dry again. The small patch of grass and
Weeds underneath him rustled with the wind and the sounds
Of the street a few blocks away drifted into his ear. He stirred
Inside of his blanket but did not rise. The pillow had fallen
To the ground throughout the night, but the man was too tired
To reach for it and kept his head on the hard wooden surface of the bench.
While lying there, half awake, the man thought of the figure that
Had been speaking to him from their window the night before. He
Knew he must return the blanket and pillow, but he was unsure
Whether he should bring something else. He had no money -
No money to spare at least - so he chose to bring only the
The things that were leant to him back, hoping that would suffice.

He shifted his position on the bench and saw through a crack of
The bench, that there were children already playing on the playground
Behind him, their parents leaning over their porches watching them; they
Didn't even seem to notice or care about the man sleeping on the bench.
The man felt embarrassed about this and rolled over to avoid the
Gaze of the parents and any of the children that may have spotted him. He
Laid on his back, his head atop the worn but comfortable pillow, and
Gazed up into the blue sky that was clear save a few passing milky
White clouds, that hovered above him like colossal globs of marshmallows.
He hoped in his mind that he remembered where the house the was that
Had been kind enough to give him the blanket and pillow and he wished
That he had paid more attention to the street signs and physical objects
Surrounding the building. All the man could recall were the bright neon
Orange light posts, a long line of thinly pruned circular bushes, a few
Mailboxes that stood as if attention on the sidewalk of the street, and
Numerous houses that all looked the same when he passed them in the night.
He knew he needed to find the house but was too comfortable to rise and
Too scared of the failure of ever finding the house and the thought
Of carrying around the blanket and pillow made his face flush a deep red.

The man rose cooly, as if rising from a nap spent on a couch in his
Summer cottage that rested on the bank of some far off river somewhere.
He looked over to the children and the parents up on their porches, but
Still, none of them paid him any mind. This relieved him. He was allowed
To be a shadow and embraced the idea of being anonymous rather
Than feeling the helplessness one feels when no one sees you. He folded
The blanket neatly like his mother had taught him to do ever since
He was a little boy, and instinctively fluffed the ***** pillow, even though
It was far beyond repair already. The sun was just peaking over the tops of
The ramshackle apartment buildings and he noticed that he had been
Sleeping in what looked like a very poor part of town; in the night, it
Looked like every other park corner where the elderly would to
Think about their past and the children would play with their present.

"Night and day are two different worlds," the man muttered
To himself, "Some people belong in one and some
The other; I wonder...which one am I?"

He looked up towards the sun and squinted, feeling a
Small droplet of sweat make its way down his right cheek. He
Wiped it away with his fingertip and brought it to his mouth -
He was terribly thirsty and his stomach rumbled within him. He
Had noticed the night before on the way to the park, a sign
For a bakery, but was not sure whether it was open or not because
The night was too dark to reveal any signs of it. The man had 10 dollars to
His name and knew he could buy two loaves of bread for at least 50 cents
If he haggled with whoever was running the place. They would be sure
To see his condition and help him if he showed them a little of the money he had.
There was also a childish charm to the man that he would bring out whenever
He truly was in need - he never liked abusing this gift, if one could call it that -
But in times of desperation and starvation and dehydration, he was
Forced to use it and mustered as much courage up to do so.

He walked through the path that had brought him to the park and
Made a right down the street towards the bakery and possibly the
House where he had been given the blanket and pillow. There was
No one on the street save a few alley cats and dogs and all the window
Blinds were down to block out the intense shining sun rising in the sky. There
Was a light breeze passing through the trees that cooled the man off. He
Had begun to sweat from holding the pillow and blanket so close
To his body, and wished he could have the nerve just to throw it in a
Garbage can and make his way to the neighborhood where he had been told
About the bar, but his conscious weighed him down, so he carried on.

He walked a block down the street and found the bakery on the other side
Of the street. He crossed and saw there was an old woman inside.
He checked his pockets for any spare change and opened his wallet
To make sure the 10 dollars was still there. He needed water and something
To put in his belly and he whispered a prayer before he went inside of the bakery.
When he pushed the door to enter though, it wouldn't budge - it was locked. The
Woman behind the counter turned her head and looked at the man, who
shook her head and waved him off. The man knocked gently on the glass
Door, but the old woman just kept waving and shooing him off like an animal. The
Man checked the clock inside and saw that
Cat Fiske Jan 2016
_
I
_
I walked with my communist looking blanket tied around my neck,
I had long ago stolen them from an airoplane and like then,
they still did everything you wouldn't expect from a thin blanket.

getting prung and pricked as the buckberry bushes punctured,
me and my communist looking blanket, but atlass I made it,
torn by thorns and all, to the half iced over ****** dam,

_

II
_
this is where I was greeted not by my friends, as they happened to be there,
No, I was greeted warmly by the fire they made,
as they burned detention slips, and failed tests, and anything alike,

it made me take fire 101 control of things, as I spit out,
you can not put wet leaves in this fire, stay ten feet away from the fire,
but it would soon be done,

_
III
_
when it was, we broke up some of the remaining ice from the dam,
placing it on top of the fire as gracefully as you could,
my fingers were once so warmed by that fire, now so cold from the ice,

we went and sat on the rock, and I wrapped my communist blanket around me,
I went into my bag, and pulled out my sock that had my bogs inside it,
I never like to smoke with people, I never really smoked more then two drags

_
IV
_
when I needed to let my edge off, I smoked, and it was a rare thing I did,
under my communist blanket, with ice cold hands I unwrapped my sock,
I pulled out my new pack of spirits and my lighter, and offered anyone with me a bog.

Everyone but one of my friends took me up on it, so I told him,
he can have the rest of what I don't smoke, I only smoke two hits,
I put the bog in between my ******* and my ring finger on my right hand,

I couldn't lite it with the wind, I said,
but, it's because people were there.
He lit my bog for me, I smoked more then I normally do and handed it off,

_
V
_
What was to come soon after was what one,
wishes they could escape to there bedroom with their communist blanket,
and then cry,

he finished what he wanted on the bog,
leaving me with a little more then half,
I put it out and put it away,

my other two friends pulled out a bog each of their own,
as I began to pick up all the little pieces of paper that didn't burn,
I threw them with my ice cold hands into the dam,

_
VI
_
by then they were almost done with there bogs, when one asked me,
"Can I try to burn your arm?"
as she stuck her bog in her mouth before I could respond,

she went into my communist red blanket, and pulled my arm out,
hold my arm with one hand, she took the bog in the other pressing it lightly,
She asked me "does it hurt?" I muttered "no" still shocked,

She went and did it again, this time higher up while twisting it in,
next to a set of new burns I had done myself a few night back,
I didn't even feel what she did, but she went through a layer of skin,

_
VII
_
her and the other girl, proceeded to try to lightly burn themselves,
a half a second touch on the top of the arm, that's what hurt more.
I looked at my friend, and he looked really confused, I was too.

I went into the iced over pond, and pulled out ice,
trying to get the ash out of my arm,
only causing my fingers to freeze more under my communist blanket,

_
VIII
_
*I was unable to continue watching them play around and burn their flesh,
I walked back up, and said I need to be alone,
and I never made myself feel more alone under my communist blanket.

I know it was my fault, for I had let her do it,
I didn't dare say stop, but then they did it to themselves.
why couldn't me of been enough?
bogs where I am from are cigs. if you didn't know.
Awkward  Dec 2013
Blanket
Awkward Dec 2013
My special blanket
It covers my mind

I'm used to my blanket
Like a small child I carry it everywhere

My mind is a dark place
But my blanket makes it not too bad

There was a time it wasn't there
& it was a nice break

But that was just a break
A holiday

Time to get back to work
My blankets in charge

It tells me when to eat, never
It tells me when to sleep, all the time

My blanket used to give me breathing room
But now, its suffocating me

My blankets choking me
& I've stop struggling

My mind has put the blanket in total control
I shut down

I push everyone away
Even the boy I love

I know it kills him
To see me this way

But my blankets my minds dictator
It calls the shots

I love you, I promise
But this blanket will **** me in the end

Like a blanket of snow
My depression covers me

& I've let it win
Angela Mirisola  Nov 2020
Mom
Angela Mirisola Nov 2020
Mom
It’s cold in here.
Cold in her fingers
In her toes
In her nose
In her chest.
Cold icy fingers
Crawling up her throat
Ball into fists there
But they don’t melt.
Burning icy hot there,
Freezing all the words there
Adding Help and other desperate sobs
To the lump there.

You see,
She’s had this blanket,
This beautiful blanket she’s had since birth,
And it was tightly woven,
Stitched with love,
And so so warm.
And it’s always been there,
When the coldness crept in,
And she’d close her eyes
And reach for her blanket.

Even when the blanket started unraveling,
Started sporting holes
Leaving uncovered toes,
She didn’t mind
Because she was mostly warm anyway.
And even when the blanket took on
The smell of ethanol
Blindly she’d reach for it,
And Blindly she’d tuck it away,
Because it still made her feel warm enough anyway.

Well, she used the blanket
Until there it lay in tatters
Unrecognizable to her fingertips in the dark.
So, she opened her eyes.
The blanket wasn’t even a blanket anymore.

Hadn’t this been the way it began though?
She saw the disassembled ball of yarn
That was her blanket
Even before her blanket became a blanket
So in a way,
This blanket was really only
Fancifully packaged yarn
And that was all anybody could expect it to be.
And yarn on it’s own
Doesn’t do a great job
At keeping little girls warm.

She tried hard not to be disappointed,
But she was.

So as the ice crept up her calves,
Into her tummy,
And again up her throat,
She closed her eyes and held herself.
She’d let her yarn be just yarn,
And wiped her own tears away.
Siobhan A May 2013
Heart hurt
The secret they don't tell you.

You're heart can hurt and will hurt.
Inside your body cracked, still beating

Broken heart
Hardly working when you need it to

Can only pump blood
If it tries to pump love it could die

Stupid heart
Trying to love what it can't have

Knowing the more it tries to let go, the more it yearns
Then a soul she felt, like a blanket

Not a perfect blanket but a warm one
A blanket that covered her fear
So comfortable it made her want to get out of bed and fight for a better day

Not a perfect blanket but a beautiful one
Woven with its own distinct pattern and colors
So unique it made her start to fight for her passions

She doesn't need the blanket, but she wants it
James M Vines Aug 2015
Love is a blanket that kept us warm. Sitting on the front porch during a cold rain storm. Love is a blanket on a lazy summers day. Having a picnic watching each other in a special way. Love is a blanket that you use to tuck me in, when I caught a nasty cold and you fed me soup in our bed. Love is a blanket that held a wrinkled little nose, attached to 10 perfect little fingers and toes. Love is a blanket that keeps us warm through the years, it comforts us and cast away all of our fears. Love is a blanket that when we are done, we can pass on to a daughter and a son. Love is the blanket that will be there when we finally rest. Yes love is a blanket that I like the best.
Tee  Feb 2015
My Blanket
Tee Feb 2015
I wrap myself in this blanket
It keeps me warm yet it's cold
It makes me see yet I'm blind
It makes me smile yet it is why I am broken

I hide in this blanket
It's a shield, a disguise, a mask
It's my unknown guardian
No one can see me I'm hidden

Why are people so scared of this endless blanket
With this blanket I can create anything
This blanket is what is hidden behind our light
This blanket is beautiful but fear itself

My blanket is the unknown we know all so well
This is about what I hide behind
MonsterInsideMe Dec 2014
at nightfall the storm comes
which gives the beautiful blanket
time to streanghten and rebuild itself
for the hurricans of the next day
the city blossoms yet again
continuing to cause more destruction upon the blanket
which has become solid and more breath taking over time
chipping away slowly
blow by blow
piece by piece
tear by tear
the blanket dies
as the blanket is chipped away
slowly and painfully
the city feels no remorse or sorrow
night falls over the world
over the heart of the blanket
as tthe blanket is no more
its youth and beauty
dead
along with the blanket
MonsterInsideMe Dec 2014
The pieces have been put together
the tears have been repaired
the blanket enwraps us once again
now stronger
out of the city's reach
away from the hurricane
its beauty pierces through the hurricane
making all the gray turn to pure white fabric
which is sewn into the blanket
the city watches in horror
as the blanket becomes larger
even more magnificent than before
the angels sing
the wedding bells ring
as we inter twine ourselves withen the blanket
letting each other know
that we have overcome the city
overpowered the hurricane
and now can bond as one
as the kiss is shared
we may be a part of the blanket
permanately bringing sunshine to the city
the city fights but the blanket,
the blanket is too overwhelming and beautiful
love marriage together overpowering beautiful
Danny Wolf  Jun 2018
Vision Quest
Danny Wolf Jun 2018
The Hanbleceya.
The cry for a vision.
The Vision Quest.
The space between worlds.
In the presence of the Great Mystery.
I went down to the fire,
and she, the self I aim to be,
was not there.
I became her.
And maybe just for that moment on my blanket because I needed to be her.
She is on the eternal quest.
Forever in search,
forever seeking.
That magic I was hoping for did not emerge in the way I believed it would...
I let instead the Earth, and only her,
hear my screams.
Hear some deep agony within me,
maybe not even completely of my own.
Maybe the ancestral pains of the women who carried lives before me.
Red is the road to my heart,
is the color that bled out of me on the way up.
Dripping prayers down my legs,
each step became even more sacred.
Together, we sang our warrior song.
They are my amor, my comfort, my shelter, my warmth.
But on your blanket in your circle of prayers,
there is only you and the Creator.
You and the Great Mystery.
You and your fears, your pains, your demons.
You and your truths, your reasons, your prayers.
It is your choice whether to feed to thirst and hunger in your head,
or the hunger in your soul.
There is no greater pain than a soul not enacting its purpose,
its duty, its agreement with the Divine.
No greater pain.
And those screams that emerged from me,
from depths vast and deep,
was everything I ever let block me.
When we are broken open,
when we cry that deep soul cry,
we are breaking to let love and truth in,
we are watering our gardens.
So what magic am I believing was not present?
A vision may have not been shown to me,
but the courage of a single moment was.
To decide to not shut my eyes,
but to pray.
To offer compassions back to the Earth and take less for myself.
To not **** a single mosquito,
but rather walk off that blanket four days later marked with their persistence.
I watched their points enter my flesh
and saw their bodies fill with my blood.
Maybe they were extracting from me all that I no longer need.
And what itch is worse?
That of a red bump,
or that of the soul's need to incessantly scratch through its flesh suit to get to the core of its truth?
There were hours upon hours I let myself fall silent.
Listened to the sound of the woodpecker,
watched the spider crawl,
saw the turkey run.
They know how to be at home here.
And it is nothing grand that they do,
but they understand their purpose and place and they do not strive to feed and ego.
They do not "Ease God Out."
They are of God,
they are a God of their own.
So how do I remove myself from all the ******* of this world
if I do not place my being into the womb of Creation and sit?
The layers strip down,
the sun rises and sets and does so again.
I began to know before the sky would lighten that the morning was coming soon just by the sounds of the forrest.
The great trees barely swayed and the Earth was uprooting.
What am I doing here?
The days were long and hard and filled with a frustrating buzzing in my ears.
Buzzing like all the nonsensical thoughts we have on a daily basis.
If only our ears would buzz and ring every time we had a thought that backtracked us from our truths
and the inherent love that is within our beings.
If only we had the persistence of the mosquito that does not,
will not stop until it is filled with the one nectar it was meant to live on.
There were moments of bliss and moments I felt anxiety bubble up within.
Such a rare form of myself,
a piece of me I do not know too well.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin and be gone.
Be wind, be ether, be smoke.
Be gone.
And then they came,
bearing compassion.
Just a single sip of water.
Just a little.
They handed me that cup and I just cried.
Cried from the depths of my being.
"Do I even deserve this?"
And I let some moments pass,
held that cup in my hands and prayed in the form of tears.
That water,
that precious gift bearing life,
it touched my lips and made its way into my being.
And all become calm.
I am here for a purpose,
on this blanket, I mean.
I am here and meant to be no where but here.
And gently they spoke of the 6 pointed white star flowers surrounding me.
Not to me,
but a message for me.
A reminder of the beauty all around,
if I would only just look.
There I was,
sitting upon the hands of Creation.
If I had just stopped to listen,
stopped to breathe,
maybe I would have understood that on my own.
But that is why we tie that red prayer hung to our Ancestors.
He said,
"that prayer is your reminder to come back."
So for the next 360 days until I sit upon my blanket again,
the only prayer is to remember what I learned on that Mountain.
To remember what a blessing it is to drink a sip of water,
to be alone,
to look not into the eyes of another,
but only see the beauty of Creation.
I went out there wanting to be silent.
To just listen to what the world had to speak to me,
to shut out the voice in my head,
but there were moments that I could not hold back the words and prayers from my throat,
moments I needed to send my voice up or else I swore I would get up off that blanket and just walk away.
Moments I swore I would have filled the Earth with my screams again.
And when I spoke,
it was with such softness.
Maybe to not disrupt the frequency that Mountain has known long before Creator ever chose that spot for me to pray.
Maybe because when I spoke I barely recognized my own voice.
Because when you speak to Creation,
it is the truest version of yourself whose voice rises up from the very depths of your soul.
This is the voice that Creator knows.
And I just need to say I'm sorry that if for any moment I used my voice not pray
or to talk myself back into my heart and out of my head.
I'm sorry if I wasted a single moment on that Mountain.
The minutes seem so long when you're out there,
but now as I'm back home,
I'm wishing I could have just a few moments back on my blanket.
That I could have just one more opportunity to pray.
I would say to the Creator my name,
I would say please help me because I am struggling.
Please help me because  just want to make the best out of my life.
Please help me because I want to make sure I am on the right path to my purpose.
Please help me because I never want to know a life without you,
without prayer, without this Red Road.
Just one more time I want to speak those truths and let my tears become offerings of myself to the Earth.
But that is why we tie that prayer in Red.
Because I can go back.
I will go back and again be given the holy space to send my voice up and pray,
to cry,
to fall into silence,
to watch the sun set and rise again.
And I can stop now and breath.
I can stop and close my eyes and be on my blanket.
I can smell the freshness of Earth and the copal cloud of smoke.
I can pray and cry with myself on that blanket,
because there is a piece of me that will always be there.
RainbowBlessings Mar 2015
Blanket of Snow On A Hill


In the state of NY upon a hill
A Blanket of Snow was so real
Right before my very eyes
A blanket of snow a surprise
On my way to another state
This photograph I had to take
Nothing moving not a sound
A blanket of snow on ground
On the ground the snow lies
Glittering before my eyes
Every branch on every tree
Snow covered I could see
The beauty of New York City
A Blanket of Snow so pretty
How I will forever behold
It's beauty from the road
The winter wind it doth blow
Through the trees and snow
Blowing through leafless trees
Calms ones spirit right at ease
Softly singing a calm melody
Beckons the call for all to see
The chill of the morning snow
Fills the air of Gods pure glow
All white down the mountain
A stream of frozen fountain
Snow on hill will fade away
To brighten Gods given day
Picture perfect it doth seem
Only something you'd dream
Words hardly cannot convey
Of the beauty I saw that day


WrittenBy: Barbie Kirk 03-01-15 7:25pm   - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11928026-Blanket-of-Snow-On-A-Hill-by-RainbowBlessings#sthash.phX­AT515.dpuf

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