Memories encroach on a star speckled consciousness,
How the sun felt in years gone by.
What was life like when happiness sprouted from the earth?
How mud splattered flower child was taught to be quiet.
We spend years relearning that we are birthed of stars,
Only to let simple vibrations of air
Crumble war torn castles of consciousness.
God I miss who I was when I wrote this
I wonder if Death knew the last time he touched me
That I would be ripped from his hands yet again.
Too often has he held me in his arms.
The Reaper and I are old friends.
I often wonder if he's lonely.
Does he miss the gentle souls he doesn't get to take?
I sometimes miss our dances,
The Foxtrot of Farewell,
But I'd like to think he's proud of me
That I no longer need to hold his hand.
Worship these times:
the need of a cool night
raw beneath the diamond moon.
I am wax & rock;
a surging chant of
Wait and watch the birth
of a rusty sky;
how light sails across,
treads madly to cover
searching for a fragment of light,
no longer willing to
wish upon a star.
it's quite a challenge for me
to look in the mirror and not point out
all the things about my body
I wish to change.
the first thing I see are my imperfections
and I wonder what kind of peace
what kind of universe
could exist where I don't feel this way.
with no mirrors.
I can sit in the woods all morning
talking the ears off the birds
while squirrels laugh at me, or
I can sit silently, reverently and listen,
and I think I'll learn something important
trying to relearn balance
in my coarse sorrow
and aching qualm
i think of febrile tomorrows
what am i
but a girl obsessed with winter’s poppies
in a torrid mid-July
A cyclical poem, one of my all-time favourites.