Infinite tunnel

Everyday I open to the love that pulses through my veins

A love that comes from unfathomable depths through infinite tunnels

I fear this love will turn me mad and still, I love on

An interesting shade of beauty shines with messy precision

I cannot conquer the messes nor match the precision

Either I open to this beauty and it trickles through me

Infusing everything I feel, say, touch, hear and do

Or the beauty paralyzes me

I can't move lest everything fall to pieces

Opening contracting closing

Closing is part of the opening.

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Opening

Opening to the tightness in my hips the weakness in my shoulders the strength in my legs /

Surrendering to the hormones in my blood the softness in my belly the crookedness of my spine /

Embracing the milk in my breasts the asymmetry of my face the truth in my smile /

Seeing light through my eyes hope through my words the future through my children.

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Shadow side of sweetness

Opening to what isThe shadow side of sweetness The flaws beneath An impeccable surface Smooth to the sight But not to the touch.

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Empty afternoons

faith flies in / cupping my heart urgency flies away / leaving in its place empty afternoons / pliant possibility

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Ground

The ground feels solid

When I'm spilled all over it

In bruised petals

Until I get it under my fingernails

And the land upon which we depend

Crumbles into piles of lost possibility

Beneath the surface a seed gestates

Cradled by the heat of the earth

A womb made of dirt.

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my full moon super powers

my full moon super powers--

Fly. See all of creation from up there. Skip through space to embody unknown dimensions. Walk to the other side of this planet. Understand the nature of beauty. Feel history as it pulses under my skin. Read a book by picking it up. Traverse the highway of time. Float. Levitate. Hover. Become everyone at once. Speak without words. Communicate across blank spaces. Shapeshift. Tumble through clouds. Read my heart aloud. Hold conviction as strong as the ocean. See God in the looking glass. Memorize the map engraved upon the deepest layer of spirit. Live the loftiest existence of my soul's imagination. Catch my baby's cries with unconditional kisses. Hold them forever. Grant grandiose wishes with the wink of my eye. Erase conflict with the nod of my head. Become the wind. Exhale abundance. Hear the echoes of animals. Unpeel the scars of living. Disappear. Reappear. Remember. Turn inside out. Show my insides to the kindred. Love all the children. Breathe in the babies. The crown of each head. Wrap my arms around the ocean. Unwrap the meaning of now. Sit in the stillness of sun. Bloom. Keep faith between my fingers, always close to my fingertips. Intuit without doubting. Play life like a movie. Slow motion. Rewind. Fast forward. Repeat. Open. Heart, mind, soul. Of infinite boundaries.

Photo credit: Alisha Sommer

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Midnight possibility

The nightsThey burn My eyes Open Midnight possibility I dip into dreams That stop without Ending Until I give in to day An empty wakefulness

Great heights

Should I discard the compulsion to do?

Break out from the shell of expectation

Shed this comfort of protection, this belief I'm doing fine as long as I'm moving

Could it be about finding stillness instead?

Like the tree whose great heights come from standing still.

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Leave

I know enough to know

That perfection is fleeting

Misleading

And things could fall apart

If we turn our backs

For a second too long

Tsunamis start

Long before land turns to sea

Hence vigilance

Warning systems carefully constructed

No one will protect you

But you.

Break away from

A static hold

Set the alarm

Lock the door

Leave the house

Adventure outward

Lose your way

Lose the key

Break in through the window

You know the code

No one can keep you out

But you.

Tied up tangled

My hair so often left behind

Long & dirty

Tied up tangled

Unhidden strands of silver.

Today

I let the curling iron burn waves into the broken ends

While music rolled through

My belly

And the baby watched and I danced.

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These Shoes

When I wear these shoes the earth feels soft beneath my feet

the pieces of me that won't be confined are free to be broken.

Collective Unburdening

Where we come from

The edges are supple

Not rigid

Blurring into the ether

And each other

Where nothing is separate

Not even our minds

Our ideas bleeding

Together

Spreading infections

And immunity

And tolerance

And maybe love.

Maybe love.

Collective unburdening

Divulges

A sparkling collection of

Modern thought

Where love of all colors

All iterations

Can be tolerated

Differences celebrated

Repression

Oppression

Confiscated by the past

Condemned by the future

Like crucifixion and the gallows

Gone

But never

Forgotten.

Fallen Behind

TimeThe metronome of progress Even when we stop For a break Time marches onward We will have to run To catch up. Fall too far behind and We fear Spending our whole lives Hidden by shadows Chasing light Looking behind clouds To find more clouds Grudges shackled to our ankles Expectations binding our wrists Weights of want And no one within shouting distance.

Correction.

The fog is thick as dirt Like we are buried Beneath the crust But even underground We are not alone Surrounded by Fungi and worms Moles and insects Billions of micro organisms Pay attention with every sense Notice The movement The earth shifting around us We are the axis Life is on all sides In all cracks No matter how deep We've fallen.

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Here

Here

Maybe?

 

There

 

 

A somewhere 

 

That doesn't really exist.

You can't dive into screens

 

Or yesterday

 

Go ahead

 

Pretend.

 

We'll pretend, too.

 

Pretend to care

Enough to love

Pretend to see

Enough to know

Pretend to hear

Enough to listen.

 

The future 

Will never be now

And you will never arrive

If you don't stay

 

Here.

Essence of Destiny

A leaky faucet of truthtwist the knobs unplug the holes you can try but you can't stop the flow the flood of wisdom slick messes with no mercy. Watch where you step you are breakable like me don't close your eyes denial breeds dis-ease don't hide your heart isolation nurtures depression. Heed the coincidences for they do not exist feel your feelings not the emotional blackmail but the divine guidance the answers resting beneath bone and within blood arteries surging with the essence of your destiny.

The work

Stop and start and stopfickle compulsions of the head making night-time final decisions based on a lucid dream. You think the work has feelings for you like a lover who leaves not love notes for remembrance but withered hopes and layered cuts. Flowers blossom faithfully in spring but never when we're looking change only perceptible after it's changed everything. It's a miasma of missing things even while doing everything it's never enough of anything stuffing holes with beautiful distraction. Pressure chips away at the beauty no one ever saw the potential we forgot to use the hours we'll never get back.

Real

For the Trifecta week 100 challenge to respond to this prompt with 33 one syllable words.  The first time I saw the boy with a slash on his cheek, one green eye and one blue, I knew he would change my life. He would take me past the edge of what I thought real.

Frequency of Us

I don't know what I'm looking at anymore We try and try and try again

Some days we get better and somedays we get worse

The sky turns pink and we turn away

The rain falls and we call it a nuisance

The night settles and we go to bed

The morning comes and we waste it away

I don't know what I'm doing anymore

Distractions circumnavigate my head

Doubt settles in my bones

Something isn't right

Materialism Pollution Racism

Sugar Alcohol Gossip Magazines

Impatience Dishonesty Power Wars

I want to jump out of bed in the morning

Drink tea Walk in the rain Salute the sun

Kiss my loves Hold my littles Embrace myself

Write Read Move Learn Teach Love

I have a hunch there's more out there

We are like little ants on one sidewalk on one street

Unseeing past the horizon, unaware of the infinite

The country, the planet, the galaxy, the universe

Matter and energy

Vibrating on the frequency of us.

The Popular Boy

Written for Trifecta.  Quiet little Kat had 16 years of living under her cinched belt when she caught the eye of Rory Reynolds. The boy who ran the popular crowd with a toss of his shaggy blonde bob. The teacher had assigned Rory and Kat as partners in Food Tech. Together they burnt the creme brûlée and over-salted the croissants and devoured shiny cinnamon rolls. He got frisky and grabbed her wrist to lick stray icing off of her pinky finger, no thicker than a pencil. The act of wrapping his rugged hand around her childlike wrist aroused desire in an unnatural place. He could snap her in half by flexing his football-enhanced arm. He wanted to know how small every part of her would be.

"There's a party on Saturday. At Chuck Fisher's house. You should come."

"I don't know him."

"He's my buddy. I can invite whoever I wanna."

"I'm not much of a party girl."

His fingers continued to encapsulate her wrist. He turned her hand around and began tracing the creases on her palm with his finger.

"You can bring a friend."

"Maybe."

He scribbled his number on the back of her hand, blue pen scraping blue veins.

"Call me if you want a ride."

She enlisted her best friend to tag along, a heavy girl with greasy bangs and thick glasses. They sat in the corner like spies, like mice so tiny they were invisible. Until Rory took her by the wrist to an upstairs bedroom with yellow walls. He pinned her against the bed, his breath severe with stale whiskey. He kissed her and she kissed him back. When he started tugging on her jeans, she asked him to stop.

"Let me go!"

He grunted. She thrashed.

"Stop!"

Moans converged, pleasure festooned by pain.

"You're an animal!"

He looked up and growled.

"You better believe it."

image via wandererthoughts.com

Birthday Party

Written for Tipsy Lit Prompted: describe a family tradition that has changed over time. Mother bakes a cake and the children play games in the great outdoors. Maybe they sing, maybe they have candles, maybe they don't. Gifts are bestowed upon little dimpled Johnny, the birthday boy, gifts that are handmade with care. A bear knit by grandma. A pretty picture by sister. A picture book by best friend. Flowers from mother's garden. A car built by father out of wood. A car built by brother out of sticks and sweets. This was a good old-fashioned birthday party.

Johnny is now Grandpa John. Allison, his granddaughter, also has her birthday parties at home. Her mother hires a professional party decorator to impress the adults and her father pays a magician to mystify the children. Because children need to be entertained. They suck on lollipops and juice boxes and when her mother brings out the buttercream cupcakes nearly the size of Allison's head, cacophony breaks loose. Every classmate and old friend and cousin within reasonable driving distance runs at top speed in a different direction. But the parents are on their seventh bottle of champagne by then, so they giggle and chatter on.

It's a party for everyone! Everyone but Grandpa John who sits in the corner with his hearing aid turned down, observing the madness with amused, grateful eyes. When Allison finally sits before the piles of shiny gifts, she is so high and happy that she barely stops to look at each present she opens. Her friends, on the other hand, don't hesitate to put the gifts to good use.

When the last one has been opened, the exodus begins. Hugs and high fives and coats and extra cupcakes shoved out the door. Wrapping paper litters the floor like a rainbow-colored blizzard. Little Allison falls asleep upon the snowflakes, lips and cheeks red as cherries.