Poems in Cocoon Time

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Behind the words you say I want them to be true. I want the curtain to be drawn back to see the stage as you say it’s set. I want to float under your sky without caution, my eyes meditating on the moon, in a harbor you’ve created for yourself.

I want the words I say to be true, the curtain drawn to reveal the stage set exactly as I say it is set, for you to float under my sky without caution, the moon your lover, in a harbor I have created for myself.

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Energy is transported, transmuted, blended, transferred, received, given, and stored. But never lost, and never created without the alchemical process involving what has already been created.

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Oh how the very things that break our hearts bring us closer to ourselves, closer to God.

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It counts for something–eyes giving squinty smiles to people passing by, the encouragement you give to a stranger in line at winco, the wise crack you exchanged with your coworker at 5am, a note for your lover beside the coffee pot. The invisible work is the way you move in the world–not your title, your degree, or your craft.

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I found a lion whispering in my stomach, no roaring for days. The quiver in my voice is what I banish, and I am learning to say it straight from my ribcage, and from the red of my womb.

I trust myself enough to follow the feeling of ecstasy to it’s end.

I reclaim time, by giving myself my time–playing my music, typing like this, paying close attention to what I am participating in, being selective, and re-directive.. How To Redirect Yourself: Draw attention to simple sensations that make you feel good about your world, yourself–start with the simplest of things such as the way the colors in the sky contrast, how orange the moon is, how soft the fabric is against your skin. Look at any distractive or destructive time thief of a thought and say ‘NO’ the way you would to someone about to step into oncoming traffic, then with relief take a hold of your shoulders and walk yourself home.

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What I notice in another, is within me as well. And it is because of this noticing, that it stays over there.

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Your breathing is your own, is your messenger, is your teacher, is your anchor. I honed in on the pit of my stomach that feels like fire and I imagined it spreading through my body via my blood. I pretended to be a woven basket of tangerines and lemons next to the clothesline.

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The fixation on one perspective is to be studied–catch it like a slippery fish–that moment where your mind is heading toward choosing an idea to look for within the words others say, the world itself.