Free Fridays (III)

Writing is inviting a few monkeys into your home 
to do away with order, 
politeness, 
all of the value placed
on this stone, 
a gift, your prayer mat. 

I call upon a forgetfulness of my self. May it feel good coming out of me, and may it always be nothing more than that that matters. May I be alone with myself while welcoming in everything that comes to my door. Let it dance with me as it arrives, then take me home when it is time to.

Loss is on my mind, and I mean that in all ways loss exists--
the branches removed, 
the uprooting of the neighbors we got used to growing beside. 
The losses we remember, the losses we feel but cannot see.. 

Where should I be the loudest? The scaled and bloody and feathered within, sings louder and more gloriously reckless every day, in front of anyone near. From womb to wind, it arrives before my mind gets in the way.

“You are learning about you. And I am learning about me.” To love is to embody and witness sovereignty– welcome it, encourage The Right to Belong To Oneself–allow it to be. -On how many ways there are to love me

We should take time to study our minds while they are not being fed, 
gaze at what we are in the rhythm of feeding ourselves.
Play with what the patterns that exist within us
long to create
out of color, matter,
symbol, sound.

Freeflow Friday (ll)

We are as beaming as the moments we spend tending to the dark.

“How willing are you to consider that you are the source of your own suffering?” -Questions Before We Begin

The moments come–the ones where you are right where you need to be to see 3 prisms in the sky, find agate on the playground, meet the author of your poem face-to-face. We have to be ready for them.

I’d like to stay in my world all through the day, is what it is. I feel like I am longing to dive but the teacher insists I keep my lifejacket on. Who is this teacher? Mostly just the one in my mind (the source). And it is more a feeling than anything I can put my hands on. I find movement when I am here, then when I sing from the gourd of my stomach. “Movement is good” and the tide changes with the moon. It takes our slippers off of the porch and leaves dead fish under our clothes lines. `

I am learning more and more every day of how attracted I am to the stillness of things. I am already hooked to what is about to be said when someone is very slow to respond, closes their eyes even. I do this. I like to knead the question around in my gut to gather the right images and herbs.

Anything that promotes or insinuates superiority is a lie. -lessons Pluto’s in Scorpio’s are learning and teaching.

Patience is a different kind of strength–overlooked and underrated. The pauses, the simple offering of your presence. Letting a 4-year old stare at the rocks on the ground before getting into the car, lingering in the pulses of silence after a poem is read, before swooning.

Taking time to look at all I’ve accomplished because a mentor said it’s good for me: I have accomplished… a) following my gut and dreams to go into teaching, then following my gut about how I want to be teaching in the world. b) Within all positions I was authentic with my students and colleagues, and unable (or just stubborn) to perform tasks I didn’t believe in or felt caused harm to students. This is an accomplishment according to my soul anyway. c) I’m getting better everyday at choosing my needs and putting my goals first. Those are a hefty enough 3 eh?

I cry and kick the air, run in place, turn it into words to get the heavy off. I lift and push and dance it into the wind up off of me, just so I can fly.

We ought to be careful of the temptation to turn anything that challenges the desires of our egos–to be right, to be better, to be more–into villains, “less than’s” or “incorrect’s”.

2/13/2022

I have set out to write a love poem, having had poetry in my mind all day with you. But the poem has vanished, and every word feels like it cheapens the music that is living on the tip of my tongue. So this is a poem not wanting to be chased–all spirit and summer winds on the throat.

You’re in the next room and I’d like to dance to this song with you. Today we cried into one another’s necks about 2008. Tonight I told you how I would’ve handled your addiction to starting fires–all candle-gazing and bonfires on sand,

and we’d kick and dance and sing and cry. Our feet would be black by the end of the night–all ash and dirt and drum. I’d show you the respect that is to be had for spark and ember, and how it exists inside of all of us–burning, waiting, alive.