Solar Plexus

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.

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hungry.

bright and too hot burning.

Also, full.

fresh green or deep yellow?

born yesterday or old as gold?

options… to push or pull?

What is the gut feeling?

curiosity. lots of little wings.

do moths have guts?

too much fuel. too much flutter.

little ego…

can you stomach it?

 

Thanksgiving

There is enough for us all.

First. I watch, I listen, I am very careful. People need love.

Second. I love, I give, I teach. People need time.

Third. I stay, I care, I burn. People need everything.

I grow large, I am a tree with branches reaching,

stretching, broad, solid and rooted.

Finally. The truth: Nothing is really needed.

Breath, life, sustenance, death. It is all a desire.

Oh, desire… The moment, the flutter, the quickness, the yes.

I could get used to this feeling…

Being alive.

 

 

I Was…

I Was a Girl… a soldier of sunshine, life so unlike me, slightly metallic, like a bee sting. I would storm the path to the pond and then they would smile, I was sure of it. A mission so clear and kind, can be carried like a torch in the dense fog, it clings to dark walls, and hiding places, swollen, with childhoods past, under the deck… my refuge.

Then, I was In-Between… a soldier of the stars, life so ominous, like a predator stalking its prey, always a man, waiting to strike me with a blunt object. At this they laughed, an odd reaction, for sure.  A journey, deep into the inky, buzzing darkness, reveals my own hunger, my own greed. A taste is being acquired, for bodies of water and shells echoing the sound of sheer unequivocal power… my beauty.

Then, I was a Lover… a soldier of the black hole, unknown, hovering… life so imperfect, empty and raw, like a mouth sore. I would ride you and you too, and then they would cry, of that I was sure. A quest, so lonely and empty can only be felt, in the dark velvet throes of acid, smoke and forts in the woods with scratchy blankets… my desperation.

Then, I was a Prisoner… a soldier of man… or the spaceship… not sure what happened! Life so unrecognizable, so forced and stiff. Like a rock… in my belly, but not underneath me, not supporting me with firm enough hands. At this, they all nodded approval and clucked that there was hope yet. The transition begins in the park with the lions. Dark eyes glint shiny in the corner with broad shoulders exploring the secrets of my mind… my freedom.

Then I Was a Woman… a soldier of the moon, full and ready, growling like a soft animal… or maybe melting like a delicious desert, a seeker of pleasure, joy and bliss. I have the power to give and soak up the light. At this, they all shudder, delight, shrouded in disgust, it is what they each secretly hoped for.  The change is violent, the lightning and thunder roll in, the cat screams. With whomever I desire, I will grow even bigger… my dreams.

 

open third eye

My heart thinks about weird things, dark woods, strangers glances, striped light, sex in deep water, I see the whole morning in one piece. A few of these thoughts skulk through my mind. I am on a firing range, standing in the gravel and dust amongst empty shell casings. A row of seven black rifles pointed at my chakras, they are so steady. I cannot feel my body, my weight, the dress hanging on my skin. I think I need a pedicure and a haircut,  if I had just been better groomed… I roll over and spoon his sleeping body, his pale neck is clean shaven and my body suddenly returns, to the scent of mint and sugar water. I assure myself that here with him, no one can shoot me down, I am safe and sound, just going along with the day; meeting at 10 am, laundry, groceries, dinner…

I get up to send an email, I will forget if I wait. Auto-thought: I just want to go home. “You are home” I say back to myself. Childs pose, Violent images from my weird and troubled heart leave through my open third eye, slowly at first and then pouring out onto the floor. I sleep here, until my feet get pins and needles. The yoga dragon smiles on me, amused that I slept this way, drained and exposed. I am a shell now, echoing my own sea of dreams and doubts.This is good, better than a heavy hearted rock submerged in the same sea…

 

Body of Work

What a wonderful term… body of work. Implying that there are so many separate parts that are distinct and yet make up a whole, my work,  an abstract manifestation of my own sensual body. It is a full moon tonight and my own physical body fatigued, sore and a bit swollen sprawled out on my bed. I am a bit tricky, sensitive overworked, I can’t love someone, just a little bit… my mind is racing with light, wind and sprinklers. Spirit flying, ground, ground, heel, then toes. heel, then toes, repeat. walk around, bring the heart rate down. Repeat.

I might fold you into me or even swallow you whole in this state of humid summer passion, though I am more likely to just move air to and from my lungs in time with your stride. At the heart of my body of work, are children dancing around a fire in sweet costumes, angels, butterflies, bunnies and of course my favorite little Ellen is a dear, my little fawn. It wouldn’t even be fair to describe the ritual in the crudeness of the English language which is the only one I know other than the language of love and hospitality, which cannot be expressed here.

What can those sun drenched afternoons eating raspberries fresh from the bush, and then falling from tire swings into the soft dirt with you mean? To laugh with unselfconscious abandon, smeared with juice and earth would be to just complete my whole body of work. Living without you is like living without blood. My skin blue and pale in the moonlight forgets softness, flowing through openings in a different way now, one that is deliberate… I suppose this is a contradiction… dammit!

If the heart is too open, the whole moon moves in.

 

no mind between us (namaste)

There is something about Yoga that allows us to approach the most intimidating questions in life and yet reminds us that we are intricately woven into the answers. A simple metaphor for the body seems absurd when I am surrounded by the clutter of the day, then I come to my mat. Here I can picture my poetic self. A red clay pot, rough and textured on its rounded surface, smooth and dark at the lip and within. The pot holds water, clear, cool and very still. But I know that water is never really still, I know that stillness is an illusion, perhaps more aptly a practice or an art. This water will warm in the sun, turn to steam, and then dust, leaving its residue. We know too from experience that this dust-mark will be one of specificity, it will have a pattern of reduction, and a fossil like no other will remain. I love the image, but why? I suppose it brings to my mind the elusive notion of a soul, a vapor, a forever and most of all a reason to live well. To live well for me is to embody the features of the earthen pot, to be marked by the nourishment I bring to the world, simply and softly.

I remember when I last arrived at the doorstep of my yoga practice, desperate to find peace, to cool the ache in my heart and quiet the chatter in my mind and care for my body. “But how is your spirit?” My close friend had inquired, the question knocked the wind out of me, I thought back to the last time I’d felt spiritually fulfilled, it had been a long time and it was sporadic as well. Practicing anything daily, consciously soaking in the bright blue sky and drawing new breath into the body is all we must do. Yoga is teaching me that I am not my artwork, body, thoughts, feelings, job, or any relationship role I perform. I always have the choice to be who I am and not who other people expect me to be. I am an energy and behind that a simple and pure consciousness. My favorite line by the poet Maria Rainer Rilke always puts my existence into perspective: “The inner – what is it? If not the intensified sky”[1]

[1] Rilke, Rainer Maria.  Ahead of All Parting: The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke, Mitchell, Stephen, ed. and trans. New York,1995.  Page 191

 

Inside Our Bodies

Is it possible
that feelings have Shapes?
Inside
our bodies?

They do press up
in certain places
in strange ways.

 

Beauty

My Grandmother was a beautiful woman… and by beautiful I mean so many things that many of us do and do not equate with beauty, though she had lovely pleasing features by anyone’s standards in her youth, she had become absolutely breathtaking by her 86^th year. She was missing a leg and a few fingers due to an obscure disease that plagued her late in life. She was very tiny, in fact much too small for her skin and squishy in all the best hugging places.

To me, most beautiful of all, were the wrinkles in her face, they were deep and flowing and as numerous as the stars in the sky, as a small child I am sure they are among my first memories. These lines, were the lines of her life stories, every joyful laugh and every tear had been etched into her skin. Her legacy is so multi-faceted; she quietly speaks to the incredible capacity of those who face disability, and conquer limitations, with profound grace. Through my work, she speaks to all women about the proud beauty of wisdom and experience. It is a shame to think that we as women “fight” our lines, the very proof of our strength, passions and courage to live through all that life has to offer. Her face so dear to me and imprinted upon my minds eye, grips my heart. Finally, as the woman, who was no more or less than love with a quiet warmth and conviction.

Her passing has in some ways allowed me to know her again in my memories and imagination more vividly than I was able to while she was in the last days of her life. I imagine she is dancing with Patrick Swayze in heaven, that the lines of her face are texts telling of her great loves and losses they spill from her cheeks like rivers carrying ships with precious cargo into the ocean of spirit, laughter and light. There is a ladies luncheon with no shortage of ice cream sundaes and I remember that a dark eyed twinkle is watching us all the time.

 

Dream Feast

Steady gaze of two tiny windows.

No mind between us.

A great feast is also a great famine.

The swollen night bore down,

A moon pale, engorged

belly laughs at me.

 

Charms

Your lovely wristlet is so full of charms it is truly a wonder you can still lift your pale slender arm. Still, I wonder if there could not be a trinket or two that might inspire the spirit of the devoted and convince the faithless to say thanks…to no one in particular of course.

Stories involving birds, especially those dark of feather, opportunistic or downright predatory in nature tend to instill a solid sense of gratitude in their readers.  That is assuming the reader is snug in a warm dry dwelling sipping hot cocoa or perhaps even outside on a hot summer day baking their skin in the sun and sipping iced tea.

Though, when that cloud passes and your fuzz stands at attention be sure to remember your charms, and all your shiny things, they will be needed when little winged death messengers come to remind you of your shortness. Shortness of breath, of vision, of life. They are just doing their job I suppose.