To the fierce woman

To the fierce woman–
not the girl, whatever the age, trying to look pretty,
to be nice,
not the girl in the woman’s body aiming
to be desired, seductive, adored, heroic, cool, mysterious,
No, no-
To the fierce woman who knows the song of her own heart’s beat,
who cares not about how she appears, but about who she is,
who isn’t reaching for the next best outfit, witty comeback, title or
right answer–
To the fierce woman who walks how she walks,
talks how she talks,
ages as she brilliantly ages,
sees how she sees and
loves how she loves,
my God, Welcome.
Welcome to this world.
You
are
needed.

Go forth

Did you ever fall in love for the first time?

If not, I can tell you-

you’ll be changed.

The wind will be his kiss when he’s not

by your side,

colors will reach out with incredible loving hands,

the sweetness of a peach will impassion

every last one of your taste buds,

and music will have been composed, amazingly,

just for you..

Yes,

yes, that and more.

But that’s not what will change you-

not quite.

What will, however, rearrange your particles

after both the elation and inevitable suffering rip through,

what will wrap you up, enrapture your heart,

sing you to sleep, and bring you to greet each rising sun

with gratitude,

is a knowledge taught by your own body

that another’s adoration is not only not necessary

but that it was you who had to fall in love with you

all along.

But I don’t mean to ruin the game-

go forth

and fall.

The beauty of five a.m.

Darkness, silence, brightness of stars,

silhouetted tree crowns,

the beauty of five a.m.

I’m not sure why we forget,

so readily forget,

the preciousness we participate in.

These troubles, 

the wasting, threatening, destroying-

maybe turning ourselves right-side-round toward

birthing light

relies upon one task:

Remembering.

This little one

Longing comes with the light,

and sometimes leaves with it.

That’s how it goes when

nobody’s looking.

But a quivering dog needs a soft gaze

to make it real.

Gentle,

gentle with your eyes

and any movement-

this pup can’t take a stare

or a jumping out of your seat to say hello.

Fill a small dish by the door and,

when its brown eyes and cracked nose part

the hillside grasses, sit visibly

but out of the way.

This little one is hungry.

More than that, though,

loving.

A fence-crashing

Having never felt this old,

nor so young and inept

– and simultaneously –

well, 

there’s a fence-crashing, a home-burning, 

a finding-one’s-own-nose-on-someone-else kind of mess.

What is to be done with a tension like that?

Bear it.

Stretch with it.

Let be torn loose the decayed, the ineffectual, 

follow the twisting into the twist,

watch new movements be born.

I guess.

Still, if I’m a living version of a mr. potato head,

could I waddle in those shoes a ways?

It might do me some good.

If suffering

If suffering is the path laid down for us, by us

stone by stone,

How might we love

not only each one but

the trying burden of laying them

on the surface of this Earth

(could as easily be the moon. still, it’s not)

for our own feet to walk upon?

If meaning is found

simply

in carrying our suffering

in devotion

– not as martyr, but pilgrim

with full unknowing of why,

or even how-

to the making of a life,

by virtue of its having been given,

then

might we lean into the expectations

life holds for us

and do right by them

by our own true Selves-

that Essence buried

beneath all the heaviness requiring our backs, hearts, hands

which knows what it is

to burn brightly

for no reason

what

so

ever?

.

.

* with thanks to Viktor Frankl

Front door

I always entered and 

exited

through side doors.

quietly.

..slipping in or out with as few eyes following

or ears noticing

or minds rippling

as possible.

Now,

however,

that I’ve bought my freedom

I will be using the front door

as often

as loudly

as visibly

as this once-silent spirit

needs be.

And some houses will never

be catching sight of me

again.

Spring

Grass,

green, high, lilting..

Spring wears her tall rubber boots 

and wanders through

from seedling to start, from birdsong to unfurling fiddlehead.

Crossing slopes slowly,

around and up,

She eventually meets their tops

having tapped every waking wildflower

with a wink and a sweet how-do-you-do.

Her hair trails behind her in post-storm breeze.

With a softened gaze, you’ll catch a snippet of calico print dress

somehow waving

from a corner of your own sunny imagination.

Transition

Movement

like rolling earth

after tectonic plates shudder-

It’s tough keeping your feet without

loosening up,

first,

and

laughing,

second.

Because when else can you ride

for free

anywhere you are,

with the benefit of losing

what you swore kept you alive but

only

brought you

down?

Go ahead,

remember the sound

of your own giggling insides and

jiggle a little~