Monday, February 1, 2016

rose garden

Love left a potted rose plant 
at my door today
as a house warming gift
The note attached 
my first welcome home
Small delicate flowers
gossamer pink
surrounded by intense veridian 
Slowly the leaves have died
brown creeping up the stems
the blossoms have dried 
and fallen
The light from my windows is not strong enough 
my winter sun not warm enough 
The water and soil supplied
isn't nurturing enough
I sing to her
but it must not be in the language she speaks 
for she is unresponsive
I cannot 
locate 
her heartbeat
I don't know what she needs
I wish I knew what to feed her
The blossoms on my friends cheeks
were surrounded by veridian bruises 
back in highschool
Backwards backwoods teaching
about what happens when you speak your mind
or dare to be who you are
She dared to come out first
Bravely payed the price for the rest of us
but I still carry the punching bags around in my mind
Southpaws of cynicism 
stealing idealism
from the possibilities
of delicacy 
soft pink that could blossom 
within my thoughts instead
I keep trying to
bob and weave 
my way out of that jaded corner
My hands up at all times
Trying to anticipate 
the knockout clock
that keeps me in wait
I am in the midst 
of my match
I am trying so hard to 
turn over those veridian leaves
Inspect the anatomy of the tender underbelly
within those exposed veins is the new language to be learned
Soft cillia that whisper sweet nothings 
and nothing is sweeter than gentle fingertips
but pretty hard to handle such fragile foliage
with boxing mitts on
Golden gloves are revered with pride
but they are heavy
A weight that taints
the sugar bowl
which was full to begin with
but what do I do with soured sugar
I am tired of drinking lemonade
It doesn't make the roses bloom
I am tired of fighting with my mind
It doesn't make my house a home
I am tired of having blood on my knuckles
I would rather push them into the dirt
How do I switch from defense to offense 
Must I swing my way out 
Sound the bell
Round is over 
Please Let me exit the ring
This greenthumb is meant for more than just 
bringing back the dead
Sweet rose plant is still alive
and this champ 
wants to plant 
a rose garden

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Sway

I can feel the sway
within the search for my center
I maintain the tenuous balance  
through my toes
Plant my feet
Flex my knees
Arch my back 
Fill my lungs with air
Lift my chin
and look upward
But it is hard to sustain
that posture
Even though I want to stay
I begin to feel the sway
Shifting my balance from one side 
to the other
Giving each leg a turn to carry 
all the weight at once
Seems unfair and unnecessary 
when there are two
made to hold the load together
In my reach for the center
The pendulum swings to one side
I feel the tempo of my mother
A frantic metronome
of anxiety
Worker bee activity
filling the comb with honey
so there are no empty spaces
the sweet is quick
and the flight of bumble
catches up with me
bee wings are beautiful
but tiny
the weight of the pollen 
I have gathered
starts to burden
so flying becomes
difficult 
I see how far from the hive
I have strayed
and my leg starts to burn
So I shift my stance
I begin to feel the sway
the pendulum counters
momentum becomes speed
and before I can catch the middle
I have swung to the other side
Opposite contrapposto
My fathers slow low melody
lullabies me to a snails pace
His voice is rich and deep 
His volume is full and lovely 
The vibration resonates 
down in the souls of my feet
and drowns the seat of my soul 
with melancholy knumbness 
I could sleep there
for hours
days 
weeks
In that apathetic bed of depression
until the whole world 
just disappeared
An intoxicating hibernation
that holds the sweet kiss of death
which doesn't take very long 
Only one lifetime 
But then that leg starts to tingle
with pins and needles 
I begin to feel the sway
back the other way
This peg leg business 
does not make for a savvy sailor 
only a bitter pirate
A one eyed perspective 
with which to read the map
cheats you out of your rightful treasure 
How am I supposed to navigate
the polar codependent sea charts 
that have been unrolled
in this captains quarters
Which ropes do I pull
What knots should be undone
So I can raise sail 
Catch the wind 
Find my sea legs
the tenuous balance  
is in the curl of my toes
It uproots my feet
Flexes my knees
Arches my back 
Fills my lungs with salty air
Lifts my chin
and I look upward
For that is where I will find the center
It is carried in the wind
Nestled In between the waves
Resting in the changes of the clouds
It is the still inside the honey spaces

It lies within the feeling of the sway

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Posture

Excuse me
for a moment
My queen is screaming at me
I used to think
that I was just getting old
My back started to snap at me
My hips would give me lip service
My neck will whip lash me with sass into next week
Imprisoned by my disposition
when lacking vertical precision
I remember my mother saying
to my sister and I
when we were young
Why do you slouch so much
you should stand up taller
My sister would hunch
forward at the shoulders
and it would pull her chin down
so she stared at the ground
My hips would slump
forward and snake up my spine
and it would pull my chin down
so I stared at the ground
I didn't realize
what she was really saying
I don't know if she realized
what she was really saying
Now all the crooks in my core
that have been pinched
over the years
from improper posture
are refusing to carry that weight anymore
All the internal wounds
that my body
has been curling around
are bleeding through
refusing to hide
not even once more
The exaggerated curve
of these misaligned vertebrae
has been a map
of places to travel to
that need to be healed through
I have cradled my hips
at an inarticulate angle my whole life
My sexuality caged and protected
holding the unexpressed grief
from a history of abuse and misuse
The disc between my scapula
have consistently slipped
to make room for the heart
that would shrink back inside
to search for her courage
like a cowardly lion
If only she could see
that she was a lion
My chin pointing earthward
always kept me grounded
But it fought with my vocal chords
silently trying to escape to the sky
Their wrestling for position
distorting my crown and crane
creating the stretch and strain
from the multiplying thoughts
the yearning blossoms of my brain
Desire that kept on burning
trapped within the incinerator
as I consistently insisted
on slowly cremating my frame
I like to think I have an old soul
My soul must have told the old
to wisely crawl into my body
to awaken me with aches and pains
now that I no longer have
the youthful angst
needed to refrain
doubtfully retreat
redundantly mistreat
this royal and regal that thankfully remains
This Thai Chi master
holding pose
fragile and unanswered
This old blues standard
rocking steady but unmastered
This ballet dancer
stretching slowly
intention overflowing
out of every undulating limb
It is time I embraced
such graceful consideration
Quiet
encompassing
gentleness
selfless shameless pride
cradled in reverence
through the loving humility
of my uniquely perfect posture
Holding the temporary presence
of my physical existence
as the sacred currency
of this appointed temple
Just as I imagine
my mother held me
gingerly and gratefully
for the first time
So I shall listen to her
I will stand taller
No more slouching
The origin of my lineage
will not have it
Excuse me
for a moment
I need to correct myself

My queen is calling for me