Tag: love

Poetry

THE OLD WOMAN AND THE OLD BICYCLE

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THE OLD WOMAN AND THE OLD BICYCLE

The Old Woman And The Old Bicycle
The breeze is cold and sharp and honest on my walk without you.
Confusion wells up in my eyes
As I sit uncomfortably in the patience of universal design.
I feel lost, as I usually do right before I am found.
Cars blur past,
Some rattling with age
While others flaunt their shiny newness.
My idle hands crimp and fuss.
Absent is the hand that held them steady.
Touching my face to remember I’m here
And I’m real and I feel,
As the crisp air blowing on my sore neck wasn’t enough.
The marks of my strain and stress now visible.
Between my vacant family,
My lost husband,
My insurfuckingmountable depression,
And my god damned dead dad
I want to step in front of that shiny new car and stop it.
Stop the 30 years of abuse
Stop the nightmares
Stop the tears
Stop the loss
And stop the unheard, maddening loneliness.
I tried to call so many people and no one answered.
I’m reminded of the time I told my cousin that when no one answers
That means it’s time to call to the universe.
So I called to her.
Please guide me to joy.
Please carve a lighter path.
Please take pity on my tired and bruised body.
I’ll stay!
I’ll keep walking!
I’ll walk night and day and day and night
Just please stand beside me.
In all your warmth and rapture and rage
Show me some kindness.
Show me your mercy.
My trembling hand pulled a card from a deck earlier and it said, “Power.”
Was that meant for you?
For I cannot see mine, but yours is surely in the air.
Is mine hidden in the hand behind your back?
Or is it in my footsteps?
Maybe my legs will grow stronger with every mile.
Maybe the rhythm of my movement will steady the equilibrium of my breath.
Maybe my hands will effortlessly fall to my sides as my head dizzies with quietness.
And then, maybe, I’ll hear her.
In the lemon tree,
Or the hazy far off police sirens,
Or in the melting background hum of rush hour traffic,
Or in the soft paddle of an old bicycle wheel.
And as the street lamps flicker on,
And the dusk settles in,
And as the misty Olympic clouds blanket the Pasadena mountains, maybe,
I’ll hear her say, “take another step.”

Poetry

The Speaking Hummingbirds

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THE SPEAKING HUMMINGBIRDS

The Speaking Hummingbirds
A hummingbird appeared to me three times today.
An unusual occurrence,
Perhaps decorated with significance.
She paused in the sky,
Reminding me that every second holds prominence.
I hopscotched around dried, dead leaves like lost memories.
Swearing the flowers beside me said something,
What did they say as I passed by?
All the while a crow’s wings sounded like unraveling paper as he whooshed overhead.
My mind painting on you, vibrant violet and gold,
The colors of connection.
My ankle tickled inside my shoe with
Faded wishes of you
Stroking it again, like the most delicate harp.
I am in love with not the memories of you,
I am in love with not the illusion of you,
I am in love with the essence of you.
“It’s all very simple, isn’t it?” asked the little hummingbird
From the woman’s tattooed ankle.
He is a dream-catcher.
Standing by my side in my make-believe world
Changing shapes and kissing me.
I have never seen him naked
But I have felt his ecstasy, I have given myself to him
Every night my intrinsic nature and lifeblood courses with his
The moon our conduit for pure intimacy.
Freeing me, liberating me, releasing me
Back home.
On the last visit, my happy-hearted feathered friend
Holding a symbol of continuity
She sang to me, of infinity and of eternity.
Oh, how I wait to sing with you in harmony.

Poetry

Clever North Wind

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clever north wind

Clever North Wind
The wind visited me last night,
Rustling my leaves and chilling my aching bark.
She felt cruel and unyielding at first
But softened into a wavelike drag.
Lifting the heavy parts of my old branches,
Giving relief to my sinking roots,
Raising me from my bed of dampened soil and
Gracefully uplifting my oftentimes laden and restless sagacity.
In moments of change, I weary with tiredness
Again, I must grow?
Yet, with her winds I feel her ever-love for movement
The flood of celebration and gift of newness,
A remembrance of childhood sprouting.
Almost like falling asleep,
Beginning with a slow birth
And then a sudden and complete surrender,
I am bewitched by her breeze of arriving seasons.
A wild delirium for nature’s will to be done.
Influence my stems, lead me where you need me
Raise my creaking camphorwood,
And then admire how I blossom.
For what is change without appreciation?
My sweet wind, you are the causation and
The heiress to all of springtime.
Another growth-ring appears,
A recorded reflection of age and time
To cut me in half would reveal my wisdom
But it would also unveil that I took courage from thine.

Poetry

I Couldn’t Have Known

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i couldnt have known

I Couldn’t Have Known
Nobody else holds the space you hold,
Or reflects light off of lakes the way you do.
I couldn’t have known
What you would mean to me.
So meet me,
Meet me in the world between worlds.
Dance on the edge of crystals
Where your sternum vibrates
Where your throat opens
Where your lungs are healed.
When gravity tugs at you,
That is a door to find me.
When a shadow moves in a still room,
That is a door to find me.
And when water feels viscous underneath your palm,
That is a door to find me, too.
Where the precious fire burns
In dreams of wisdom and unrelenting eloquence
Meet me in spirit, in truth, in power and in grace.
And kiss me.
And hold me.
And color me.
Nobody else is what you are to me,
Or hears my nightingale’s song.
I couldn’t have known
What you would mean to me.
I have memorized the taste of your invention
I have sat in the ancient architecture of your DNA
And I am humbled by the mirage of your apparition.
You warm me.
You comfort me.
You collapse me.
So meet me,
Meet me on a moon-drenched road
Allow the mist and the mystics to raise you up
Where you lose sobriety
Where your smile sighs with levity
Where your occupation is only to love with me.
Nobody else could carry this vastness
The profusion of fresh air you bestow upon me.
I couldn’t have known
What you would mean to me.

Poetry, Self-Help

Her

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her

Cry for the little girl whose mommy always cries
Cry for the little girl whose daddy is never home
Who overhears loud fighting
And crashes in the middle of the night.
Cry for the little girl who stopped getting lullabies.
Cry for the little girl who had a nightmare one night
And who crawled into her mommy and daddy’s bed for comfort.
Cry for the little girl whose daddy touched her between her legs
Cry for the little girl who didn’t want to hurt her daddy
but she was getting hurt, too
So she hit him
And hit him
And hit him.
Cry for the little girl who went back to bed
Cry for the little girl who woke up confused, wet with urine,
And no one talked to her.
Cry for the little girl who made herself believe it was just her nightmare
The nightmare that she will have for decades to come.
The nightmare that will come back
Again, and again, and again, and again.
Cry for the little girl whose mommy started drinking
Whose lungs are burning and aching with smoke.
Cry for the little girl whose sister began to get angry
Who was placed in a dryer and had it turned on
Who was locked in a meat freezer
Who was electrocuted
And drowned
And beaten with a rock
And still has all the scars to prove it.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside one night
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside for three weeks
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who lost her virginity
And then he broke her rib
Cry for the little girl who was spit at, beat up and locked in lockers at school
Cry for the little girl whose mother threw chairs
And thought she was branded by Satan
And choked her daughters if they got out of line.
Cry for the little girl whose father was home now but too drunk to care.
Cry for the little girl who was drugged by boys
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who started fantasizing about her father
Who loathed her own sexuality and was disgusted with her skin.
Cry for the little girl who fooled around with an older boy in a hot tub
Only to realize his friends were filming nearby
And what about that boyfriend that uploaded that video
The one of her going down on him to that porn site, cry about that too.
Cry for the little girl who was called a whore, a slut, easy, a piece of pussy, trash, loose, a bitch, a cunt, and such a fucking tease.
Cry for the little girl who had six,
Or was it seven
Fraternity boys attack her, rip her clothes off and throw them out the window.
Who went back home and had no one to tell.
Cry for the little girl who was raped by the neighbor boy
And still, 13 years later can’t drive down his road.
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who was raped again only one month later.
Remembering his piercing cold blue eyes, but was a total stranger.
Cry for the little girl whose doctor came in without gloves and forced himself inside her
Cry for the little girl whose masseuse went too high up her thigh
And wouldn’t stop, even when she cried.
Cry for the little girl who was assaulted three more times.
But can’t remember.
A silhouette of a person, an outline, a negative space cut out from reality.
Cry for the little girl whose memories began to evaporate from time
Cry for the little girl who was convinced by an older man that he could save her
Who just wanted to play with her
Who just wanted to use her, abuse her, degrade her, defile her, torture her and scar her
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who sought recovery.
Who faced her suicidal tendencies,
And her instincts to hurt and to hate.
Cry for the little girl who finally found her voice.
Once meager and weak
But now she could speak,
What a beautiful sound.
Cry for the little girl who learned about trust.
Not just in others, or herself, but in all of us.
Cry for the little girl who wanted her family again
And realized they were in more pain than her
So she cried for them.
Cry for the little girl who learned about love.
For the first time, feeling genuine care.
For being fearful of what she owed in return,
Realizing love is not a debt.
Cry for the little girl who learned how to make love.
With her spirit, her mind, her conscious body and her ever-grateful heart.
Cry for her joy, her returning childlike wonder, her intrigue with life.
Cry for her rejuvenation,
Her renewed sense of innocence
And Her resurrection.
Cry for the little girl that learned how to forgive.
Who prayed and cried for those who hurt her
For seeing clearly their pain like mountains over Her calm valley of water.
And once the tears have fallen, once they have rained into Her river
Watch them drift back to the sea
The vast horizon that is Her love
Not just for you, but for everybody.
Do not cry for the little girl, not anymore.
She does not want your tears.
This little girl has now lived for many years.
Cry for the sick, the disturbed, the tormented and weak.
Cry for their souls some refuge to seek.
Cry for their reflection, their need to introspect.
Cry for their lack of empathy and their inability to connect.
Cry for their healing, their cold and confused hearts.
Cry for our sake, for without their health we’ll all be pulled apart.
Our people are a hurting one, place your weapons down.
Speak up, trust, love
Only Her peace will be found.

Poetry

My Candle Burns For You

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my candle burns for you

My Candle Burns For You
Weeks go by,
Months even
My affections remain the same.
I stare at my candle
Unlit, blackened tip
Remembering our night
Under the stars
Under the flickering ceiling,
Under cover.
Silence, on a carpet
Silence, on a road
Silence, on the sand
Silence, on each other.
Wild and free
I am your home
As you are to me.
Delicate music
Plays in my ears
As I read you.
How is your day?
Come with me
Come with me tonight
Hold my hand
Again, and again, and again.
There you are.
I know your smell.
I saw you naked this morning,
Your skin is colder than mine
It’s okay though, it’s just fine.
Nothing will diminish
Your great beauty.
You call to me
Elementally, essentially
Taste the wild inside me.
My beloved garden.
My river of fireflies.
Write me, run with me
I am a woman,
Press your cheek against God’s
As you study my biology.
Meet me in the medial nature
As the man.
Search my skin
Break the rules
Prescient and visceral
Your tongue knows
My first language.
Thank you,
My binary star
And the infinite
Light that guided us home.
I place the unlit candle back.
Safe inside my drawer
For a later time
When I talk to you,
Once more.

Poetry

Wear Me

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wear me

Wear Me
Her eyes are red
Bearing his tears
His hurt wears her
As the sun turns to set

She reaches out a hand
In her striped blue sweater
His loneliness wears her
As the sun turns to set

Her nightmares continue
Longing to sleep naked again
His tiredness wears her
As the sun turns to set

She is without poetry
A voice once ‘prolific’
His words wear her
As the sun turns to set

Her shadow doesn’t move
For the first time
His silence wears her
As the sun sets.

Poetry

Come to Me

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COME TO ME

Come to Me
Open your eyes.
Don’t look away,
I want to show you my body.
I daydream every day
About lifting my dress over my head.
Feeling the contrast
Of your hands on the warmth
Of my velvet skin.
You have yet to feel the strength of my thighs.
Or how delicate my fingertips can be
On the curve of your low back.
Our eyes whisper
Forgotten articulations of intimacy
More complex than walnut burl searing
In a healthy winter fire.
Lips like crushed figs
Swallowing with anticipation
To kiss you, please let me.
Trembling, quivering, pulsing.
Nourish me with the sparkling contents
Of your smile as you see my vulnerability.
And then don’t make me wait.
I have felt the pressure of your excitement
Against me,
Subtle movements pressing closer
The bulge of your affections
And I want it.
All of you.
The way I had you now and then.
The glisten of sweat,
Boiling the blood
Like a kettle I will let you know when I am ready
But take your time.
Taste me, I’m sweet
And I want to hear all of your noises.
See my secrets, my scars,
Smell my sexuality,
And move into me.
See my fevered eyes
As I rake my fingers down your chest.
I want you in my hands, in my mouth
I have felt you everywhere but there.
Make me pant, hear my gasps,
Write your name inside me.
Bury your face into my hair
As I push myself selfishly closer
Covet me. Cover me.
Come to me.
Oh my dear,
How I miss you.

Poetry

A Tale of Two Lovers

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CREATIVE ASSIGNMENT: FINAL PROJECT

A Tale of Two Lovers
There is a profound sadness in her.
Bathed in responsibility
And graceful with acceptance.
Passersby can’t even see her hiding
That sweet, calm smile,
Selflessness worn like a familiar sweater.
Worthiness a tattoo written backwards on her shoulder
A silent reminder.
But not many, only a one,
Can see the poor girls heart.
The one that sings louder in cars
Or alone with her pillow.
Or in a bathroom with the water running.
Her prayers hang on the wind
Sorrowfully tussling the leaves.

…

“May he find that love.
One that is patient in silence, like mine.
May she kiss his lip when he bites it.
And may he hold her hand long enough to split realms.
I hope her body effortlessly tangles into his
At night, with the candlelight
On the ceiling at just the right angle, the way he likes it.

Allow him a home.
And for her to be braver than I.
I want her to look him in the eye,
and say with clarity, with vibrancy
Without hesitation,
Or fear of exploration,
– I know you,
– I love you, my only one.

Have her kiss his back, and the soft spots on his wrists.
The parts I have yet to kiss.
When she touches his neck,
With ease, he will settle into her.
May she delight in his humor,
Make her clever –
I know she will be so beautiful,
More beautiful than I. ”

…

She wistfully watches
As two birds dance and flirt in the sky
Above a building,
High over her head and thoughts.
She remembers him,
And the way they bumped into her car
While falling in love, and holding each other
Like teenagers do.
Paintings on the wall ask her,
“What do you want?”

“For him to think of me.
From time to time,
But not all the time.
When laying with his back on a rug
Or when that song comes on.”

Her love of him, it does not end
That’s not what this is
This is slow piano music played in the dark,
It’s the smell of a memory once loved but not forgotten
Slipping toes in sand,
The sensation of stars dripping from the night sky.
A first kiss, before sullied by time.
Or the way she felt with a new book when she was younger.
Hopeful and complete.
Eager to read on, a seemingly endless and fascinating tale.