He asks her to dance
Not louder than possible
Butterflies tango
Her voice replies like
A vanilla aria
Wafts deliciously
They waltz leisurely
Yet with a hint of frenzy
Bathed in the moonlight
Interstitial space
Between their skin melts like a
Sweet appoggiatura
She sits at the edge of her bed, the room humming softly.
Out the dome shaped window giant cylinders rotate slowly around the space station,
Maintaining gravity.
Beyond them the endless sea of stars.
She glances over her shoulder to the far wall of her sleeping pod
And reads the same words, and again she ponders:
Love
Joy
Peace
Patience
Kindness
Goodness
Faithfulness
Gentleness
Self-Control
The piece of art, an heirloom, had been in her family for generations
Ever since the great migration, before Earth’s final desolation.
It was in the style of Motivational Wall Art, popularized in the early 21st century
And said to have originated from the Walmart sect of the Christian Capitalists,
Whose power soared after the American oligarchy took reign.
It had been in her family for 300 years, 12 generations back,
one of the few pieces of art that remained from the Earth inhabitation days.
The words were not unfamiliar to her.
Biblical text had been part of her studies
She often pondered their meaning, always hanging over her family’s quarters.
A dark reminder of history,
Words on a faded canvas
Did her ancestors think that just by hanging these high ideals on their wall
They might bear such fruitfulness?
Was it a joke that those in power played on the powerless
To peddle inspired words based on scriptural text
While simultaneously
Polluting oceans,
Bombing hospitals,
Destroying education,
Starving children,
Turning away humans?
She considers the many atrocities of those days,
The faded letters a daily reminder
Of what was lost
And what endured.
Some things people carry in their work:
A briefcase
A hammer
A mop
Shipping Packages
Medical equipment
A taser
A gun
Administrative responsibilities
Some things I get to carry in my work:
A violin
A ukulele
A guitar
Egg shakers
Colorful scarves
A beat
A tune
The sense of wonder in a child’s eyes
Oh my sweet little monk who knows
More Beatles songs than I
You are still like an ember that glows
Still here wrapped in my bones
You still take me by surprise
As you uprise
Your voice, powerful beyond measure
Not to be contained by the small frame
Like a pearlescent treasure
I forget to notice it change
Day by day as you engage, emerge, rearrange
Find your way
Lean in, draw your bow
As you wrap your arm around the trunk of the Bodhi tree.
Listen as its secrets rumble low
The wind whistles past our front door
Among its clamour are sweet notes singing
Ringing a decade and still more
Days to walk your path
Adventures to come
Songs to be sung, glistening, luminous, flowersome
You’ve only just begun
Day 2 of National Poetry Writing Month.
May I sing the song of the gods and the origins of the gods.
May I dream in prose set to a distant Andalusian cadence,
Circling as it steps down with a smile and a swagger.
I inhale exhale to the metronome of my body as I drift,
My thoughts like the sliding weight on the pendulum bar – lifting with the slowing tempo.
It’s Day 1 of National Poetry Writing Month! https://www.napowrimo.net/april-1-it-begins/
Yes, this chapter laid wide open on my table, where seeing it daily I sometimes forget to notice but I know it It speaks full, ancient wisdom, well-versed more than the woman ascribed in the fibers of the pages ink sinking into congruent possibilities The words fly, orbiting betwixt and between my eyes and ears serendipitous unravelings unbound flying freely off the pages I gently turn the page allowing the next chapter to rise to the surface as sunlight shines on open space So I will speak more, early even resonate some chapters in bold proclamations for my future requires no apology in its predication And here I find myself stepping in pattern me across from you my voice and yours I see the love in your eyes knowing that moving and speaking on this beautiful journey binds my disjointed bits The woman in these pages is me my eyes, composed know my soul I am primed to practice - I am ready I feel my voice vibrate in my chest sinking into simultaneous possibilities We lay still, minds untangled eyes closed stillness after chaos my breath like waves on the shore of my heart and laying complexity aside eyes closed, composed know my soul
My response to NaPoWriMo.net Day Thirty – the last day of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt was to “write a palinode – a poem in which you retract a view or sentiment expressed in an earlier poem.” I am unsure if this is truly a contradiction of my poem, Woven in Patterns, written on Day One, but perhaps a different perspective. Both poems reflect my experience practicing TaKeTiNa which is a meditative, musical, group rhythm process. I have found practicing TaKeTiNa regularly with my husband, who is one of the few TaKeTiNa teachers in the US, has been incredibly self-revealing and transformative. You can find out more about TaKeTiNa here and if you live near the Dallas area you can come and experience TaKeTiNa for yourself – or if you live in another part of the world I encourage you to explore if TaKeTiNa is offered in your area.
The forsythia in the sloped gap between 84 and Asylum Ave were like harbingers. They covered the hillside in gold, announcing the hope of brighter days ahead and sowing forgetfulness, even forgiveness in muddy dirty snowmounds and roadsides. We would notice them for just a few weeks each year when you drove me to my music lesson - and together we tasted morsels of treasured co-wisdom unboxed in the subtle joyful release of winter’s long longing.
Response to http://www.napowrimo.net prompt for Day Twenty-seven to:
“begin by reading Bernadette Mayer’s poem “The Lobelias of Fear.” Now write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun.
I missed seeing the forsythia release their golden petals this year.
Small Burdens 