replay

replay

 

there’s a spooling song inside my head

and blackbird feathers in my bed

wishing I could lift and fly

whitebird feathers by and by

 

origami’d lust deep inside me

folding virgin wanton ecstacy

stolen kiss from a timeslipped shore

blackbird whitebird love me more

 

blackbird whitebird on the rise

freedom’s wing in our shared skies

a thousand cranes herald harmony

blackbird whitebird set me free

 

two feathers stroke me wide awake

soothe this angel’s longing ache

in this inky feathered pen’s release

blackbird whitebird passing peace ~

 

blackbird whitebird on the rise

freedom’s wing in our shared skies

a thousand cranes herald harmony

blackbird whitebird set me free ~

 

all my life……

radio silence

radio silence

 

protect me from this interference:

give me a little radio silence

 

let me stop transmitting this

let me just rest without a guarded hiss

with nothing on the lighted spectrum

and my old dashboard dead quiet.

let me just break through in silent riot.

 

I am just a small array of being

that’s the way I’ve always operated.

 

Hearing all the dark matters,

gravity’s always co-operated

with-in me diffusing all that vacuumed energy

disbursing in the static so it automatically

feeds back in and on itself pulsing white now

 

in my head, thumping above my right eye

a pulsar of exquisite pain looking to a twinkling sky

 

released in radio silence

 

Author's note:

Sometimes as a writer it's weird to see how things you've written a long time ago relate to people, and experiences and situations in your present? This blog is a kind of celebration of time not being linear, but very multi-dimensional. So, I'm playing with some older poems now and helping them find their place-- ala Emily Dickenson who, like me, enjoyed playing with rules and punctuation and order.

If you know me in real life, you'll laugh because the last thing I am, and ever want to be is a straight line ♥

a soulin'

a’ soulin’

 

 

for bindi

I can hear myself think here
in this journey of wild divine
hear me come a’ soulin’
a’ soulin’ in your lovelight shine ~

here I come a’soulin’ in your soul so true
here I come a’soulin’.. souling deep within you

a friend, a lover, co-creater and muse:
soul shine yen yang whispers clearly so blue ~
fill me with your fragile beauty, with your questioning within
hear me come a’ soulin’ ~ a’ soulin’ across that ocean wind ~

here I come a’soulin’... in your heart so clear
here I come a’soulin’... can you feel me getting near?

lives hanging in the balance suspended in the wait
here I come a’soulin’ not finding us too late.
eclipsed in the chaos between the sun and moon
someday turning here to now’s way ~never saying never much too soon~

here we come a’ soulin’... what is there to fear?
here we come a’ soulin’...our answers all too clear ~

a soul, a soul, a soul, a soul
the world will ask a penny for your soul?
but we aren’t even from this place?
and our souls we will not forsake ~

so here we are soulin’... souling in our wild divine
blissed in loving freedom, our souls now intertwined ~

a soul, a soul, a soul, a soul …
find me thankful, my beautiful soul ~

12/2006

snow angels, for savannah

 

 

 

i marvel when I think of what we’re making

here….angels in alabama snow ~

and if I’m lucky my grandchildren will know

about this day the same way dad tells me his

 

Christmas memories….

 

the cedar tree with the fat outside lights

and his brother who planted it and hastened himself

home….I hone in on all of that and drink it up crisply…

not MY memory, but mine alone to preserve ~

 

because they deserve that…

 

so, I collect them you know?…in all of their guises:

old santa’s, and lapel pins grandmothers wore,

and bubble lights reflecting the soft mica’d glow

this reflection in me is of Christmases past…

 

and I hope to make that reflection last…

 

in my snow angel.

Now, I'll tell you the story behind that poem. My granny Kate was one of the first people in Georgiana, AL (and to hear Daddy tell it Central Alabama) to have Christmas lights OUTSIDE!  She was a Renaissance woman and maybe the third year or so they had electricity at Mockingbird Hill, Kate got out the Sears and Roebuck and ordered her some big, fat, outside Christmas lights for the Cedar tree planted near the road. The whole community came by to ogle them! The Cedar tree's not there anymore and when I asked Daddy to plant me one, he said "No!"  Apparently JC (John Chester one of Daddy's older brothers) was the one who planted that tree and when it got big enough to shade his grave, well that's when he got appendicitis and died. Poppy says if you plant a Cedar when it gets big enough to shade your grave, you die.

cosmos truth #1

 

 

for landl, always always


affirm yourself woman,
and know your name:

shout it from your diaphragm,
feel it rise up within you willing
that energy triumphant...freedom
trumpeting in the silky purple night ~

that name takes flight.

know yourself woman,
your bloom is becoming:
beckoning nectar rising under
blushing lips, pink tipped sun seeking madness ~

that flower is anonymous.

see yourself woman
through my crystal eyes:
bared naked lady without disguise
moving over and under and all around me ~ 

that lady is mystery.

see the world woman
with clarity of mind:
soul pollution purged through illusion's unkind
moving over and under and all around freely ~

that truth is liberty.

7/2007

 

 

wesley chapel

like so many leaves scattered,
tattered before the ashy day’s end

I find myself caught up in the wind’s

whispered sigh, pushing solidly at my

back….accelerating me and I imagine

 

that small space occupied by your hand.

Not anxious, not getting me out of the way….

instead moving with me as I sway in fiery

reds and yellows and crispy browns ~

a small stand of myself along a cemetery’s edge?

An odd meeting place for lovers without secrets…

hedging bets on dreams never dying…

and I’m caught up in the lacy folds of fence,

the white’s kept in and coloreds sleeping outside

in wiry waiting woods….all tangled,

haunted by neglect yet somehow

freer than their kept counterparts…

with families and a duty during holidays.

we skip stones and generations skip departed

like so many leaves scattered

tattered before the ashy day’s end,
finding ourselves...

11/2009