This early morning, I woke up silently singing a song I’d never heard before. In the dark, wee hours, I captured as many of the lyrics I could, before returning to bed, still humming…

 

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you told me once that i was lost;
that i couldn’t understand what you clearly saw.
you told me God was a recipe
and those who couldn’t cook would be lost like me.

so i followed all the rules and i did my part;
i played that role like a movie star.
but when THE END comes in final frame,
not sure the show should have been so tame.

wasn’t i made to be wild?

the thorns on roses don’t reconcile

for they were put
there,
too.

for to protect
the
bloom.

if getting found
means i can’t be free,

i think i’d rather
lost like me.

 

a woman won is a woman done.
that’s how my momma raised me.
when you see cages of gold, you run,
never give consent to restrain your sea.

because,
the world is full of all kinds of love,
b’ware the pretty ones that would own you.
like all the angels that live above
the birds in flight have a real home, too.

wasn’t i made to be wild?

the thorns on roses don’t reconcile

for they were put
there,
too.

for to protect
the
bloom.

if getting found
means i can’t be free,

i think i’d rather
lost like me.

 

now that you’ve found me i’m wondering
why being found is not comforting.
it doesn’t matter how good i’ve been,
with all these walls my God can’t get in.

i know that love is a freer thing;
it gives a safety than walls can’t bring.
i hear the calling from star and sky
come take my hand and give lost a try…

weren’t we all made to be wild?

the thorns on roses don’t reconcile

for they were put
there,
too.

for to protect
the
bloom.

if getting found
means i can’t be free,

i think i’d rather
lost like me.

 

 

 

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∴

“Focus on the process.

There are no results in art.”

~Harald Haugaard

∴

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∴

some days
are the best days
because of the simple things
they deliver.

if you had not kept looking,
you may have missed
the falling of a peony petal
on a wooden piano.

hearts are helped
by such happenings.

∴

 

 

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∴

a body can go far too long
without flying a kite.

it’s a luxury that requires space
between walls.

but when you go –
as i hope you all do,
and someday soon –

heed the leaves.

when they rustle behind you,
it means a gust is coming;

and just like a wave
whose surf is a promise
that can be taken
or left to pass by,

the breeze will lift
what vaults with bravery
into it.

 

so run.

and lift.

and leap.

·

there will inevitably come a time
when your kite will head
down, onto a roof
or over, into a tree,

and these are the dangers of flying,
i suppose.

but with some finesse at the string
you can dance,
and pull,
and give,
and change direction
where the wind is willing.

 

the hardest parts of flying a kite,
it seems to me,
are firstly,
recalling that you have one to fly,
and secondly,
following the impish impulse to fly it.

 

it takes great presence
to pause
in the rapid air around you,
and remember to ride.

∴

 

 

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∴

when elders clap
in rhythm and ‘round,
and egg the young ones on,

when they stand and cheer
those clumsy souls
of toddlers overgrown,

it is the most whole social feeling
i’ve come to know.

 

as if the sound of our
far more skillful hands,
slapping together
in unison,
actually grew the youths
before our very eyes –

a quarter inch of soul
for every thwacked acclaim –

and the surprised twinkles
that sparked from their sockets
and shouted,

“yes!
did you hear?
did you watch
and know me,
really?!”

 

and we did.
us oldies,
in awe
of all our stages,
we did.

∴

 

 

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Today marks the half-way point on this small journey. When it began, I supposed this would be the beginning of the way back. As in: if one travels in a circle, this would be the point that’d start the return arc.

But it’s not a circle. Nor is it a straight line. This journey (that we are, respectively, on) is a jagged, climbing, precipice that meets clouds and begs us to fly. It is the ocean that pulls us under and gives us fins to swim and gills to breathe by.

There is no back. There is only new, bested and bettered by the old. Like paper, folded over on itself, we hide maxims in our creases, camouflage our misspellings with crinkles, and grow by volumes.

To the green and wide-eyed chapters of us, I wrote a little book.

It is for a child.
It’s for the child in me.
It’s for my children before they grow.
You’ll have to find the child in you to appreciate it, I think.
It is for tomorrow, and the 273 days that follow…

 

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Marcus
and the
Maliciously Mighty
Mount Maxim

•

 

Marcus lives at the base of Mt. Maxim.
It’s so old a mountain, its pebbles are waxen.
It’s so fat a mountain, it must weigh a ton.
It’s so high a mountain, its tip’s in the sun.
Living so close to something so tall
makes Marcus believe he’s incredibly small.

“O, what the heck! O, what the hey!”
said a brave and inspired young Marcus one day,
“I think I can do this; I think I should try.
If I don’t I’ll be sorry, and always think, why?”
“Why didn’t I try it, and give it a go?
My heart said ‘just do it,’ my head just said ‘no.’”

Marcus dug out his boots, his rope, and canteen.
He was a mighty rock-climbing machine!
“I’m a little bit nervous and a teeny bit scared,
but I’ve done all I can to be smart and prepared.”
Marcus started his journey one step at a time;
when Maxim got steeper he started to climb.

The afternoon passed and Marcus grew tired,
he was starting to feel much less inspired.
He looked to the top, where he thought he would finish,
but hope that he could was greatly diminished.
Marcus turned to go home, back to the base;
maybe his gumption was way out of place.

“Hold on just a second, wait just a minute,
ask myself, ‘Self, is my heart really in it?’”
“What is the problem and how can I fix it?
I’ve come too far now to abandon and nix it.”
“This is the journey I’ve set myself on,
it doesn’t take money or beauty or brawn,
Just the commitment that I’ll see it through,
success of this sort is steadfast and true.”

Marcus rolled out a blanket and let himself rest;
when he woke, he was back at his rock-climbing best.
“Sleep was all that I needed, my doubt is no more,
I’m even more certain than I was before!”
Again, he ascended with a positive mind,
and no sooner was he in a new kind of bind.

The skies started pouring down buckets of rain.
What first was a trickle now was his bane.
The rocks became glossy and mossy and wet.
He took his next step, but his step was not set.
Marcus slid down the mountain and stopped with a THUD!
He was scratched and outmatched and covered in mud.

When his tears started falling, you couldn’t see where they were;
the rain on his cheek made it all one big blur.
Marcus looked down and buried his face;
he feared this adventure would be his disgrace.
He sat and he cried, feeling shame, feeling blue,
when all of a sudden came a startling break-through.

“I will not allow myself anymore crying;
I cannot forget, I’ve succeeded by trying!”
“Yesterday, I was not high on this hill;
I’ve gotten this far by the strength of my will.”
“The fate of tomorrow rests only with me;
to start again bravely, that is the key.”

The rain finished falling, sun finally came out.
He climbed for a spell, his head strong, his heart stout.
Until wouldn’t you know it, another tight spot.
At a rocky dead-end, Marcus found himself caught.
No surface to scale, no obvious trail,
he was blocked and stopped in a mountainous jail.

He looked to his left, he looked to his right,
there was no way, there was no path in sight.
Just a flat wall before him, no stairs to his side,
this mountain was starting to damage his pride.
Marcus got frustrated. He let a kick go,
but he only succeeded in stubbing his toe.

“I don’t want to go back, but I’m stuck in the middle;
what a super annoying and maddening riddle!”
He stared and seethed at Mighty Mt. Maxim;
when all of a sudden a new thought impacts him:
“At times to proceed, we must change direction;
if we’re stuck with bad luck, just make a correction.”

Marcus turned on his heel, took fourteen steps down,
raised his eyes to the skies and looked all around.
Ah hah! One more trail he had not seen before.
Maxim could stump him and stop him no more!
Marcus climbed so high up he passed through a cloud!
What Marcus saw next made him holler out loud…

“Whoopee! Yippee!” Marcus shouted with glee.
That is the top of Mt. Maxim I see!”
Freshly inspired and full of great might,
Marcus fearlessly climbed the whole mountain’s height.
“I cannot believe it, I’m so glad inside;
I have come to this summit because I just tried.”

Marcus sat for a while, high up in the air,
and was shocked by the number of mountains out there.
Everyplace that he looked he could see a new zenith,
some were quite small, but some were behemoth.
Marcus saw there’s more mountains to mount,
he’d have many adventures, too many to count.

“To climb some will be tough, and painful at best,
but it’s just another rough rock-climbing test.”
“The trick is to think when I feel defeated,
I’ve succeeded before and it can be repeated.”
“Find a solution instead of my wrath;
it’s a much more rewarding and worthwhile path.”

“There is never a problem that cannot be solved,
but persistence and patience must be involved.”
He looked all the way down, at how far he’d come,
and realized his journey was now where he’s from.

Marcus knew to take care,
no longer let doubt in,

for he had climbed out
from under a mountain.

•

 

 

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*it’s even better if you read it out loud,
with someone on your lap. 

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∴

hold this,
look at that,
shake the dice
and roll.

hide your hand
and strategize
and watch the game unfold.

i’m hiding in the pantry,
you’re seeking in the den,

every message in my bottle
was purposefully penned.

i
audibly smile
and breathlessly laugh
when i think that we might play-

that imagination need not be
our companions, come what may.

 

candlelit
fiddlesticks,
experiments with food.

listen to the song i wrote;
let’s break our somber mood.

good jokes,
delivered well,
bursting our insides,

dream sharing,
vision making,
magic carpet rides.

 

wouldn’t that be fun, my love?

wouldn’t that be fun?

∴

 

 

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---

∴

i was a girl,
once.

that’s me there,
scooped up in swinging screams.

i was laughing too, i’m sure.

it never took much to make me smile
but i never much smiled for smiling’s sake;

i was too busy watching.

everyone was so big –
i remember thinking they all had some secret knowledge
on how to live life
and succeed.

i remember thinking
that if i watched long enough
and with enough intention
i would gain this secret knowledge

so i kept watching
i kept watching.

do you know,
the only thing i remember seeing
is every person
that met my gaze
and didn’t see a child?

i remember thinking
that it was in their company –
or because of it –
that i could be anything.

those small kindnesses
have lasted
decades.

they grow,
like children,
inside.

∴

 

 

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today…

today is a lazy day.

i mean to start it this way,
and to commemorate the occasion,

i shall cease using commas.
(it’s a hard thing to do.)

i shall even leave off this dot

 

lazy days are special
because
they come so very infrequently
and usually require someone
to be hospitalized

or lost.

but the best lazy days
are those without peril.

when you can notice the strange things
we do without a clock
and amuse yourself with the absurdity
of our regular rushed rituals

aren’t we funny?

 

on lazy days
like this

i don’t take my vitamins.
the bottles are too heavy.

i watch cold flies expend their energy
charging chilled windows in hopes of escape.
you know they’d freeze out there, don’t you?
they don’t know.
they must not know.

on lazy days
like this

i look at my sock drawer, but i don’t organize it.
if my waistline feels tight, i stretch and resize it.

i tickle the ivories, but i don’t play a tune.
i refuse to be outed of bed too soon.

i drink tea over coffee.
i take all the make-up off me.

i look at the sunrise and then i lay back down.
i dig through old pictures whilst in my red nightgown.

i start books i won’t finish.
i let duty diminish.

i strip my psyche of leftover strife.
i chop my chicken with a pairing knife.

(the chef’s knife is dirty
and i don’t do dishes ‘till after 2:30)

 

i choose not to rhyme.

well.

not every line.

 

it’s the middle of the day but i endlessly dream.
lazy’s not boring as it apparently seems.

 

lazy days
are the only days
you move so slow
that the world cannot chase you.

it doesn’t want to.

it gets too annoyed
with your pace
(or lack thereof)
and leaves you

with a sigh

like a deflated chum on a playground:
upset and dismayed
that you wouldn’t just play
by the rules.

 

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Dear #MeToo,
I’ve been thinking ‘bout you.

I’m late to the party, please accept my apology;
but you remind me of things I keep locked, deep inside a’ me.

I just said to myself, “it’s the way of the world.”
but your solidarity has my silence unfurled.

See, strength (up till now) has been “take it in stride.”
Just march past the fear that he planted inside.

Those fight or flight moments are years gone by –
(I wanna) stop throwing punches to shadows at night.

It’s just the way things are,
it’s just the way things are,
a little more time should cover that scar…

 

But look what you’ve done, #MeToo, see what you’ve started;
you’re giving a voice to the hidden stouthearted.

I know six more #MeToos who choose not to come forward
and to them I give nod, but let’s put light in their corners:

things are not always “the way things are;”
both women and men are raising this bar.

This isn’t a war cry, this isn’t attack;
this is making safe spaces where safety has lacked.

Let’s make our eyes wider but not harden the heart.
Let’s see what it is so what can be can start.

Just see us, just look, we’ll earn our own merit.
There’s more than meat under our skins, man, I swear it.

Here come our daughters, they’re coming of age.
Let’s change up their script and let’s reset their stage.

Here come our sons, they’re learning the rules;
but the gaze of their fathers will be the real schools.

(#MeToo), you wrote chapter one
and the pages have turned.
But let’s write the last line:
say,

“that’s the way things were.”

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