Stripping Down
Writing prose, the new role of a middle aged woman, going back to simplicity, realness, back to herself.
Paradoxical Karma
Writing though it seems almost impossible at times; writing to find clarity, finding meaning amidst chaotic circumstances, connecting with ancestral karma.
Disillusion
Written prose on family, nostalgia, polaroid moments, getting real, what never was, what didn’t come.
Vulture
Vulture as a totem, a powerful sign, reminder of an alternative view of the world today, a way of releasing, of finding peace; the art of personal power and detachment.
Slither
Year of the wooden snake, preparation, clearing up the old, finishing up, witnessing change, what has is not yet manifest, still not formed.
Rite of Passage
Written prose, short piece. A simple walk to the local convenience shop, midday in winter, and the whisper from the wind: it’s more than it appears to be.
Winter Scape Prayer
Make me the clearest water, a river’s modest current, transparent to the Sun’s arms, wintry cool though not frozen, winding lighthearted, all through out the original land. Make me crisp as linen, left to dry in the early winter breeze, to the matured caress of the daystar, my real lover. Give me if you may, the freshness of a dutiful morning, softly sloping towards the distance, all the inner children running towards me, frisky as home dogs. I hope for the scent of sunbathed hills, and the bite of sharp frost on my cheeks, the sky cleared of most clouds, infinite blue envisioned far and beyond. Make me more than a sketch, define this impression of a woman blurred against the straw fields, and sign this fine portrait as your own. Allow me the natural clarity of tall grasses, weed, obedient to the wind, free, wild again, but wise. Offer me up to the winter sky, let his frigid breath embrace this aching body. Its ok, we belong, the bite is no longer when I can melt to the chill. Now I walk on gladly, warm hands, warm feet. Crisp linen hung, swaying naturally, bleached, and the modest river our region’s pride, our last name in its winding current. Allow me then to strip away the clouds forever, and stay in my perfect winter scape.
Prayer to go
Help my impulse, let only the purest emerge, don’t allow me to think, enough pondering has been done here. Rush me toward my truest reality, that sudden drive to your designed road, that which is my true node, the vector of my mission. Whisper it to me in sleep, the ending words ever so loud, definite phrases to broaden my glance, to see the path set forth, and faith awaiting those first steps. Appease this mind and its lunar phases, its flippant nature, steady me into the ground indicated, all its grain. Allow me to merge with the observant mountains, the steadfast trees, the pounding headaches of the city, even its decay. Train my instinct, prop it up with your breath, make it your most faithful servant, even wiser than my thoughts. Gift me the beat of thunder in my footsteps, a sense of safety for the unchartered land. Leave my mind vacant of choice, hold her down under your gaze, contained. Give us the great halt. Tame our horses into the next level of freedom, steady our anxious needs, the aimless roaming, delusion. Make us sturdy again, fit for the job of carrying forth only what is truly yours.
Autumn shades
Short piece, written prose. Autumn season, witnessing father’s diminishing body, slowing down of faculties, acknowledging a life lived, senior slowly shedding his body.
Drive
I need only dive in a sea of potential meaning, fish for a description, a new adjective manifest in musical vibrations, from the Avant Garde keynotes pouring into the cabin. So I drive on, protected in a bubble of steel and glass, the inner sea swishes against its walls. Words to give substance, while the horizon turns an angle; the skyline slips behind dull buildings; the ground tilts, and suddenly, this planet might not be as round. I might be traveling along new geometries, passing between time lines, liquid meanings difficult to grasp. Vibratory air waves focus my gaze beyond the windshield’s view, yet the realness of the late morning light prevails on my warm cheeks. Time waves merge and part, colliding oceans rise. I take another plunge deeper, and wait underneath the swaying medium. Sounds ripple in the deepest green, ultramarine meanings in the faint glow of refracted light, a new change of tone, escalation to descent. I’m fishing for messages in a bottle adrift, sent eons ago by faith itself. Reality presses my lower back against the car seat. Behind my streaked glasses the road pixelates unreal. If only an adjective to bring it down here, to a moment, but it lacks sound of word uttered. Yet, it heaves on the rise, another scale up, another turn of the horizon, at sea, still far from any one shore.