Reminiscent
Please, when I say I live off property, out of this world, do not believe I’m a flake or some unsufferable fool; I don’t pretend to be beyond, above, or on another plane. I’m plenty here on site, plenty human and fallible, sucked down by gravity and aging, linear and all-consuming. It’s just I hold this kite but can’t see it fully from where I stand, and she flies high, sure of my grasp; she sighs in the clear wind, fresh, knowing; and she sways and pulls, and claps her corners. Don’t take it the wrong way, please, that I never let go of her and sometimes imagine her colors, while she shapeshifts with the seasons, always different, way up, where noise subsides to the wind’s command; thunderbolts and rumbling skies, she twists and jerks in my hold, but as I am made for this earth, we must stay in place while you and I have tea or send written messages to each other, in the time we are given, being friends. You must know I dismounted the high-horse a while ago, as I realized I wasn’t the high-bred rider of my dense imagination; had to walk the trails and wonder if someday a manor might take me in at last. No, the hounds of my memories, the hunters and the game, quail and duck, our short jackets and breeches, wild patches of grass, all is past; no purebreds remain. So let me dwell in my strange melancholy even if it seems cold to you; it’s just the coming autumn introduced in late spring, before the last of the hunt, swarming with happy hounds, all ears flapping. Take my nostalgia that won’t subside this time, not yet. Not until the rustling, the howling, and snorting are erased; when the cool wind gets even more unfamiliar; when the sweaters and the tweed jackets and the argyle socks are but the soft remnant of a song, lost to the old country.
Deadlines
Deadlines do arrive at last, as expected, when the river is well known to be dry, waters never to return; the imminent move is here at last. Time to walk on, and it is better to keep it final and done. I got converted back and recognized who I meant to be when we started off this peculiar saga; you may stay or not, though your nature might still be trying to make more of the few enduring puddles in the mud. Understand then, this is farewell, and there’s no shame in it. We’re passing human instances, scenes we fill with narrative, a play we no longer believe. So time comes to leave the stage. I’ve been slinking towards the back door to the street until it’s official, and you need not worry. I no longer need your nostalgia, not even your forgiveness. I understand due dates and the life of rivers; the days for movement and the glow of last chapters phasing out. The narrative in my coming scenes doesn’t care too much, because the dry spell breathes all around us. I can no longer let you create meanings because you never truly knew how to. I’m my own philosopher; it was never you. I wanted to believe your facts instead of nature, but now that war is over. My body is not inspired; my will won’t stand for bleakness; I cannot justify duty that doesn’t bring life to my heart. I’ll surely get comfortable in finalities, faith will guide me through barren land, where not caring can be accepted as honorable; I don’t mind anymore about your state, your being; I’m dry and knowing in this random way, hoping for rain but not worried, expecting the chant of new water, new life, naturally akin to my next scene, initiated by the simple natural facts.
Bridges
We can stop now, we are not deluded, not that story, it is not the main theme. We don’t need to fulfill anything else; we are bridges over the creek, we have been shown more, and ¿to what end, if all those stage lights were not for us to bask in? No, we’ve recapped, passing through a tunnel of thrills and goose bumps, fleeting passions immersed in philosophies, until they mellowed, settling into us for certain. We can stop now; this is not our stage. We’re the tunnel, a passage, a bridge hanging over a ravine; an invisible network of comm lines, waves that work gently, prompting, coaxing, while all hell breaks loose. Let’s halt our fidgeting, without frustration or wallowing; let us tell all, say it like it’s been, and allow that story to do the sacred work we’ve been entrusted with. We are not the romantics of old, but always hopeful in His works; not delusional, but imagination has converted our soul. We’ve been bathed in more than a half century recap, we are the direct line of transformation. Stop your worry, we are already in place, between time frames, generations. We can sit still and speak our original kind of diplomacy with a cup of tea. Our message will resound even if unnoticed today; the song took years to be fully finished, and it shall take plenty more to be heard. A hanging bridge, we sway gently over a deep ravine, being the work. Someone will hear the song and eventually want to cross, be sure of it, and let that be your faith.
Neo and Classic
Written prose, woman comes back to herself, she’s letting all that does not serve her strip away.
Piro and Roses
Writing prose, remembrance of our past selves, siblings growing up, growing apart, special moments in youth, the fire of hope and youth.
Confessions
Memories, decor at the old country house, objects speak, they tell the story.
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.
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.