The moon glows in the corner of my bedroom,
resting on moroccan pillows,
black tassels and copal.
I toss and turn in bed,
air is blasting but I prefer the cool, sweet heat of the summer's eve.
A birdcage sits on my table,
marigolds within.
I'm wondering how to make something flutter and fly that doesn't believe it can,
and then you.
You are sitting far off,
slumped over screen,
head heavy,
uncertain,
waiting.
And I am here in the moonlight glow,
when your mind is ready to be taken to another land.
The land where we believe in miracles,
where my marigold chains dance circles to the drum beats,
always in the far off distance.
yet
I suppose I take you there anytime we hold hands,
or caress your olive skin on mine.
-
The buffalo holds strength, that is why I shot it and pulled out it's teeth.
It's always yearning for what the other holds,
but this time,
I am laying on the fertile ground.
held
So deeply held by mama and by papa, and by the mystical glow of the plastic moon.
-
So remember me when we might not be so entwined.
When your heart beats fast next to another's or
when you catch a glimpse of a too-ripe rose.
I am in it, within it,
loving you always.
-
Two yellow butterflies swirled in the noon-day - chasing each other out of pure delight,
I watched with dreamy eyes, unsure if this was a planned show just for me.
And I rather hope it was, since little moments of full surprise cease when we stop to recognize them,
and I will always recognize you in your yellow hue.
-
She always said she was happy,
but now I am starting to bite those words.
And my teeth are not as strong as the buffalo's,
jaw clenching, wondering if maybe, these were the wrong words.
Swallowing black chunks of anger -
where do they go if they do not rest on the tongue?
How does one spit fire and not get burned?
What does it feel like to not hold tension in the throat?
And so I have to backtrack many moons,
following this pattern to source,
asking my ancestors why they blew themselves up from the inside,
and I fear the answer will be the only one I know.
fear.
-
So when the moon is new, baby circles in the sky, darkness swallowing all light,
there is room for change, again.
We can blame her, but we cannot change her.
and
these are the musings for this Saturday.
resting on moroccan pillows,
black tassels and copal.
I toss and turn in bed,
air is blasting but I prefer the cool, sweet heat of the summer's eve.
A birdcage sits on my table,
marigolds within.
I'm wondering how to make something flutter and fly that doesn't believe it can,
and then you.
You are sitting far off,
slumped over screen,
head heavy,
uncertain,
waiting.
And I am here in the moonlight glow,
when your mind is ready to be taken to another land.
The land where we believe in miracles,
where my marigold chains dance circles to the drum beats,
always in the far off distance.
yet
I suppose I take you there anytime we hold hands,
or caress your olive skin on mine.
-
The buffalo holds strength, that is why I shot it and pulled out it's teeth.
It's always yearning for what the other holds,
but this time,
I am laying on the fertile ground.
held
So deeply held by mama and by papa, and by the mystical glow of the plastic moon.
-
So remember me when we might not be so entwined.
When your heart beats fast next to another's or
when you catch a glimpse of a too-ripe rose.
I am in it, within it,
loving you always.
-
Two yellow butterflies swirled in the noon-day - chasing each other out of pure delight,
I watched with dreamy eyes, unsure if this was a planned show just for me.
And I rather hope it was, since little moments of full surprise cease when we stop to recognize them,
and I will always recognize you in your yellow hue.
-
She always said she was happy,
but now I am starting to bite those words.
And my teeth are not as strong as the buffalo's,
jaw clenching, wondering if maybe, these were the wrong words.
Swallowing black chunks of anger -
where do they go if they do not rest on the tongue?
How does one spit fire and not get burned?
What does it feel like to not hold tension in the throat?
And so I have to backtrack many moons,
following this pattern to source,
asking my ancestors why they blew themselves up from the inside,
and I fear the answer will be the only one I know.
fear.
-
So when the moon is new, baby circles in the sky, darkness swallowing all light,
there is room for change, again.
We can blame her, but we cannot change her.
and
these are the musings for this Saturday.
