Watching Him: a drabble

Watching him is like watching clouds in a blue sky. I never seem to be able to tear my gaze away. He has a hundred different expressions.

These days I mostly see worry, scrutiny. I am a mystery, a problem to solve, a puzzle to work out.

I watch emotions flit across his face like a thousand precious butterflies searching for nectar, for the sweetness life has to offer.

He is so serious now, until I touch him and he stops and his brown eyes soften and a shy smile moves over his face.

This is how he loves me.

19 May 2018

Just Not Dying

some days
I can’t think

some days
I can’t
even
make words
can’t talk

he knows
all the pieces of me

some days
I don’t have to talk

he knows
what I can’t say

but it scares me

this sea fog
I’m lost in

they say the poison
killing the poison
can make your brain swell
cause the brain
to rearrange itself
into something
other

I try to ride it out
like the surf
at Ma’alea Bay

I know
I’m going to tumble
that the sea
will spit me out

I just
try
to focus
on not
being swallowed
like Jonah
and the whale

But I can’t focus
I can’t think

some days
I practice
lying still
not thinking
not trying

just not dying

19 May 2018

Watching Him: a drabble

Watching him is like watching clouds in a blue sky. I never seem to be able to tear my gaze away. He has a hundred different expressions.

These days I mostly see worry, scrutiny. I am a mystery, a problem to solve, a puzzle to work out.

I watch emotions flit across his face like a thousand precious butterflies searching for nectar, for the sweetness life has to offer.

He is so serious now, until I touch him and he stops and his brown eyes soften and a shy smile moves over his face.

This is how he loves me.

IMG_0392
Summer Solstice, Avebury 2014

She Lay Waiting

she lay
curled in upon herself
more spiral
than fetal
more sudden stillness
than feral beauty

the forest floor
was damp
with decomposing
birth and death
may-shine slipped
through young
summer leaves
danced across her
naked form
adding light
and shadow
to the streaks of dirt
and blood
painted on her skin
as though
she were nothing
more than a canvass

and so she was

a sleeping
summer
art form

waiting

17 May 2018

Shamrock Forest
Shamrock Forest, Decatur, Georgia

Voyeurs

we are all
voyeurs
of tragedy

until
we have
become
the tragic

flay
strips
of raw
pulsing
skin
off my back
in your search
in your grasping
need
to take
pieces of me

you will have to
hold me down
this time

I will not go
peacefully

I will not
acquiesce demurely

there is nothing
kind
or peaceful
or polite
about tragedy

I am not yours

your prying eyes
and sickly sweet
solicitations
make me reach
for my knives
when my claws
have been rendered
to bloody stumps

we are all
voyeurs
until we
aren’t

17 May 2018

Not around much…

So…

this last cycle of chemotherapy (3 out of 6) is turning out to be a very rough ride.

Yesterday at the hospital they gave me some stronger anti-nausea meds but they make me super drowsy.

… and then there are the bone marrow injections, which are causing my Fibromyalgia to flare. I’m in a lot of pain at the moment.

So… I won’t be around much or writing much.

I’ll come back as soon as I can.

Be kind to yourselves and each other.

Blessings,

image

A Memory for Mother’s Day

this is a couple of years old but it’s one of my favourite “Mothering” stories

 

I married a bass player when I was seventeen.

He had such confidence. His presence filled a room. His laugh was beyond contagious. It cast a spell over you and you couldn’t help but laugh with him. He was sexy and funny and loved by everyone. I adored him. And I loved him long after we parted ways because we both left pieces of our hearts behind.

He was also one of the most talented musicians, singers and songwriters I have ever met and he gave me my little boy.

But this one isn’t about him really. It’s about me again.

One hot Oklahoma summer, a guy with a banjo and a guitar and a guy learning to play guitar and two hippie chicks, with long hair that would catch in the breeze and float like feminine banners to the Goddess, decided they needed a weekend in the country. We drove to Madill, Oklahoma. On a few acres of land was a dilapidated two room farmhouse belonging to the guitar player’s grandfather. We wandered the hills during the day, making grand plans of communal living with music and art and organic farming and ovens baking manna from heaven.

However, that night the two boys played guitar by the light of the moon and a few kerosene lamps while the chicks sang along. One of the songs they played was this one. They always played this one. The guitar player was a perfectionist. I suppose most good musicians are. The hippie chick with the long dark hair had a tendency to go a bit flat or run out of breath. It frustrated him.

So she learned how to stand perfectly still in the moonlight in a pair of low slung bell bottom jeans that dragged the ground, a thin magenta halter top that exposed her belly, her baby boy in nothing but a diaper perched on her hip with one hand reaching for her long dangling earring while the other pulled on her soft, straight Cherokee hair, and sing softly to the one being who possessed the most amazing ability to love her unconditionally.

And in that moment in a deserted piece of countryside under a moon filled, starlit night, with her baby in her arms, a shy mother sang to her little boy and the world could not have been more perfect.