Crossroads

It is summer
and I am ill
falling
fast

I am listening
to the blues
to Robert Johnson
and wondering
about crossroads
and old roads
and intersecting paths
and the old ways
chants heard
in lush green leaves
prayers
and blessings
witchcraft

It is summer
and I am surrounded
by roses
and lavender
and geraniums
and hanging baskets
with unknown flowers
cascading
over the sides
like a floral invocation
to unnamed goddesses
everywhere

The wind
blows
in the afternoon
It no longer
plays havoc
with my curls
They’re gone away now
wherever it is
illness takes them

At night the air stills
stars sparkle
and glitter
like you once said
my eyes did

It is summer
and I am surviving

loss
and renewal
and relentless sickness
and time
in all its
temporary majesty

20 June 2018
on the Sussex Coast

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the fragility of summer

Old World Blues

there’s a guitar
standing in the corner

it never makes a sound

days of silence
like a sudden body blow
fill up old world rooms

with memories of blues
haunting dark corners
while a mild case
of decay
covers
the dead
and the living

and
Danny and me
we listen for those notes
that never get played

he drums his fingers
on my thighs
while I
just keep on dreamin’

8 June 2018

Somewhere in the United Kingdom

Wonderful new poet I just discovered

via Featured Publication – The Gun-Runner’s Daughter by Susan Castillo Street

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,

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