Where is the inspiration?

my muse?

All the words that fit together

like puzzle pieces

shaping emotions and ideas into little

rubber balls

I sometimes allow myself to call poetry

 

There is very little angst these days

no turmoil to stir the prose in pots of change and fear

Instead a solid warmth slides easily

over my days

I am content

in this house with its liquid gold sunshine

with the ones I adore, so easy to love

full, extraordinarily deep breaths of life

 

In this contentment

art seems shy

Unable, it seems,

to find a way to celebrate the exquisite delight of living

So afraid of maudlin sentiment

voices speaking of the impossibility of perpetual happiness

survivors guilt from an easy life

 

Pages lay empty and dry of words

aching for the strokes of a restless paramour's pen

While I blow happy kisses to the wind



Small Stones

 

Last night

I lay in the comforts of my bed

Under a roof that no one would call a mansion

a space I share with moths, and shrews, and leaking taps

but whose air is filled with peace, and freedom, and choice

On the little screen of my fancy phone,

I watched

across the world

Cruel hearts stone her slender body

the beautiful blue silk of her covering blowing fiercely in the wind

stirring the vigor of the hundreds gathered around her

Until it is as red and limp as she

The label of her exact transgression I do not know

but I suspect its much more innocent

than the smell of my lovers skin that still lingers on my pillow

This is not like me to watch such things

Choose not to be a spectator of the awfulness of this world

Try instead to be a celebrator of the beauty

Tonight my body and heart feel bruised and lost

How do the little stones of love that I toss to my world

so far from hers

change anything?



A Year in Photos

On the cusp of the day I will shift my years

from 34 to 35

I am tired of myself

I say this with no ill will

or harshness

(for I will treasure this book and the tenacity it represents)

 

Its not the core of me I speak of

just the exploration of the outside of me

the moods of me

the 365 moments of me that I've piled up this year

 

It is time to set that all aside

and just be.

Dig instead

into life.

Expand

Wrap my arms about the world

(and maybe my legs too)

Fall madly in love with everything

in front of me

 

I know who I am again

amidst the layers of days

that became a year,

I found her

Me who always was.

Silly me for thinking she was ever

lost

 

To see the year.... http://www.flickr.com/photos/bluebirdsky/sets/72157632450890737/

Thank you to all who were along for the ride, I couldn't have done it with out you!

Mhuh!

Truth and Love

This moment I am struggling

with Truth and Love

and their shape shifting ways

fickle to

perspective

opinion

perception

interpretation

emotion

time of day

the weather

 

Yesterday

they were roots

running deep from an ancient tree

 

Today 

 brittle leaves clinging in howling winds

 

Tomorrow

I will take up a pot of sap and a paintbrush made of moss

and paint my skin

with my own sticky mess of them

A barrier against bitterness

360/365

331/365

This is not a new life

 

as often I have heard

right there amongst all the you shoulds

and you needs

 

My heart is full with the good intentions

that I see reflecting under the slick of all those words

 

This simply is a life

refreshed



316/365

I said goodbye.



To a man 232 kms away

Sometimes sadness creeps in

not with tiny bites of gluten bombs

but in memories held within samosas heady flavours

or the crisp smell of fallen leaves

or the deep brown depths of a strangers eyes

Moments gathered day by day

And stored in satin pouches in our hearts

 

We forget

 

We walk forward into altered days

Revel in new moments

embrace fresh touches

welcome healthier breathes on tender necks

 

 we forget how intertwined we still are

Each brush with another connecting us

in a vast and beautiful spider web of humanity

 

And this is how is should be

 

Even devastated

insecure

and afraid

I who have been these things

and you who have as well

 

Love as a word seems trite

but as truth

is everything