A calm I first knew
in the warm sting
of Miami beaches
in the swell of
a wave was
enough to hold
my attention,
thankfully,
a relentless
press.
Could I be free
from chains I was
born in like my
mother and hers
before
to allow them
to break away
even as they
bruise
and clank.
Because this place
can make a person
unable
to feel or see
what is right
in front of them
when the image
blurred
by sad memory
or old pain
seems as real
as it gets-
so loud,
demanding
we remember
everything
to survive
and we
try to carry with
love, without
being angry
and with all
the fragility
still, so
we will not become
the darkness,
we might become
the very thing
that keeps balance.
Some say
this world is soft to
lessen the blow,
and I feel the
partiality of it
limiting-
I cannot
in hand hold
this beautiful place
the complicated petals
layer upon layer
like a chrysanthemum
without holding
the dark, as it is
between each
shining edge
a defined line
showing
this petal and that petal.
And instead of running
from everything
known
like I did at first
like happiness
was a thing
ran into, suddenly
behind a door probably
someone else opened
waiting to be found,
one day, I began to see
in places that
cannot be touched
by perspective
too much like
on a snowy, narrow
pass in the Cascades
where my heart
could still
its panic:
in that moment
a rush of wind
is beautiful
because I live-
I knew to go
looking after
the waves.
And the vast words
held too long
unsure of how
to say them
having not defined
what was indefinable
could split ice
and rock
beneath the places
I kept running
and I would simply
slide
for awhile.
It took some years
to become still enough
that my own shaking
could not unground
my thoughts/
and longer
for the hold
to take place
that is space kept
for knowing things
as they are
as much
as is possible
in any moment
without needing it
and with all
the uncertainty
where I could look
at what had happened,
these chaotic moments
and grief
that could crush
who I believed
myself to be,
to look back instead
with love for the sake
of love and gratitude
that I was myself
all along, especially
in the rainforest
walking, or with hands
digging into the ground
another living thing
having not much choice
in things, like lavender
with its sweetness
for no reason
to give it water
when it would not rain,
part of the learning.
Can you see
where the heart
will survive
by it’s aching,
running to be free
knowing what is
and isn’t worth
staying for,
is as basic as
need of air
if in a place
a person feels
their own thoughts
cannot be trusted
when it is mostly
the thoughts of others
like a sidewalk, broken
but you try to run
and trip.
But finally
to hold still
in the calm of
knowing the dark
as it is, dependent
upon that which grows
and thrives/ maybe
a glimpse
on a mountain pass
quiet enough defines
the edge
of your self
when it is difficult to see,
you have held it.
Tag: trauma
in caves
Sunflowers grow | beneath cliffs, a din heard in the mouth small sound of roots deep, stems bracing waves that crash high like a hand held to the face with eyes closed pauses all of it here, some will arrive by wandering but it is dark and so much unknown to wander freely or consider to stay. We see only their crowns as they breach the unseen, their beginning is close, just a step into a place the sun holds without ever saying, hello/ we could know them: their bright faces petals a happy yellow and lovely, framed in what some would say is joy but they are shaking their heads slowly no, yet again with each rising and setting, they follow from the place they would leave if only these deep roots inch by inch would pull free - Did you know stems grow in the night to the west so the head can sway to the east at sunrise. The stem guides like stars in the night, desert sky are persistent or pollen on a honeybee is small easy to miss but irrefutable/ they, are guided far round cold corners wide, clementine eye, happy and content/ how the heart keeps the mind stays the heart to keep on and the sound in this hidden place, brushing upon damp walls: the wind at the end of its journey over wave and accidentally in this hollow is song like woman who whispers, do not let me break, please but same way, rounds corners and rejoins the sky- wandering you may slide cliffside into deep ocean, not seeing it is a cliff where waves will slam the mark of this place, and will swim near a place dry but dark and cold when no one is around to see you. Wild sunflower grow, long stemmed and leave, I would say this old cave- eventually. Eye following the sun even as it sets with you, no madness or sad keeping of memory but growing round cold walls into the quiet beauty one day, of knowing nothing of the previously known.
preservation
In that former innocence
a second sun bloomed
in my heart, and I
tucked dreams
and hopes
within my small fist
a moth within-
I held it
tense,
in careful regard.
Sometimes
I would tear, slightly
a ghostly wing
having
no space
in a hand to
move:
I shook or would
startle.
And so I began
when it was night
and I could hear the
urgency silenced
day-to-day
to still squirrel away
each fold of brain, the
tender stomach
delicate bones of a toe/
all beneath my pillow
where I would remember
whenever
I could rest
and today, there
I hold my hand
in sleep, reaching
feeling
something
alive
in my hands.
the crash
Truth is to forget underwater
how the waves crash
beneath the seam
how the waves crash
truth in seconds
how under
the shower I crash
how in dreams I
collide with colossus
and tragedy and conquer/
uninhibited, un-able to
drive seed to
stem. Truth: I forget
to crash beneath
and end up above
the waves in
love thinking this
is who I become now
like summers I swam
between mangroves and hot
sea surging, that perfect
storm on the horizon – I love
so deeply in truth
underwater in the crash
of waves: how the seam
defines if we will live or die/
the crash beneath
stormy skies
and showers:
and how wide
is the breadth of
a wilderness like I.
~how to grace
I have lived surrendered in hope
tied loose like the truth
in my mouth is loose
or a startled face is composed
loosely as a cloud sifts
the light of the day/
it was Mary’s sorrow upon
the backs of ladybugs; that
is a story people told
to explain the mar
of black. to become
echoes
painting poppies on dark
space of nowhere and
nobody, just
the brightest poppy with black
stamen sunk as beautiful
things are sunk in feeling
composed of all colors. How
delight is only found in
in the middle of a
crashing wave-
to live between the surety
and the unknown unfolding