the two who become one lose half of themselves

You offer me peaches and turn down the bed. We are soft to each other,
we use our palms, we serve. We speak at half volume
and words are careful. 

I go to sleep early and you work late. I wake up late and you leave early.

I clean your plates and cup your cheek. We make delicate plans,
we check in. I leave my phone in my pocket. I forgot to write down the song I was
singing in the car. I was going to paint. You wanted to hear your new record but you wait.
We had planned to go to the park.

It's not important. How was your day?  

The Tired Woman's Song

Give them your skin, mother,
give them your hair.
Give them your youth, mother,
give them your care.

Once you were rocked
now you are rocking,
once you were listening
and now you are talking.

Give them your heart, mother,
give them your eyes.
Give them your hope, mother,
give them your lies.

Once you were beautiful,
now you are kind,
once you were yearning
and now you're resigned.

Wiser and weary
and broken and lovely,
your joy is your labor,
your labor, your glory.

The first note

I get ready. My knees pop
and in the silence, it is like the shot before a race. My heart takes off
for the finish line. I do not breathe.

This is why I love it. I forget.

I open my mouth and here comes the first note.
Too loud,
offensive, almost. It is such a surprise.
It moves, washing over upturned faces in the dark and silting down at the back of the room.

I shake with the birth of creation and awareness, I feel hunted and worshiped.

The first note is the true gift, the sounding bell of pleasure for the
ones who listen. A connection exists.

It is like the first touch
from your first love, 
when you suddenly knew
that your heart was too small
to contain
the riot of your soul.

Christmas Eve or Jazz

the notes trip over themselves
busy shoppers in a narrow hallway of a measure
blat
bee doo doo doo da bop pop punches
a woman and straight to the front of the line
we go.
Endless movement of shuffling and murmuring
dominates the line
the line with no end, the swift and uncertain
chasing of happiness,
the mindful chaos of improvisational
journeying, the end goal
a perfect piece that satisfies,
the reward is a smile.

Apathy

The first slumber is jarring,
you rebel. You shake like a prophet.

The second time, you knit your brows,
concerned but unsurprised.

The third time you sigh.

Oh my soul, that sigh was like a dying breath. You are asleep in your own body.

The song of life is no lullaby for your heart. Life hums and buzzes
with the work of billions,

and the keeper who sleeps by the hive is a dead man.

The Messenger

Backlit against the sun

like a black angel,

I am a dove beating her wings,

olive branch

delicate and new in her mouth.

Salt cracked lips smiling,

tears blown away by the sea wind.

I am the first of a generation

seeking land
in a flood. All the rest before us
angered God
with their greed
and their bile
and their endless talk of money.

They are washed away, and we float
above the drowned echoes of their voices.  Still,
we are lost.
I am sent to look for solid ground,
and I return with the first branch,
stripped from the first new tree.

Already, you demand a sacrifice.
We will never change. 

Moving to a new blog home!

I have a new blog! To read up on my current adventures and lifestyle, continue following me at www.eclecticboho.blogspot.com! I'll be chronicling the things I like, whether it be music, art, food, fashion, travel and decor. Life is so busy and full of adventures, but we should never forget to stop sometimes, and document the awesome things we're seeing.

This will still be a blog for poetry. I think I like separating the two.

Cheers!