Take To The Deep Snow

I scare up a sparrowhawk

opening the door

treading through the cold shadows

to emerge into

the kiss of apricity,

diamonds gleaming in the powder

I kick up.  If I were a snow-

suited child, I’d be deep

in the creation of angels

smiling into this bright

sun instead of snapping

close-up photos only

to discover no card 

in my camera.  An empty

gesture on a day

I am out desperately

seeking grounding,

slipping on the ice,

stumbling over the plowed

chunks along the road

until I choose to step

into pristine white

waiting and willing to show

my way.

A cardinal sounds the alarm

followed by a lone crow’s caw.

I search bare branches

to no avail.  Another bird chatters,

perhaps a bluejay

hidden, marking my passage.

I allow myself to feel 

the vital pull

of the earth until 

I’m back in the house,

my intestines clearing

in a rebuke at my attempted

natural healing, or

else this is simply letting go

of all the years of being

a doormat.  Stand up for yourself,

my ancestresses shout,

a dizzying chorus of browbeaten

women, back farther than I can

imagine, rattling the chains

of their servitude to abusive

men.  And I want to,

oh, goddess, so much,

even as I surrender

to my sickbed to lie

cold as a stone

until I rise again

to pen these lines.

Inspired by:  Rebuke, Vital, Apricity, and Imagine.

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Past Currency

Locking up every gift,
they’ve posted a no-trespassing
sign. Fencing in the garden
of eden purchased for a song
from people who don’t
sing the currency, but it was easy, really,
to rip the children from their arms,
cut off their hair and drill
them in the notes
of buying and selling
everyone,
even you.
Especially you.

When I first sat on the stage
watching them file in, some
pushing and shoving for the best
view while the pedophile uncles
and the addicts and the drunks
had their own little party
in the back, I certainly
didn’t want to claim them.

Too many transgressions to forgive,
too much wickedness to see.

My own grandson grabs my hand,
follow me, and we start
laughing through the living
room, on to the kitchen,
a perfect circle, vital
life running through us.

I’ve whispered “joy” three times
in my glass today, raising the vibration
of the water to a healing
frequency even as I observe
the hidden currents, the eddies,
riptides and falls
of this life that carries me.

Any scientist could tell you
this is balderdash, a skein won’t
unravel without a physical touch.
And believe me, I used to sit
patiently pulling out the knots.
Clueless about who we are
and how we are
connected in immeasurable ways,
unacknowledged participants in every
experiment. We push and pull
each other, puppeteers
through the centuries, believing
the man in the white coat
who studies the mirrored calm
of the surface and declares
what is,
even as the currents pull us
into behaviors we could never
explain or even witness.

Recovery begins with our
hospitality, welcoming back
the ones we forced into
the shadows. We step into
our greatest fears, feel
gratitude for this chance
to dance in the current
of vitality, that exuberance
hundreds of thousands of years
strong, ripening into new seeds
we plant in the now.

Stepping back from reaction,
watching all these hidden cords
emerge, the secrets pouring
out as each thread
pops into view, our
compassionate interest
in all the things
that triggered us

in the past.

Inspired by this article about Family Constellations and Addictions, Forgive, Recovery, Gratitude and Hospitality.

Plays By Intuition

So many women in my lineage

had no chance to grieve:  

file that in the DNA

and hope for someone like me

to open

a container big enough

to hold the river of sorrow

without being swept away.

Precariously crumbling footholds

where I patrol.  In the darkest hours,

often forgetting who I am,

losing my light,

peering into the rising

waters crashing below me.

The lineage-trauma breathing

through me, and I’m pondering

madness, defined as it is

by people who know

the control of the narrative

is imperative.  I mean, I’ve been 

the pinball

racking up impressive scores,

slamming into an obstacle

and triggered into flight

only to hit the next

target, over and over.  

Is my age

showing here? Does anyone

play pinball anymore?

Such a counterintuitive move,

to simply relax, falling

past the electric shocks

into the drain. 

Not in this society,

missy.  You stay in the game.

All the rules defined by 

the people who need

you to be distracted

when your rage ignites.

Look online, track the

spiky statistics to determine

who likes you.  The days

spinning, whirling, sick

until the sleepless night

claims you

and dark thoughts lead you

once again

to the steep cliffs of despair.

Inspired by:  Madness, Spiky, and Ignite.