The Meadow

The bee told me there was nothing to fear.

We could both romp in the meadow.

It was our playground

and if I got stung

it was a mistake.

"Mine or yours?" I asked.

The bee said he couldn't point fingers

as he had none.

I listened to the buzz of his departure

as I considered the meadow,

so drawn to it

yet so afraid.

The buzzing grew louder and stronger

the bees seeming to multiply before my very eyes,

yet my feet, still only two.

My feet knew fear

had felt sting.

I had always thought to save the feet

but never considered to save the bee.

If I romped slowly

with considerate feet

would it still be fun?

I realized then

that too narrow focus on feet or bee

was the thief of joy

so why go to the meadow at all?

Or...

I could romp through the meadow knowing

freedom and pain play hand in hand.

You can't have one without the other

and there isn't always fault in it...

isn't always intent.

My feet need the meadow,

the meadow needs the bee,

and we will just do our best by each other.

Dissociating

I watch the light

leak through the cracks of flesh walls.

I cannot contain it

and I cannot find more.

I am the vessel of darkness,

it's steward,

curator.

It is the museum I visit

with no placards to explain the awful black voids

where art should hang.

I don't want to visit the museum anymore.

I don't want to keep paying with my life.

I should burn it down...

let the fire be my light

and the ashes

my masterpiece.

Intuition

 

There's that sound,

a hiccup in a world so largely a cacophony

that you strain towards the source.

All is not right.

All is not well.

Your gut takes a turn,

roller coaster of intuition...

trying to gain your attention.

All is not right.

All is not well.

The problem lies in the weight of sense,

a scale too largely favoring want against truth.

So you leap "need" first

while your heart unsteadies its beat,

and only the deepest parts of you can acknowledge

the lurch of decent.

You fucked up again.

When will you start to listen

with your body.

Ego

I'm just a balloon

filled or leaking with the air of opinion.

We are all just latex,

nothing more, and nothing less...

and air

is as cheap as it gets.

And yet with all the fluff blown up our ass

or huffed in our face

we give credence far beyond worth.

What you think of me is worthless

if I value myself.

Your judgement is worthless

if God holds me righteous.

So why do I hold my balloon beneath the spigot

just to feel the weight of water?

Ego.

Colorado Rockies

 

Sitting at the trailhead, I watch youth, vigor, and stamina pass me by, wearing Lulu Lemon tops with matching shorts the color of wildflowers.

The mountains stand stoic and resolute. They know my path and there is no pretending otherwise. We are the same. The weather has worn our edges and though theirs will take longer, we will both die of the same natural causes. Erosion and decay.

They say birth is the one thing everybody dies of. They also say that if you could feel all the pain that creeps up with age in one moment, you would die of shock. Isn't it amazing what we learn to tolerate as long as it's a slow build? The mountain with the climbers on its face and blizzard at its back. Me with my twisted trunk and cracked branches. Both of us at the mercy of time.

I say to my mom, and must to myself the same, "Make the most of the time you have left." To focus on the erosion is to rob yourself of the best it's going to get...for tomorrow the wind will howl again and the water will run across surfaces, creating deeper creases.

Today may be your best day, Annabelle. Get out of your head....

even if being in your heart hurts like hell.

About "These Five Hours"

Have you ever reached perfection?
I did
once.

I took a pain and reduced it for hours

simmering until it thickened

into something that could stand on its own.

It took few words

and less literacy

but it perfectly encapsulated 

me, us, then.

Perfection needed only one ingredient.

Death.

Rude Awakening

God wakes me

deep in the night when owls are prowling

and nocturnal creatures rouse from sleep.

He wakes me to save her.

I call the night humans

who corral her to safety.

They tell her she is not the owl

not one to roam the night.

    "time to sleep dear"

They do not tell her the truth...

that soon she will fly with the owl

and never again touch earth.

Miscarriage

 

The egg is so fragile,

yet holding within it

the greatest of miracles.

the embryo of all our hope...

all that we weren't but wished for,

all that we are, yet even more so 

feel entitled to.

The egg is so fragile.

The smallest misalignment and hope

summersaults into a barren winter

devoid of anything

that matters more.