Static rhythms pulsate
feelings arise and suffocate
one day i am fine
to rotate and stare into space
i can imagine bliss
but i rarely hold onto peace
and not anticipating a solution)
Not much is left wild on earth. A field here. A mountain there. Perhaps an ocean shore.
Solitude must be self-inflicted.
A need within
rises like a tide
to be washed clean of society.
The clock hands clasped in prayer for us.
Crushed by infidelity,
we find our bodies
unable to climb
and perch upon the weathered rocks
to watch the birds fly by.
We land in red fields
ravage the blue fruited plains
and in the distance
hear the sea gulls cry
The sand burns
dry as any desert
wet with salty brine
a shelf of delectable shell-life washes ashore
the gulls are always first
may i ever know the light
soul sways to and fro
lie naked with me
exposed to the criticism
cored and seeds spilt out
Im not so intimidated
by your wild accusations
of leavening my bread
with words of dread
Im beautiful in all my imperfections
of wild nights of flurry
honing my feminine skill.
I refuse to be cancelled
corralled into new wineskins
that drunken my enemies
full of venom and hatred
All while I preen my peacock feathers
glistening in the sun
my perfume captures the essence of every women unsung.
small snippets of truth
spaces of enormous birth
reside within us
Do you paint? What keeps you from moving into that space?
I love the feeling that rises within after I prepare a canvas, select brushes, choose color, and find mood music. The swaying starts small and gradually grows to an elemental storm. Some storms are rather peaceful. Others are torrential downpours. The volume of song can descend until it is barely audible. Or rise to the sky with thunderous echo.
What volume are you currently inhabiting? Will you dare enter that space?
The layers of a painting resemble what is unseen to the eye. This is why one must dive deep into a painting to discover the secrets and mysteries. This painting appears to be unfinished. There very well could be a friendship ii.
Honoring creation, realizing there are no mistakes. We are born whole, flung into the air, and immediately plopped into crisp blankets. Fresh fabric woven to caress our skin. The fortunate ones know love from the beginning.
The wailing ensues. Lost in the noise of moving parts. Who can understand the tragedy of dying?
I gather stones like bread crumbs. Each shape resembles a thought. Each thought encompasses a season. Each season of drought, famine, abundance, joy, grief, weighs heavy on the mind. Until. Until i lay my heart on the rock bed and weight the tears. I either sink or rise. And the vapor of breath becomes a fog. The inner vines of making meaning tangle up the process, and threaten my life.
One day at a time. Release the illness. Gather the rocks. Warm yourself with their captured sun. Notice the colors swirling within. Grays, blacks, oranges, blues, greens. Reds and whites too.
I love the idea of making meaning. Procuring symbols to represent my time here on earth. So I arrange favorite pieces in an alter space.
Music and rhythm touch an inner sanctum only I am privy too. No one, not even a trusted friend, can enter now. The notes descend the mountain and no echo returns.
Scents were like rain, or birds. They left and came back.
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper