are you thinking
of me too, somewhere
the colors bend and highlight
are you thinking
of me too, somewhere
the colors bend and highlight
I am an old soul in a young body; in an old world with a new soul i don’t understand.
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My Feathered Heart (original poem)
My review of The Feathered Heart by Mark Turcotte.
I once found a teeny-tiny downy woodpecker feather. At most, the feather measured one inch (2.54 cm) in length. My guess as to the year found would be 2010. I had since lost the treasure to find it again while packing up our house to move. Today’s date 3/11/2018.
The feather, seen above in the bookmark constructed, is grey/black with five incomplete white spots. The spots are not complete circles as the white color lies on the fringe. As such, it mimics my teetering heart, lying on the edge of an invisible border erected by thoughts. It is my feathered heart that led me to find Mark Turcotte and his book of poems, The Feathered Heart.His book will be returned to as often as needed. To remedy my soul with feeling words erected as fences. (I found a used copy, to be delivered just in time for my birthday, through Amazon 😁.)
My wayward feet travel searching for answers. The silences weave protection. The war i battle is not within but from outside the curtained window. I learn to dress in velvet’s hope.
— Read on Fabric on the Daily Post
What are we willing to give up? What would i find behind your curtain as i swing it aside? Have you, will you, consider letting me know?
I wait. Anticipate. Is this a game eagerly played by two? Or only i?
Am i setting myself up for your opera. Life over as fast as it started. Slow. Drawn out misery. Ending with a cry of freedom!
A peek behind the madness of death exists behind every curtain. It matters not your fabric woven. The rapacious appetite for breath carries us along.
I do not plan to go anywhere. Neither behind your curtain. Or stand before it. I want to be your covering. Shield you from peering eyes.
Church is poetry.
Poetry is life.
A life well lived.
at the end
of every truth
a handful of stars shine -die.
The same person -born
new thoughts and old
intermingle within our DNA.
There is always something worth fighting for. Some times those things are greater than ourselves. Other times, it is ourselves we fight for. When we are able to simultaneously fight for all these things, we triumph.
Personally. Collectively. Battles.
Currently I am reading a very short book Sacred Geometry and set out to notice shapes and patterns in my photographs. Actively identify the photo’s composition, that was not purposely planned out, retracing my whimsical approach to life, intentionally finding what was pleasing to the eye.
This flower sums up life. Do you recognize the flower able to bloom wherever it finds footing? Often called grounding, it is connecting with ourselves, whereby one is able to calm the soul. Learning to thrive in a foreign land set against you, name the battles.
Notice the petals, some tattered, are not symmetrical. The space is full and empty. The rocks worn smooth from salty waters, leave stained memories. Immersed into the green, jagged leaves, symmetry unfolds. Layered upon each other, they peek from behind, nourishing each other with their varied position in time.
Odd. Count the petals. Twenty-three. One petal missing, to make it an even 24, or is this space purposely left open, as a fill-in-the-blank? This question remains unanswered, teaching us to be grounded while going along, while the tears flow.
of your thoughts
words outline my back
once buried under desert skin
I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.
It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.
My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.
Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.
Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.
So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.
Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”
Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”
“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”
Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)
Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.
If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.“
I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.
Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.
Coming back one way or another… a year and i will be dancing on stage. Age is all mental and physically i’m gonna rock my world!
Ive been under the haters thumb
and i wagged to their beat
not my own drum
but this girl has a heart
that wont repeat
the lies ive been told. deliberate
in my moves,
groves to make you blush. Hush!
you talk too much.
do you like the way i lay;
i in the scope of your fire
with no route to escape
i pleasantly succumb to the spark
laugh in the face of my death
feel the heat in your hands and heart
a burning desire disastrous
watch you grow closer
sliding feet, saddled by purse
sashay, sashay away
we glow in the night
illuminate our path forward
celestial skies held high.
And higher still you rise.