TangledWings

New Ink

whatcha wanna do that fo'
she asks, as if she doesn't know
because this is my body
I answer
and I want everyone to know
it belongs to me
because for too long it didn't and
I'm takin' it back
because for too long I didn't know
I had the right to take it back
because for too long I didn't know how
to say no but now I know better
even though sometimes I still forget
I can say yes, I can say no
I can say don't you dare
but my body can't speak on it's own
I must open my mouth in my defense
because I gave too much away
for all the wrong reasons
but now I know what belongs to me
and I want to write my story
into my skin
so I'll never forget again

Little Scraps of Paper Everywhere

Often when words and phrases enter my head that I might be able to use for future poems or blog posts I jot them down on a scrap of paper (receipts, napkins, loose pages pulled from notebooks) before it's lost forever in my head somewhere.  Unfortunately most of the time I end up still forgetting about them because I tuck the papers way and never think about them again.  Last week I found once such scrap of paper tucked in a notebook.  Because I rarely date my scraps I usually don't know when and/or why I wrote the words.  But it's kinda fun to find them.  They're like little poetry treasures buried throughout my world.  The following bit I found scrawled on a small sheet of notebook paper.  Very appropriate for the return of spring.

Some days she'd lie in the grass,
her chest pressed against the beating heart
of the earth and pray that the gentle breathing
of their joined hearts would pull her back
into herself...and if not, at least let it
open her eyes...and if not, at least let it
teach her how to cry.

SPC {blue-2}

Even after everything we've lost in this life,
things we let go of without realizing
we should have held on, things that slipped away
when we turned our backs, even after all we've lost
has piled up like laundry that needs to be done,
there are still some things we've managed
to salvage, things that hold us when we forget
and loosen our tight grasp---
the way your body fits mine like a faded pair
of blue jeans, traces of your scent still
on my skin well into my day, that spot
under your right shoulder blade I've claimed
as my own and press my lips into whenever you
begin to doubt you deserve this love, whenever
you start to fear you've given yourself away until
there's nothing left for me, there's still that one
small spot with my name on it which I take gently
into my lips like the bread of life.  There's still my arms
wrapped around your chest, my chin resting
on your shoulder, the palm of your hand
against my cheek, my lips finding the soft spot
above your wrist, the muscles of your body
limp in my hands.  There are still these things
we have of each other, well worn and broken in,
as familiar frayed denim.

Poetry Thursday {Two}

I have written a million poems in the dark,
your body heavy on mine,
our limbs wrapped tightly around each other.
I have written every movement, every shift,
every letting go and giving in.
I have written the unfolding rhythm
of two bodies melting into one then
becoming two again.
I have written the details of every opening,
of heart, of spirit, of body, of night,
and I have written of the pulling of fire
through my blood by your hungry kiss.
But in the light my words are tangled.
I can't describe the taste of your skin,
no words adequately detail the terrain
we stealthily enter then exit again,
I'm unable to find words that retell
the story our bodies tell so well.
We open and enter each other
like doors in a dream, discovering
each other over and over again.
Those poems, written with your breath
humming in my ear, our fingers laced,
our lips dedicated to each others skin,
poems about traveling
the heated landscapes
of each others bodies, of discovering
who we are and what we can do
when we bravely surrender ourselves
to each others hands,
are lost in the night.
They slip inside the walls when
the shadows begin to reappear.

Poetry Thursday: for you...

From the window I watch the black silhouettes of the geese
circling the sky in their shattered V,
their calls to one another sharp and shrill.
They take long thoughtful laps around the lake
slowly descending with each narrowing circle.
Safe from the burning chill of evening
I watch them in wonder.
I watch them land weightlessly upon the still water,
water as smooth and shiny as a pirate's gold coin.
I watch their dark bodies settle into
the kerosene glow of the setting sun,
and every once in awhile,
when I glance out across the park
to where you're playing, your bright
orange jacket flashes across my line of vision,
zipping madly like a dizzy bee at play.
I spot you running joyously through the flock
of other children, all clothed in muted
shades of black, navy, and gray--
my lone bright cardinal darting through
a flock of dull gray geese.

A Postcard of Frida Kahlo

Everyday her eyes, dark as sorrow,
burn into my red belly,
burn into the soft depths where
I hold my passion and words,
my artist and imagination,
my power and my vision,
my courage and my voice
they burn into the finest version of myself,
into the god that holds me tightly
and celebrates the intricacies of all I am.
And her whisper, low and determined,
carries in it the same message
wrapped around the memory of Sylvia Plath--
take your life in your hands,
break it open and let it spill out,
cup your brokenness in the palms of your hands
and love it as a mother loves her newborn,
let all your sharp edges rip the night apart,
let the soft beauty of your soul
ignite into the fire you were meant to hold,
do more than spin poetry from experience
learn to live it fully even with the fear,
find forgiveness,
become a student of grace,
burn it down and rebuild it
better than it was before,
do what we couldn't.

Living in the In-Betweens

The geese, who all winter long have graced us
with their beckoning calls,
are beginning to head home,
tiny buds only seen by the waiting eye
are tentatively making their appearance
on the boney limbs of trees,
keeping themselves tightly enclosed
until the warm touch of spring
sets them free,
and the clouds, once gloomy and gray,
are now spreading across the sky
in a gentle blossoming of color.
But there are still fickle days,
days that bring me to my knees,
days when the frigid air
can freeze tears to my chapped cheeks,
days when the bitter, ruthless wind
takes my breath away, leaving me
gasping, grasping for life,
days when one can get lost in the dark
before the day is snuffed out.
We, you and I,
are living on the fragile edge
of what has been and what will be
balancing our hours
on a tight rope of uncertainty,
nothing promised,
nothing locked behind the door of finality.
In the dark, while a fine layer of frost
coats the sluggish world and
winter's demanding hum
rattles the walls
we've come to trust,
we pull each other a little closer,
each of us tightly gripping the other
in a promising embrace,
pledging with our bodies
not to let the other tumble end over end
into that black abyss of in-betweens
waiting just below us.

My Ode to Sharon Olds on another Poetry Thursday

Recently I've taken to devouring Sharon Olds,
feeding on her words as if they are my life blood,
as if they are the last great hope of womankind,
as if they are the prayer of the famished.
All her work I own I've read before
and am now re-reading with a new hunger,
my tongue passing over my lips for every last crumb,
licking my fingers, plunging face down
into the porcelain plate of her mind.
My mouth drops in awe of her honesty
and I wonder how she does it
how she finds the courage,
how she writes with such fierce rawness,
how she can stand to stand in her nakedness,
how she risks, over and over, being misunderstood,
risks standing under the burning eyes
I know too well.
I wonder what kind of god
lives in her that doesn't live in so many others,
and at the end of every poem,
before I turn the page,
there is this moment I realize
I have not lived, I do not understand,
and I feel a sharp pang of shame and
an equally sharp pang of hunger
and then that moment passes,
extinguished in forgiveness and acceptance
and I stand in great hope of who I am and
who I am becoming.

***************************************
First Thanksgiving
Sharon Olds
from Blood, Tin, Straw

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object,
like a soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, after him, fresh
from the other world--which lay, from within him,
within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing--whirling, over the months,
in a slow blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn't need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she's fast asleep, I'll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air--I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.

Loving It All

I want to love this life,
this life I keep pushing away from myself
because of some comparative dissatisfaction,
because there is some kind of understanding
I have not quite grasped.
I want to pull it close to me, cradle it,
not just the soft pink blossoms of spring
which sprout from bare branches then bare fruit,
not just the colorful leaves in autumn
that shine against the gray sky and
even glitter in their falling.
I want to love too, the burning unbreathable air of summer
which steals the earth's fresh attempt at life
and I want to love the unlovable winter
whose cold pulls away all color and whose bitter teeth
tear the world apart.
I want to love more than just the life and resurrection,
I want to find a place in my arms
for the things that kill this life
without a second thought, for the things
that rip through beauty, never looking back.
I want to surrender this fighting,
this holding on, and wake to find beauty
in the very things that rip beauty apart.

A Poem for Thursday

They lie across the bed side by side
facing each other, their bodies only
a breath apart.  They both carry secrets
in their brown eyes, they both have hidden
and visible scars, they have both grown old,
grown into a place where they are tired,
tired of having too little and being afraid
of giving too much.

"I'm not sure I know how to do this,"
he whispers tentatively as he brushes
a few strands of hair from her face
with his fingertips.
"Neither do I,"
she assures him.
"All this is new to me and I'm scared.
Everyday I want to turn and run
the other way."
"Me too," she whispers,
pulling his body closer to her own,
resting her face on his weathered skin,
"but I'm so tired of never showing up
and loving only a little.
I don't want to be afraid of being loved
or worse, of being seen.
I'm too old for games and lies
and holding back.
I'm too old to not take this risk,
to not stand here with nothing
between us.  I'm too old to
only give you parts of myself
instead of my whole self.
I'm too old to keep hiding,
to keep tucking pieces of myself away.
If I keep holding on to them
I'll never fall apart and if
I don't fall apart I'll never find myself.
I choose you.
I choose you to push against,
to scream at, to make love with,
to discover myself with and
I want to be brave enough
to give you all my humanness.
I want to be brave enough
to accept all of yours."

"What if I can't sit
in so much love?  What if
I can't accept so much
humanness?  What if
I can't look you in the eyes or
let you look in mine?  What if
I can't let myself be loved?"
he asks, his head bowed and
his fingers laced between hers
as if in prayer.
"We could start with a few promises.
We could promise if we want to run
we'll tell the other.  We could promise
if it gets too be too much we'll say when,
than back away until we're ready for more.
We could promise to look each other
in the face.  We could promise
not to lie to ourselves any longer.
We could promise we're in this together."
He wants to make promises
just as she wants to make promises.
He wants to know who he really is.
She wants to discover all her secrets.
He wants to fall in and never look back.
She wants to open her arms
and take it all in.
He closes his eyes, bites his lower lip,
falls into her body and whispers
his answer in her ear.
She breathes in the scent of his skin,
kissing him lightly on his graying temple,
then lets herself slip into the
dark corner of his chest.

And that's what could have happened,
and that's what could have been,
if only one of them had rolled over,
if only one of them had given in,
if only one of them had found the courage
to clear their throat and stop
staring at the wall.