one year
since
you came up
behind me
in a random dark bar
and it’s been easy
(so easy)
and it’s been hard
(so hard)
and we’ve floated
and we’ve struggled
and we’ve laughed, and cried
and lived
and lived
and lived
a million years it seems
although
only one
has passed

but what is time,
really?
just a convenient
way to measure
the complex
activity of our
hearts
and if that is all
that matters
(and I believe
that this is
so)
then perhaps we
should expand
our discussion of
time to include
other measures
like the number of times
my hair has brushed
softly across
your face
or how often your teeth have
closed on my
skin
or the numerous tracks
my tears have left
on your shoulders
or maybe even
(if we blow our minds wide open)
how salty those tears
tasted when our
lips joined to
intercept their fall
(because who says time
must be discussed in terms
that can be counted, perhaps
time is just another sense
like touch
and smell
and the sound of your laughter)

we have encompassed
rush
and reality
and burden
and bliss
and fullness
and emptiness
and have been each
of these things
to one another
and everything to one
another
and sometimes
(in the darkest moments)
nothing to one
another
we have swung
from understanding
to questioning
to accepting
to rejecting
to knowing
but somehow
we have always
swung back
together

we know
with the certainty
of two who
understand that love
is not always
enough
(not nearly enough)
that we don’t get a
guarantee
and we push against
cynicism and yearn for
blind optimism
because we want
to believe
in the notion of forever
the way we did
before

but I think sometimes
our doubts are
our biggest gifts
because they keep us working
keep us from our blindness
keep us from expecting too
much
and accepting too
little
keep us seeking
and striving
and stretching
beyond the surface
and into the depths
of us.
and most of all
they keep us saying
yes
yes to the insanity
and yes to the chaos
and yes to uncertainty
and even yes to ugliness and heartache
and resentment and dismay
(because those emotions
must be honored too)
and then yes to
laughter
and family
and future
and home

yes
yes to time
(in all it’s
complex measures)
yes to future
and what it brings
yes to not knowing
to working
to bliss and floating and melting
yes to yelling and crying and pouting
yes to ecstasy and agony
and all the in crazy
mixed up in between
and certainly
yes to trying

Yes to one year
Yes to us.

there was this one night
just last week
when i saw these
at trader joes

b. thought they were
b-o-r-i-n-g
(being all one colour
and pink at that)
and so tried to
direct my attention
to some
brightly coloured
daisies

but these
for some reason
in their softness and
strength
captured my attention
and so I bought them for
her

(and to make b. happy
we got the
daisies
too)

and much to my surprise
when we got home
we found that sometimes
love and flowers go
hand and hand
and there was
another bouquet
waiting for
us
(because she
wanted to give flowers
to her girls).

isn’t it nice
when things just
come together
like that?

when she rested
her head
on my stomach
and looked up to say
“lay back,
tonight
i want to focus
on you”
her face was a poem

and that night
when i watched
as her eyes closed
and her neck
arched
and the ecstasy coursed…
well
the closing
and the arching
and the ecstasy
they were all poems too

yesterday
when my words
burned and she
snapped and
went outside to work off the fire and
i sat silently on
the edge of our bed,
her voice
and the sound of the door sliding closed
and my silence
were also poems

of course,
the first time I saw her in glasses
was definitely poetry
as was the hot chai
(with vanilla and soy)
in the earth-brown mug
she made me before work this morning

and don’t forget the patterns our feet make
when we dance in the
living room.
that poem is one
of my
favorites.

you wouldn’t necessarily
think it but
the fact that we both hang our bras
on the handle of the
closet door
and the fact that
her virgo-self constantly needs to reorganize
the tupperware
are just as poetic as
the way she likes to watch
me when i read
or the feeling of her arms
around mine three nights
ago when i had used up
every last ounce
of myself taking care
of others and just
needed so badly
to have someone
take care of
me

and because all
those moments are
poetry
it is understandable
that sometimes they
flow from our hearts
like ink on smooth
paper
and other times they come in
fits and starts
and with lots
and lots
of deleting and
that sometimes we choose
all the wrong words
(but don’t quite realize
until the poem is
completed what
was not quite
right about them)
or that sometimes we begin
what we think
could be a
great poem
but it fizzles out somewhere
and never really comes
together and we want to crumple up
the paper
and use it to play
basketball
in the garbage can.

but the
thing
about poetry
is that
there are no rules
or at least
that you get to make
your own
(like the way
i cut up my
sentences however
i want
and don’t use
capitalization
even when spellcheck
gets upset
with me)

and so our
poems
can be what we want
them to be
(or not be)
and nobody can tell us
how many verses
or where the climax should occur
or get angry because our sentences run on
or that we’re not doing things
in the correct order
or edit it to fit into
some predetermined
form

and so
we’re free to
keep right on
making poems
when we make love
and when we fight
and when we wash dishes
and watch movies
and clean toilets
and when we dive deep
and when we release
and when we live.

and so its
okay that
this poem didn’t really
get finished
because I’m running late
and have to pick up
my wee girlie
at school
because
i don’t think
that this kind of
poem
ever really
ends.

you see
it’s like this…

it’s like
some nameless, faceless doctor
sat me down
in a cold white room
surrounded by windows
and said

here’s the deal…
i can either cut off
your right leg,
or your left

you get to choose
but one of them has
got to go
now

because your two legs
,though both strong
and beautiful
and necessary,
can’t balance your life anymore

so tell me which
right now please
because people are waiting
on your decision
(don’t you feel them watching you
through all those windows?)
and your legs are
quite anxious
(understandable really)
to know which one
will be left
behind

but you must know this
and know in the deepest part
of yourself
he said,
(as he looked me in the eye
and in the heart)
that even though you have the
power
to make this choice
(and not everyone does – so
consider yourself lucky)
you are still going
to feel
for the rest of your life
like a part of you is missing.

…..

don’t you see?
it’s been a year now
more than that really
since this all began
and being with her
is like finding home
and our bodies fit
and our hearts fit
and i fit
and this is right
and i love her
and us
and this life

truly.

but i still miss him
ache for him
ache for us
ache for our children
for our life and the unmet potential
and that third child
(i always pictured another little girl)
we were pretty sure we would
one day have

and when I see an elderly couple
eating together at a
restaurant
or a young family
together doing family things
i feel something inside me
crumple
and hear this sound bubble up
from deep
inside of me
this keening, primal, animalistic sound
of mourning
of grief
of anger
for what can never be
because we won’t ever be
again

and i won’t know what his hand feels
like in mine
when we are both eighty years old
and how can that not feel like a tragedy?
and after breaking that promise
i don’t know if any other promise
can ever count
really, really count
again

because i made a choice
that wasn’t a choice at all

and i have to accept
in the deepest part of myself
that always knows the truth
that although i belong is this life
there is a huge part of me that will always belong
to that life
to him

and to be perfectly honest,
i don’t quite know what
to do about that.

it’s been
stealing over me
again
disconnect
not fitting
in my space in my
skin

like before
when it came and stayed
-for months and months
that time-

-i think in thoughts tinged
with numbness-
don’t want to go
down that
rabbit hole again

talk to me
-i tell
her
wanting to hear
words to help me
sleep-
tell me things

i don’t tell
her
that i want
to take her words
her voice her
spirit
and stuff it all
inside
to fill the emptiness

what does it mean
now?
-i wonder-
something swirling
in space
but not yet visible
to me?

***

She
whispers, pulling
me close
and i roll onto
her
wanting to absorb
everything
i can and
then
i sleep.

***

i wake to
silky blonde hair
little fists
rubbing sleepy eyes
‘mommy i’m hungry’
and rise
leaving her asleep
in our bed.

our bed.
in our home.
so many changes
for me
and mine

oatmeal
-with honey
of course-
in a pink plastic bowl
made quickly
paper grabbed
to scrawl out
words that needed
release

and with release
comes
-as it so often
does-
relief from
pressure to figure
to understand
to know

and all that is
left is to
just be
just me
just words
on torn paper
on a dark wood table
next to a pink plastic
bowl
filled with oatmeal.

***

she comes up
behind me
in the kitchen
and i turn
to bury
my face in her
shoulder
finding
everything
in her
arms

i feel you today
-i say-
i know
-she says-
that’s because
last night you called for
me in your sleep
and i came to
you
crawled inside,
filled you
up

ah,
-i say-
thats why i feel
so different
this morning.

thanks.

I gotta talk to you for a minute about Andrea Gibson. I’ve got talk about her, because I don’t know if I have ever, ever been so moved by the work of a single individual.

Andrea Gibson is a master of spoken word, an award winning slam poet.

“Gibson is also among the nation’s most admired and emulated poets. Her verse is at once personal and political, concrete and abstract, feminist and universal, filled with incinerating verbs and metaphor and delivered with gut-punching urgency. You can hear the ache in her soul every time she utters God’s name, and even her inhales sound desperate. It’s not uncommon for audiences to gasp at some of her turns of phrase or rise to their feet when she finishes a poem.” MATT PEIKEN

She is a woman of uncommon passion, her performances lit by an internal fire that powers her through her poems with the force of a freight train, slicing through lines with the sharpness and precision of sword. She spits her words out like bullets – hitting me right in the gut, and in the next second changes course and breaths out her message with a gentle caress that makes her words drift to my ears like leaves falling softly to the ground. Every word carefully chosen, unflinchingly delivered, cutting through bullshit and convention with the energy of someone determined to create change but also with the tenderness of someone whose heart is so big she has to hurt more than most of us. She performs with ferocity and with compassion and with so much feeling that I am left raw and exposed by the power of her honesty.

I want you to watch these videos. I want you to close your eyes and absorb her words, her passion, her activism, her fire. I want you to feel her work with every fiber of your being. I want your toes to tingle and your heart to pound and for you to feel changed by what you hear. I don’t know exactly why I’m telling you this, why I think you need instructions or set expectations. I can’t quite imagine that you could listen to these words and not do all these things. I don’t know that it is possible to be fully present and aware and NOT be wholly moved by the spirit and soul of what this woman creates in the performance of her art.

Blue Blanket
I am moved by every single piece I have heard her read, but this one – this one more than any other – brings me to my knees. It slams into me and makes my breath feel tight in my lungs and my heart thud in my chest. If you have ever been violated, if you have ever sat and held a woman who has been violated while she cried or sat in horrified numbness, then you will feel this poem with every last cell in your body and the final line will remain a part of you long after you have finished listening.

I do.
Love poem and political statement all at once, this is just one the millions of reasons why it matters that love just be love, without restrictions, or inequality or limits on who and how and why.

“i never needed more
than the stars on your grin to lead me home
for fifty years you were my favorite poem
and i’d read you every night
knowing i might never understand every word
but that was okay cause the lines of you
were the closest thing to holy i’d ever heard
you’d say this kind of love has to be a verb”

Dive
Life dosesn’t rhyme. Paradox, irony, mirrored reflections - it’s all the beautiful grey between stark black and white, it’s the ambiguous spaces between absolutes where the brilliance of life resides.

“”it’s your worst sin saving your fucking life
it’s the devil’s knife carving holes into you soul
so angels will have a place to make their way inside
life doesn’t rhyme
still life is poetry — not math
all the world’s a stage
but the stage is a meditation mat
you tilt your head back
you breathe
when your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks
and you pray for rain
and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water
but the only way to survive
is to breathe deep
and dive”

Say Yes
The world needs us right now more than it ever has before…this poem is hope - empowering, uplifting hope. This poem is the life I want to live.

For Eli
This is how I feel about war – not just the one we’re in now – but every last one of them.

““one third of the homeless men in this country are veterans
and we have the nerve to Support Our Troops
with pretty yellow ribbons
while giving nothing but dirty looks to their outstretched hands
tell me what land of the free
sets free its eighteen-year-old kids into greedy war zones
hones them like missiles
then returns their bones in the middle of the night
so no one can see”

Check out this link for a few more artists

Once again, thanks to the divine MLC for pointing me directly to brilliance and inspiration.

Poem

If you read awakenings with any regularity you know I often find expression for my emotions and experiences through poetry. I revel in the process and therapy of my ‘regular’ writing - of wielding words and digging deep and laying it all out in specific detail. There are times, however, when the structure and punctuation and grammar necessary for good, solid prose makes the words too distant, too removed, too separate to really connect with the heart of my experience. That’s when I turn to poetry.

In many ways, poetry is the truest expression of life experience for me – both writing my own, and reading the words of others. My favorites (Mary Oliver, Audre Lorde, Erica Jong, Rumi, Rilke), the passion and inspiration of spoken word and slam (Alix Olson, Andrea Gibson) and newly discovered gems along the way (so many finding their way to me through kindred spirit MLC).

Poetry lifts me, transports me, echoes my own experiences and takes me to places I’ve never been. I’ve said before that I could happily drown in a good poem, and that has never been more true than during this period of transition in my own life. I think that because these months have been so raw, so honest, so rooted in sex and sensuality and in the down and dirty of intense emotion – it is poetry that provides the greatest release. Poetry has the unique ability transcend my life and to ground me deep within my experience at the same time.

Tongue-tied Blue is one of my favorite bloggers, She writes, always, in poetry. I wonder sometimes when reading her words (words that take me to the most exquisite, sensual, erotic, succulent* places) if I met her in person would she speak in verse? Does she think in the same effortlessly luscious-free-flowing-stream-of-consciousness verse that spills from her fingers onto my computer screen? Her writing is so organic, so immediate, so stripped down to barest truth that as I read I’m right there with her – feeling, touching, experiencing, reacting, knowing – and it’s almost difficult for me to imagine that she exists in another form.

Today I visited her blog and found this:

i love the feeling of her
skin
how she does it, i don’t know
but her skin is
so very smooth and coolly
supple under my hands
endless caressing miles
i could gladly
i do gladly wander, marvel
across her sleek surfaces
the more i let myself worship there
the more i forgive myself
the years of holding this
the most passionate, truest sex mystery
at an uncomfortable distance
my relief and redemption
allowed yet still
in measured, serene, clean-shaved doses
and as to prove the paradox of all truths
and i struggle truly to find words
because this part is wordless
when i bring my full attention
to my face and
when i bring my face
between her thighs and
when i breathe in deeply
the earthy tang of her
the parts of my brain that kick in
are not the parts that bother with words
or with ideas of redemption
or with even identifying the self
instead it is purely sense and sensation
wet curls and silky flesh
hot and salty pressure rocking
deliberately and thoroughly
the tongue with it’s own agenda goes
time? fuck time
she’s moaningand here i am
with no guile, no pretense
sure and present
i know it in my knowing
being
all the way through
this is no theory
no opinion or speculation
no adopted facade to cover
the mad, confused scramble below
here, finally
i am

And I could attempt to explain what it felt like for me to read those words, and read them again, and again – maybe 15 times now - with shivers down my spine and a heart beating with the cadence of the words. I could attempt to explain how it feels to absorb of someone else but to connect so deeply within my own reality. I could attempt to go line by line and tell you why each one resonated with me. How the final words “here, finally i am” nestled themselves into my heart and roared from my lungs because they are my words, my thoughts, my feelings too. I won’t do any of that, because I couldn’t even come close to fully expressing what I want to express, and I won’t because if you’ve been reading this blog - really, really reading it – then you’ll already know.

Share some poetry with me, won’t you? Who are your favorite poets? What poems echo your own experience, allow you to dive within your own reality and explore yourself on a deep level? Do you write poetry? Share it with me here if you will, or email it to me (awakenings.blogsome-at-gmail.com).

*L – if you’re reading, yes…that word is for you…

“What are your fantasies”?

She asked me this recently, during a quiet moment together in bed. We fit so perfectly together that I tend to forget she hasn’t always been with me and doesn’t already know the answers to all the questions. My mind went blank, and I was surprised to find myself without a response to her query.

I pulled my eyes away from hers and looked down at our bodies, nestled together on my white sheets. My eyes ran across the smooth expanse of her back, her strong shoulders, the curve of her breasts, that perfectly formed space between her ribs and her hips. I lifted my gaze once again to her golden brown eyes, and as my hand traced a path along her arm I was in awe at the almost unreal softness of her skin. I laced my fingers with hers and was swept by a wave of deep contentment and a rush of exhilaration so interconnected that they felt like a single emotion.

This breathtaking sweetness and lightness of being - this is exactly what I wanted for so many years. It’s what I longed for, ached for, dreamed about, yearned to experience. Until recently I didn’t even let myself imagine that I could possibly live this, that it could ever be real. But it is real - aside from the births of my children, it is the most true and honest thing I have ever done.

Lying here like this with a woman - with this amazing, kind, soft, sweet, giving, wonderful woman (who somehow found me despite the fact that I wasn’t looking and was determined not to open myself to possibility) - this goes far beyond anything I could have imagined or dreamed or hoped for.

And so I found my answer,

“This. This is my fantasy.”

And I lay my head against her shoulder, closed my eyes and breathed in the utter perfection of moment.

Sometimes life just works out that way.

____________________________________________________

Apparently this one wanted to be a poem too:

you asked

you asked me for my fantasies
but how could I give you an answer
when
i look down your body
and mine
lying together
at the curve of your breast
and the sweet perfection of your skin
at the way your body curls
into mine
so I cannot tell where
one ends and the other begins
and it’s all curves and softness
and a tangle of limbs
atop a white down duvet
how could I think
of a daydream
when even the briefest touch
causes me to
lose myself
(and find myself)
every single time
and our connection
spirals across time
and space
and makes words unnecessary.
and even hurts and misunderstandings
just seem to swing us closer
and closer
to magic.
why would I spend time on
the imaginary
when even
the most ordinary
moments are
edged in brilliance
and sweetness and
beauty.

and of course that’s the answer
isn’t it?

you, my girl
this, my girl
us, my girl

it’s all fantasy
and it’s so very real.

sometimes life just works out that way.

one night
when you’re sitting at a bar
twirling your straw through the melting ice
in a really, really bad
grapefruit martini
(that you can’t believe you ordered
but force yourself to drink anyway
because eight dollars is too much
to waste)
and you’re lost in thought,

you look over your shoulder
and see that someone
has come to talk to you
and although you have never seen her
before earlier that same night
(when you noticed her across the room
with her friends
and then again later dancing)
when you look in her eyes
you get that nagging feeling
that maybe, just maybe
you’ve already met.

or if that sounds rather too cheesy
to be believed,
at the very least
you want to prolong the moment
and see where this might lead
so before you leave
you seek her out
and give her your number
(because she had asked earlier
and you didn’t want the opportunity
to pass you by)

and when she puts her arm around you
and leans in close
to be heard over the pounding dance music
you feel a shiver of something…
that you cannot yet name
but that you know you want to explore
(you will later recognize it as the
deep contentment that you always
feel when you are with her)

and then
a few days later,
with no call or text
you enter another bar on the other side of town
(on a first date with another girl, as a matter of fact)
and you see her right away
against the bar, laughing with her friends
and your heart skips a beat.
(because hearts are never afraid to embrace
the cliché and predictable
the way that their owners often are)

and you know that
even though it seems like incredibly poor form
to approach her while your date awaits
that you will have to make contact
before you leave
(because serendipity is a wonderful thing
and such coincidences should never be ignored)
and so you go to the bar
for a drink of water
and you stand right next to her
(with a heightened awareness of
proximity that should likely
have served as a warning
of what was to come)

and you find out that she has your number
correctly in her phone
except for one missing digit
making it utterly useless as a means of connection
and so you add a very, very important number 4
(perhaps the most important number 4 ever,
only time will tell)
and leave with a sense that
something important might just be brewing.

and thus begins
a whirlwind
a chaotic
eyes closed, mind open
heart opening, opening, opening
totally consuming
kind of whirlwind
(so consuming that you’re only just now
coming up for air now to write about it)
and you find that within mere weeks
you (who was so sure she wanted nothing
to do with relationships, or exclusivity, or anything
that remotely sounded like commitment)
have lost your desire
to make new connections,
or even to further ones already begun.

and you are in that giddy place
that infatuation place
that crushing, blushing, so-crazy-into-her place
that preoccupies your thoughts
and steals your breath from time to time.
(because your lungs are not afraid
to embrace cliché or predictable either)
and you spent hours learning about each other
(except she didn’t have to learn anything really,
about your body because she knew all there was to know
from the very first moment of contact
in a deeper, more profound way
than perhaps anyone ever has).

and there was a point when you knew
without a doubt,
that you were in trouble here
and that this girl was not going to fit
nicely and neatly into your plans
for uncommitted dating and emotional detachment.
(because although it totally messed with your intention
to play the field,
you realized quickly that you had no idea
how to casually date her)

maybe it was when she asked
which flowers were your favorite
so she could surprise you with them
on some random moment
or maybe it was the texts she sent
that made you smile in the middle
of your craziest days
or maybe it was the way her golden brown eyes
seem to be able to see right into your soul
so that you communicate
from across the room without saying
a single word.

it might have also been
the kisses that held a million promises
or the way you could fall into a deep sleep in her arms
escaping the wretched insomnia
that had tortured you for months
or the way her touch made your back arch
off the bed
it might have been the emotions that arose
unbidden, in spite of the fact that this
was not the best timing
(for either of you really,
logistics are truly a bitch)
and in spite of all your attempts to deny them
and even though you didn’t trust their
reality or validity.

and although
it made no sense
and it was way too fast
and you feel like someone changed
all the plans
when you weren’t paying attention
you choose the freefall anyway
(as if you really had any choice in the matter)
you stopped fighting the inevitable
(although both of you made an impressive effort)
you accepted the risk
and embraced the exhilaration
and you closed your eyes to the safe
and the slow
and the sensible

and even though you always
laughed condescendingly at people
who (just a month or so after meeting)
want to be together all the time
and who walk around making goo-goo eyes at one another
and who are generally sickeningly sweet
in their total absorption in one another
you find yourself becoming one of them
in spite of yourself.
and yeah, you know that this is all rather ridiculous
and cheesy as hell,
and maybe a little bit annoying even
(because lets be honest,
when it’s somebody else, it usually is)
and that (of course) this might just be
the thrill of early days
and the passion and intensity might just burn out
when the haze of infatuation
finally lifts
you know this, but you really don’t care
(or, at the very least,
you choose not to give it any real attention)

you choose to ignore it all
because falling
is such
an achingly lovely
feeling
(especially when you know
you have a soft place
to land)

This is what it was like for me, the first time.

the ocean

when I asked
what it was
like
to know a
woman
my dear one
replied
with infinite
wisdom,
“it is like
the ocean”
…..

and I
was
rolling and,
spinning and,
holding
the air
in my
lungs
so I would
not drown

eyes shut
but
mind open
under
and
over
and over
again

waves crashed
hard
and soft
on me.
and I
rode them
to
shore
floated
blissfully free
while tethered to
her.

clarity in
disorientation
the touch of
water
on my
skin
the feel of
heat
on her
breath
the sound of
desire
in
us
and all
around.

diving
and surfacing
above
and below
sounds and light
filtered
through want
and need
from far away
and from
right here

right.
here.

and right
now.

and then
she
touched me
there

there

right there

in that place
beneath the surface
and I gasped
and was
filled
with
rushing water
the power
of the current
taking me
places
I had
not yet been
but wanted
to stay.

I felt the
insatiable
pull of the
tides
gravity and rotation
legs
intertwined
hands
clasped
bodies
with no
spaces
in between.

I was
dizzy
because I
could not find
air
I tasted
salt
on her
skin
and I thought,
my soul
already
knows this
place

because
I am from
the
ocean.

I am
at home
in this
water
in this
sea
in the vast
emptiness
and fullness.
and softness
of these limbs
of this skin
of this moment

floating
weightless
but
falling
just
the
same.

And like the ocean
it was wise
and it was powerful
and it was beyond
my control
and it was strong
and it was gentle
and it was everything
and nothing.

It was
like
the
ocean.