Stories

And how do we continue to fly when our wings have been clipped?

We craft new ones from all that remains,

We crawl if we have to,

Walk when we’re strong,

We run run run until we’re fast enough to be lifted,
to soar once again.

I think I think too much

I think I think I think I think I think I think too much

My mind is always muddled from all these thoughts that I am thinking.

You see,the space inside my brain’s got no room for all these thoughts that keep consuming, but even so, my head’s grown 2x its size since just last week alone,

I think I think I think I think I think I think too much.

My noodle weighs heavy from all these thoughts that are a’ feasting,

So much that it droops and it stoops and it hangs down low,

And my hands have gotta hold it steady to keep me from smack dab crashing.

I think I think I think I think I think I think too much

My cranium’s a weary puddle from all the thoughts that keep speed racing,

Maybe if I did some spring cleaning to organize these thoughts,

These good thoughts, these bad thoughts, these happy thoughts, these sad thoughts, these smart thoughts, these dumb thoughts, these silly thoughts, these squishy thoughts,then maybe I could get me all upright once again!

But I s’ppose it’s only autumn and we’ve still one season left to go.

Perhaps I’ll just keep holding on till the snow melts next and the flowers begin to grow.

rain rain

Photo by Kurt Arrigo
https://500px.com/kurtarrigo

There’s a quiet wash of beauty that falls from the sky in the shape of tear ducts like petals

‘round a flower or the almonds of your eyes.

She has a pulse, sometimes muted, padded feet on the soft ground, gentle gentle to and fro, sometimes boisterous with laughter.

There’s a quiet wash of beauty that falls from the sky.

She drip drips into the hollows of your heart and fills you full until you and she are one wave of interconnected consciousness, until you’re liquid motion, dancing satin in untamed skies.

There’s a quiet wash of beauty in the sky.

Do you hear her?

As she breathes ribboned secrets past the surface of your fleshy coat

Birdie

Photo By Andre Kertesz

I found some paper birds

Circling around a sky that someone made for them;

It’s not a very big sky

Maybe 8x11,

With really soft watercolors folding into one another

Washing over gently gently.

I wonder

If they know

That their world could be much bigger

If only they could tear down the neatly ornamented

Walls that enclose them on either side.

I wonder the distances they could travel,

What they could become,

If their wingspan were allowed to stretch

Across mountains.

I wonder what it’s like for them

To have limited freedom

And not even know

Quit Buggin Me

Quit buggin me all the time

Quit buggin me, I didn't do a crime

Quit buggin me, you monstrous beast

Quit buggin me, I don’t wanna be your feast

Quit buggin me, don’t sit and pry

Quit buggin me, I’m about to cry

Quit buggin me, you ugly fly

A poem from 9 year old me.

Sitting is Good Too

It’s ok

You don’t have to be alone today

I can be here

With you

At the same time

And share this space with you

So the ticking on the clock doesn't consume your thoughts

And the hollowed out wall doesn’t swallow you up and consume your thoughts

And the mean people inside your head don’t talk their talks and consume your thoughts

We don’t have to talk

We can just sit

And be

Two simple minds

Two simple matters of existence

Two shared beings of mama earth  

Rattling our cores

Thumping our hearts

Feeding our bellies

We can just sit

And when you're ready

If you're ready

We can fly

To Love Yourself

Photo By John Boris 

She had these eyes, right?

These big round eyes that pierced

That spoke truths

That she learned to cross stitch herself

With a pattern that she found on the bottom shelf of aisle 12

labeled “to love yourself”

Real small lettering, real loose, real round

The kind of lettering that dresses itself to the 9s

That sways smooth into its lover

And dots itself with cinnamon i’s

She came across it when

She was looking and searching for a part of herself

After the eyes she had been looking with were washed

One too many times with smudged fingers

After her world collapsed onto her shoulders and her legs sunk into the soil

After she felt her seeds were no longer
Strong enough to grow a forest rooted with thick tree trunks

And big leafy homes

After she wrung her thoughts so much

Like wet laundry

That her skin was hanging loose on the clothes line

And her bones were sitting in the corner

Drying

Waiting

Waiting for that fleshy bit to wrap her warm again...

She holds onto that pattern

As a friendly reminder:

To love yourself is beauty, baby

your whole self

your faulted self

your ever growing

ever sprouting self

You are beauty, baby