Day 6. November PAD - We're being watched

Watched

They are here not with

kitchy wispy filaments of

wings strumming harps

Rather they are in the

breeze-brush against my

cheek, the stir of the wind

blowing hair stinging eyes,

insinuating themselves

down into my swallowing

gullet – prompting a brief

instant of heart-stopping

breathlessness – a sudden

choking cough –

they are here -

Turning my head,

Opening my eyes,

Parting my lips to speak  

in their place as I live this

life of mine – Memoir and

memorial - so theirs will

not have passed in vain

They are watching –

I feel a grandmother’s

nod, a father’s laugh, an

unborn baby’s raw cry

admonishing me forward

to live

plunging hands hard

deep down elbowed

into pungent loam un-

til blossoms burst

a-new …

again

legacy

lives

on

Day 2 - NOVEMBER PAD - Surrender

on yawping and yearning

I surrender this yawping yearning to
sit in this gaping gawping abyss-me
I set down the shovel and surrender
the need to dump sweet dirt into the
open grave of my soul opened in fear
I confront the chill that rises within to
Ice my fingertips growling from my gut
shiver-shaking – in senseless direction-
less frantic wanting – I am through with
waiting and wandering – wondering and
pondering the hole with which I arrived
and cease mistaking a microscopic chaos-
chasm for an agony to be filled with things
and people and accomplishment and sweet
satiation and come to see the sacred slit of
a Some-time Universe sparkling in a future day
when I shall fall into and through this emptiness-
this exit of my soul – until that day I will try with
each fibre of my being to hold this place safe and
open and turn my head from the striving to fill a place
meant to remain a space free and open and in-awaiting
for that final day when I will fall back into the me-my-self
fall back with loose limbed lovely lassitude – fall back into
eternal softness- finally ready to soar – finally soaring – to
the Source of the I Am that I am only in final and fearless
surrender.

Day 1. NOVEMBER PAD - The Day After

The Day After

I take my black dress
from the bedroom door
where some helpful one
has hung it neatly – I rip
it from it’s hanger so hard
that the cat jumps -as I roll
this dreaded reminder into a
ball and throw it with my shoes
with the underwear neatly folded
on the chair with my hairbrush used
to fix my hair yesterday – though it all
blew in the fierce wind of your Halloween
burial not nearly as cold as this empty morning

I Should

I Should

I should be planting trees in the desert
filing the bellies of bloated babies
starving myself just to truly understand
I should be finding that way that each
side in every conflict could see that
at the end -no one ever wins but all
eventually simply devolves to an end
I should be saving every specie that walks
this grand earth so that children who are
not even gleams in the eye of their parents
will know such as the grandeur of a lifted
trunk trumpeting – a group of matriarchal
pachyderms softening the stumble of a
soonest newest born – the monarchs lifting
in forever green field – the icecaps hard and
glittering – I should be working so that the air
is clean the water pure – everywhere and so
somehow in some mystic magic scientific
solution our spinning blue marble will heal
the raw scores of damage wrought and right
herself on a safe non stormy course – I should
be securing the birth-right of all children born
to live disease of mind and discrimination and fear
free and if I am not flying off from port that calls me
to port that calls me again – to work until my back is
bent, my fingers raw, and my eyes gleaming with hope,
to mitigate to soothe to smooth the jagged edges of
pain and suffering – If I am not flying off to do each
and all and more or even some –
and I am not –
then at the very least
I should write
I should write it all in words that sting and sing and
fly off the page and into the eyes of those who will
not see and have them do something….
I should
I should
but that I could

Running On Empty

dark+road+499211.jpg

Running On Empty

she hit the ground running – a full tank

of gas and wine thrumming - taking the

curves of the lane as though a simple

element–a proven theory of Invincible-

Ability – she hit the ground running –

gear screaming into fourth-as trees

sailed with demon silence - through

the windshield and she flew buddy

she flew fast as a soft sell candy to

a kid with cash and a craving tooth…

she hit the ground running on empty

The Sunday Whirl

The Legacy Blossoms - A Birthday Offering...

For Dear Nurit –

A true noble woman far more precious than rubies.....

Happy Birthday, today, tomorrow and all the year through ….

Rose Plants | 

The Legacy Blossoms

Emerged as a blossom from ash

Sparkling from one sea to another

Spreading her wings to create and

Shelter-celebrate her children and

theirs – passionate recipient and

giver of love in all its many forms

Emerged as a blossom from ash

Witness bearer, swimming from

aquamarine seas to wherever
voices call –listening with

an orchestral heart to the music
of the Universe - tears of pain –
tears of strength–tears of joyful
laughtered-light

Emerged as a blossom from ash

to stand - mighty as the oak

delicate willow weeping with

the beauty of simple being –
loosing each rustled leaf of
perfect poetry

drifting in the wind of time
well- spent – floating
new blossoms into

loamy lushness –
vanquishing ash in
light and legacy –
because of 

in spite of

it all – it all 
gleaming

glorious 

rubied
Nurit 







"What is to give light must endure burning."
--Viktor Frankl 

the thrum of new-born mum

annieppearson | Mom, Incorporated

the thrum of new-born mum 

There it was that thrum - like traffic clanging 

each cell - blood running hot - feet slipping on

the chill floor taking the risk of a trip-fall on the

steps down the hall to get to that screaming baby - 

They said it was only a matter of time-a short time

until the letters of her fractured-formerly-lyrical life

fell together again link by link - until her milk came 

in - let down - arrived.  But there it was - that thrum - 

paired with that minute relentless, relentless evil urge 

to hold the squirming thing to her bleeding breast until -

Source-of -All-save-her-she suffocated its screaming for-
ever -  In the watery predawn dim she sat in the rocker - 

off her rocker -untappable tears streaming rivulets down

her sagging-unshowered sallow cheeks and waited, alone 

for the courage to continue - to somehow finally-

find that sweet spot of maternal rhythym-singing

beneath that thrum - that thrum - that thrum …. 


~


The Sunday Whirl
gentle end-note here : my personal experience with motherhood was quite the opposite - however I have come to know many young mothers who suffer challenging beginnings as well as the experience of disappointment - hope and reaching for courage as metaphoric in a world that is not always as kind and flowing with mothers' milk as we might all wish. 

Still

Still 

Still in watery predawn light spilling

into the shudder-shimmer of silence - 

All gone home - carrying surreptitious 

gifts stuffed under coats improvising 

condolences from planned-canned-

canceled-congratulations - stumbling

smiles slipping from mouth corners -

All gone now - all silent in this watery 

undawned light - and you - stillborn -

somewhere - still 

In the dead of night

Tobias Dahlberg

In the dead of night …

tiny child of two or three

stood there at my father’s

bedside late at night face

pressed close breathing

his breath - waiting for

a fluttered lash – until as

sudden as sprung shades

in that black night his eyes

opened into mine shining

me back to myself sunlit 

~~

Up Close & Personal ~ Micro Poetry

Just past three am ....

Lynn Greyling

Just past three am 

Just past three am 

at the time of heart-

attacks and passion

Just past three am

staring in the mirror

just past three am

stroking shiver-lip

just past three am

waiting for a thud-

ding heart to quiet


~



Up Close & Personal ~ Micro Poetry