The sweater that was meant to keep me warm
is tattered, no longer functional, I shiver
Thoughts like missiles, hurl you away from me
I am causal and blind to it
Preferring my perfect incriminations,
Who doesn’t love being “right”
Useless pile of yarn, useless sacrifice
Maybe I can take up knitting
a woven pattern of darks and lights
unraveling what has been excluded.
Will you remind me if I forget?
We women ( and everyone) are handless in a new way
The men aren’t “taking care of us”, we make our own money.
But our hands hold a ghost, a phone
A screen, a scroll (as if we are “doing” something)
While our creativity waits, impatiently
For us to put down the devise, but do we?
Ghosts with no poems to our name, disappearing
Belittled, shrunken and denied
by the wizard of technology, the big kid on the block.
It’s a subtle form of diminishment, feminists unite!
In the tale of the Handless Maiden
The devil temps her father by mechanizing his mill for greater profits.
But you don’t get something for nothing
The devil gets the daughter’s hands( her creativity)
The feminine suffers ( but it has a happy ending)
Kitty o is super ill and headed into spirit
I contacted an animal intuitive
Who told me how much our cat has enjoyed her life
And isn’t that what we all want to hear,
That those in our care have had a good run, that we pulled it off,
She is an independent cat, we haven’t been coddlers
More like two old lady poets, watching the birds.
I am going to write about her life, the story of the owl and her courage during the flood
and read it to her while we share a meal, the ritual of love.
Suffering will crack open the heart ( but I love him)
Defensive strategies will fail ( ouch)
Only Truth exits, after my constructions tumble ( thank goodness)
because blessedly, “I AM NOT RIGHT” ( absolutely true)
“But aren’t I suppose to share my feelings” ( No)
Hold your baby self and parent what you feel ( humming soft and sweet)
You are the only one who can. ( Yay you)
Michelle called, asking to speak with Anne’s sister, requesting that I visit her.
She is a wild angel, injured, bad, on a motorcycle, 20 years ago.
She lives in the nursing home
Where my sister lived before she died.
She sits in the dining hall, always in the same seat
And you can ask her where someone is and she will tell you.
She is the gatekeeper of Mesa Vista!
My visits with her are always brief.
She wants to know if I am coming to her birthday party ( it’s in September)
And we talk about the painting I made of her which hangs behind where she sits.
Then she tells me she loves me
And I tell her I love you Michelle.
Music actually happens in the space between the notes.
The way you can go isn’t the real way.
The name you can say isn’t the real name.
Heaven and earth begin in the unnamed:
(name’s the mother of the ten thousand things.)
So the unwanting soul sees what’s hidden,
and the ever-wanting soul sees only what it wants.
Mystery of all mysteries!
The door to the hidden.
There is no “other”
I count the winters like a Lakota,
An annual image of the year 2018
“Lucien sets the star and Jean Pierre hangs by his knees.
While Willow attempts to quiet their glee, “Shhhhhh”
Everything matters and everything is personal.
A Lakota grandmother would of sent us out the door for the day
With this instruction, ” Watch and take note of everything you see,
the animal that crosses your path or a bird,
“What direction did it fly”?
All is a communication to the Self, an inter-face between worlds.
Like that hawk you saw sitting in the tree,
Pay attention, Little Lakota. Messages abound!