When my mother died she  was whisked away in a black bag

within an hour of her death, taken by people we did not know.

She wanted her body to be given to Science ( whoever that is)

Years later, still stricken, my brother and I have a confusing relationship,

Could it be that this lack of  ritual  upon her death  has severed us?

Big things happen  so fast  and become unconscious so quickly.

We hardly know the cause of our pain.

Didn’t Mary Magdalene freak out when the tomb was empty?

Oil and cardamom spice, flower petals and cornmeal.

 

Come June, the three of us , who shared womb space,

Will pile high upon a plate, our mother’s ashes,

Blessedly returned, thank goodness.

For we are in need of a time together

to just be with her and each other.

In a semi state of ever repeating karma

friendly and  familiar,  in a well knit cocoon, we drift

Like the matrix but the thing is…..

Right before it all begins again

We can choose our narrative

the sand in my mouth has become a pearl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John told me about a  TV show about a wealthy man

Who adopts six odd children with super powers

The children grow up, the man dies

And they need to find ways to work together

to save the world (of course)

Then John quietly added, “They have to try,

Like us, despite their dysfunction, they have to try”

Fists unfurled, we have to try.

The odds are great and ego( separated mind) is strong so just bring it along for the ride.

 

 

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
I shiver.
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)