this year is my reset button
reconfigure, reevaluate, revision
if it comes down to it i'll even
reduce, reuse, recycle
but those ideas are better left to the larger world eye view
so this year i have focused on the little things
the things that make a difference
in my every day life
a good cup of coffee
a good meal
a visit with a good friend
this year is my reset button
reconfigure, reevaluate, revision
i will remove what is not necessary
discard those long held tensions
this year i have focused on the little things
in my every day life
a good shot with my bow
a good afternoon spent with my kids
a good evening spent with my husband
this year is my reset button
reconfigure, reevaluate, revision
there is no longer space for past transgressions
there is only space for digressions
of the mind, body, soul and heart
this year i have focused on the little things
this year i have been reset
balefire's heat
ramblings from a mind scorched by time
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Friday, November 16, 2012
keyed exposure
“The purpose of poetry is to
remind us
how difficult it is to remain
just one person,
for our house is open, there are
no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and
out at will.” ~ Czeslaw Milosz, ars poetica?carmik
~~~~ **** ~~~~
There are no keys in the doors, you have to go looking for
them. They will not be in the usual places, beneath seat cushions or placed
neatly by the bedside table. They cannot be found within the usual places, they
bury themselves beneath your doubts, replace the truths you’ve been searching
for with nothing more than rusted wisdom.
There are no keys in the doors, there is no need to lock
them here. Everything comes in and comes out willing the resident to remain
where they are. There is no exit, there is no entrance to this place. The
purpose may be found within, but the absence of keys reminds us there is
nothing hidden.
There are no keys in the doors, everything is open,
everything is exposed.
There are no secrets behind closed doors, everything is
open, everything is exposed.
There are no refuges beyond the doors, everything is open,
everything is exposed.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
goddess
the crone speaks to death
she does not listen to its words
but voices those of her own making
the mother takes in life
holding onto everything
giving only herself away
the maiden gives birth to a new voice
to be heard and sung
among the masses
there is no end held within the capacity of these three
they are life/death incarnate
they are darkness/light held
they are purity/deceit seen
in all there is no want of another
in all there is no need for another
in all there is no end, only beginning
she does not listen to its words
but voices those of her own making
the mother takes in life
holding onto everything
giving only herself away
the maiden gives birth to a new voice
to be heard and sung
among the masses
there is no end held within the capacity of these three
they are life/death incarnate
they are darkness/light held
they are purity/deceit seen
in all there is no want of another
in all there is no need for another
in all there is no end, only beginning
Saturday, September 22, 2012
latent musings
My muse just told me to fuck off!
She’s been knocking at my door, on my ride into work, on my ride home from
work. I kept telling her, not now, just wait another hour, another day, just one more minute and I’ll get to you. When
I finally open the door to say, “hello”, she turns her back to me, flips me off
with both hands and stomps away before my mouth can move to utter, “Come in and
sit with me.”
My muse just told me to fuck off!
She left me with images and letters too jumbled to be placed into words, too
mangled to be ordered into sentences, too ragged to be dropped into paragraphs. I am left bereft and wanting as she looks back to glower at me.
My muse just told me to fuck off! I am trying to find a way to offer her my condolences, to relinquish my mistakes, but my words fall on deaf eyes, my voice tumbles out to whisper on unseeing ears and my tongue is thick with regret that will not be felt by tasteless hands.
Friday, September 14, 2012
walling reflections
a sense of place
a notion of time
a feeling of remembrance
all of these things
can be held within walls
within grass
within trees
within moments of lucidity
too grand to speak
the realms of meandering thoughts
too wondrous to be ignored
the silence is the least of my concerns
there is no longer a need for white noise
the air is ringing with intention
the words hold every reflection
Sunday, August 5, 2012
the last love story on Earth
The sun was setting and their whole world was quieting down
for the night, as the night crawlers began their ascent. The breeze felt warm
on their skins and the world pushed away by the force of their coming. The roots
and branches of the trees made way for their passage and the rocks stood still
and whole in their grandeur, waiting for the moment when they would provide a
surface for their joining.
Two walked hand in hand down the path, the shadows of the moonlit
trees playing across their skin. Silver mixed with grey, darkness mixed with
light, there was no definition to be seen, there was no boundary they needed to
adhere to.
Their bodies became mirrors of this mix, moving with each
other to their own rhythm.
The world came down to this. There was no sight left unseen,
there was no shadow that could not receive the light, there was nothing that
was held between them. They were all that was beheld by the other.
The world came down to this. Their movements flowing from
one to the next, no hesitations, no hidden nuances to discern the truth. They were
all that was beheld to each other.
The world came down to this. There was no line between them,
there was no darkness left enshadowed, there was nothing but truth held between
them. They were all that beheld by the other.
The world came down to this. This moment, this truth, this
love.
They were all that there was. They were all that there is. They
were all that needed to be.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
legacies
“My gardens are my legacy. ...” ~ Morgan Botanicals, FB Post 6/28/2012 ~
My life is my legacy. The paths I have taken, the trials and
tribulations I have prevailed over, the lessons I have learned, both hard
earned and almost always too late for me to put them towards their intended
use. The cherished moments with family and friends. All of these, and none of
these, could be influenced by the greater of the whole, but I have never found
anything more true than this: my path cannot be foreseen, my windows of
opportunity do not always bring forth an easy road, my lessons have never come
on a silver platter. The paths are full of twists and turns, the windows can
always use a good cleaning, and the knowledge gained from the lessons never materialize
until I crawl to them, on bloodied hands and knees asking them to forgive me
for my naiveté.
My survival is my legacy. I jump around the obstacles in my
path. I go over the tried hills and run down the valleys of tribulations. I have
learned too many lessons to count. I have honored my time with family and
friends. I wreak havoc with plans, I bring chaos to their wake, smashing along
the edges of outlines and structure. The twists and turns become commonplace, the
windows began to crack at my passing, and knowledge begins to bow down to me.
My wisdom is my legacy. The paths I have traveled, the
obstacles I have concurred, the trials I have overcome. Lessons have been
learned from all of them, the small and the large adhering to form a truth that
has been had earned. I am no longer a
victim of circumstance. I will no longer cater to the whimsical notions of
others. I am no longer compliant to those who appear to have power.
My life is my legacy. My survival is my legacy. My wisdom is
my legacy. My life is my legacy.
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