Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Headline Poem 12/31/14 -- A tribute to you

I had no idea when I started my poem a day on January 1, 2014 if I'd actually be able to write 365. Initially, my poems were about other people's lives. These headlines captured and haunted me. As things in my own life changed, the news on some days became too much, and my poetry shifted, becoming more personal, more raw. That's how it works. There were moments I wanted to stop, but I didn't. It turns out I needed these poems. I had no idea that this daily practice of writing would become my saving grace. As so often is the case, beautiful things came my way, disguised, sometimes, as really shitty things. I have learned a lot this year, mostly about peace. It makes sense for my last poem of the year to be a tribute -- to nature, another saving grace. I will keep writing in 2015, and now, will have fun combining my words with beautiful art. Happy New Year! 

May your soul be sturdy, 
may your smile be bright, 
and may your heart 
swell with love. ❤️

A Tribute to You 

The day we 
packed up the kids 
and our lunches and our tie-dyed eggs
and drove through you, 
was the day small things started to change.

As we entered your sacred space,
you embraced us, and whispered that we were safe.
My heart raced, and then slowed, 
switching between fierce ebbs and
apprehensive flows. 

Your aroma is permanently
carved in my heart, and I can still smell
the shawl of acceptance you wrapped around
me, knowing how hard
I was trying to 
breathe while my children played among 
the Joshua Trees.

My bones thank you. 
It was there under the Cirrus clouds
that I lay down on you,
and became 
a woman in love 

with a man.

I don't know how, but you knew 
that I hadn't
really let him inside for at least
half a decade. 

I needed to be among the rocks,
and the curves of you to begin again
to speak
a language so long ignored
it was gathering cobwebs and dusted specks. 

We, in our own traps, were stuck. 
That day, we stopped spinning and 
to being tangled up in you
your soothing, mud-less breeze
of fault lines and ego dreams,
and we let go. 

We trusted that you'd bring us home

That was eight months ago, 
and to this day,
we are still closing our eyes, 
and pinching our skin
with appreciation,

ever so gently, 
always gently.