Poems from of old-

I Sit and Look Out

I sit and look out at a field of blooming faces,
wildflowers of many colors
planted in the soil of creaking desks,
shining under the buzz of fluorescent lights.
I sit and look out at Afros and braids,
buzz cuts and hijabs
and wonder,
What is keeping all the majestic gold
from spilling out?

I sit and look out at morning pencils moving
across the page and feel the energy
between us like the secret sign
language of branches moving in the wind.
I sit and look out at dusty brick walls,
graffiti tags, flat brimmed hats, black eyeliner
and am carried along in the current
of being young and alive.



What I Remember at The Land

I remember rows of sunflowers, explosions of gold,
prickly green stem arching upward like the neck of a giraffe.
I remember looking into the eyes of fresh morning light.
I remember walking barefoot, fertile black humanity squishing
between my toes.
Each morning, a baptism:
pools of crystal gathered on leaves and petals.

I remember air.

Breathing in a new way. Taking it in, exploding inside-
Pure Eden high.
I remember the rusty red Honda rolling on moonlit gravel.
Laying down to watch the fiery orbs above.
Being blanketed in velvet blackness,
held in the cradle of the Universe.

I remember resonating- harmonizing-
with the glowing incantation
and feeling
like I was levitating,
like the taste of my first kiss,
like I belonged.


Inner Child

She yawns like an old dog
by a grandfather clock after a long
summer day. She’s all buzz and glistening dew
of a mermaid on shore;
Flushed and rosy as a dolphin docked.

She chews on pocketed Cheese-Its
and slurps cran-apple elixir poured
to the split perfect sipping spot.
She is dirty nails and compost worm bin,
creaping and crawling through the ruffled leaves
of backyard woodpiles and flag post pansies.

On dark nights she’s screeching eagle strong
and bare bosomed Greek goddess
clamping victory to her chest
against night terrors and sweat binding tremors.

She’s brave-
like eating miracle whip
off a bloated summer slug.

December 2, 2010

On Being an Average Woman, Alone

I sip spiced cider

with a friend

Thanksgiving day

and tell her how cold

the winter is, how hard

it is to feed myself, how I feel

the loss now

that I cut

off all my hair.

Her face is a quiet lake as I speak.

She cups everything in her hands

and whispers strange

wisdom- the kind

that makes no sense

and must be true.

She said her grandfather

often told his eldest daughter

“I want you to learn to conform

so that when you have to

it is your choice

not your curse.”

I imagine this parable is spoken

for me. Birthed into existence in this exact

moment so that the translation can echo

in my ears.

It’s okay to let the fields lay fallow.

To be dormant for a season.

To let the compost pile rest,

and enfold upon itself.

To come home from work,

eat dinner, do dishes, go to bed early.

Get up and do it

over again.

I don’t have to fear

being average

American

twenty-three

alone

with myself.

My soul will not get sucked

into the TV and

it does not have to be done

right

or now.

I can practice the great mystery

of the season:

relax

breathe

lay down

the restless striving

and know

When it is time

to grow-

I’ll grow.

The bulbs far underground

always know

the time

to get up.

Dear Fall, I miss you.

Where have you gone? Just a few weeks ago I was running through Interlaken park absorbed in a rhythmic swirl of gold, umber, and wine red leaves. My whole body could feel the changing and turning and knew that there was beauty hidden in the core of the leaf-less tree. I could feel my own branches extending upward, barren into the crisp blue sky. If I paused and breathed deeply, my insides could tell that this stripping away was essential for whatever is to come next.

But now all I can feel is my nakedness.
It's winter. The snow blankets the streets, and ice has hardened on the sidewalks like thick shields over the earth. I want to brush it all away, to smell and feel some dirt under my fingernails. I want to break through the winter crust of snow and dig up evidence of something growing underground- but it is not time for such things.
It is a time for laying fallow. For things to be dormant. To wait patiently.

Oh, advent. The waiting might kill me this year.

"I am no longer afraid of becoming lost, because the journey back always reveals something new that is ultimately good for the soul."
-billy joel

I don't feel this way at all-
but I want to.

Transition Time

How I hate transitions.

I know in my head
things have to change.
Work. Home. Relationships.
Everything evolves, cracks open,
grows in different directions.
Everything keeps cycling, circling, spiraling.
If it stopped---

I'm not sure we could call it life.

But let's be real-
This part of life

Sucks.

Thanks, bell hooks, for inspiring me to quilt

This is my first quilt!
I just finished sewing it today.

All of the colorful fabric was brought back from Uganda by a dear friend who studied there a few years ago.
The beautiful fabric were scraps from traditional dress making.
I stitched together my quilt top, batting (a flannel sheet), and backing in a style called free motion.
A pretty fun process, all in all.

The Color Purple

" I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."
-Alice Walker