~I am, We are~

 

Most mornings I wake up and have to remind myself.

Like when Court-Court passed away.

Too soon,

it was unjust.

it was not fair.

I open my eyes to the sun sliding between the shades,

before so warm and welcome,

its beams are too bright,

too much.

THIS is too much.

I am a new bride,

I love my husband with my whole heart.

This is my honeymoon phase...

should be.

could be.

Most mornings I have to remind myself,

He loves me. chose me. Pursued me. Promised me.

And, this is my honeymoon phase....

should be,

could be.

*This is not my angry epithet,

Consider it my WHAT THE *EFF IS that??

I am here. I have not moved.

Truth, grace, goodness, and love.

Thrive still.

and they water hope, here in my heart.

growing a garden.

that should be,

could be

beautiful,

bountiful,

blessed.

I am a new bride.

I love my husband with my whole heart.

I exist.

I am real.

I AM.

We ARE~

~Sweet Potato, Serenade~

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps

He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin~

~Let THEM Eat Cake~

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I've been hearing alot of things, from alot of people these days of late. Words of encouragement and pithy platitudes offered with good intentions, of course, among other not so lovely, lingering lyrics of a tune that tempts my soul to shrivel up and die. (Thanksssssss). Words wasted on a wandering gypsy soul seeking only goodness, love and LIFE.

Anyway, I was told today that marriage (and monogamy for that matter), for most men, is like the best slice of chocolate cake. At first sample, it is sweet and satisfying and the best thing you have ever tasted. But then, after having it every day, it becomes too sweet. Too boring with no variety of flavor. Your tastebuds tame, accustomed to the offering. Bleh. So you want different dessert...a new cake...hell, maybe a cookie, or in my case, he went for the HO-HOS (plural)....

But the way I see it, marriage (and hell yes, monogamy), is like a whole helluva heapin' helping of oats. Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. OATS. In the morning, they are there to get you started with whole-grain goodness.....greeting you....warming you....sustaining and steeling you for the start of the day, for the moment when you make your exit out into the world, solo. And at night, they are there, they can take whatever form they need to to meet you...muffins, wholegrain bread, a kind, nurturing dessert that doesn't drag you down.

And just when you think maybe you could get tired of them, oats can reinvent themselves. Add to them, bake, cook or stew them a different way, they can adapt...with you, for you...inside of you. Oats.

Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. Oats.

~Fabric of A Family~

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Once silk,

soft upon my skin,

the color purple,

like royalty

dyed.

A cohesive quilt,

designed.

With deft fingers,

spun in skill,

The fabric of my family.

Arms,

Extended to their limits,

Fingertips,

reaching for the remnants

curled around this olive branch

holding onto hope

holding out for healing.

This schism

senseless.

Now the sun smiles,

its shadows cast.

don't say it sweetly,

rather speak plainly.

salt in the wound doesn't scare me.

Like Thomas,

I would touch and see

to believe.

That what is said exists.

We are.

He is.

I am.

Family.

Or Can be.

For words are wondrous beings

chameleons changing color

adapting

blending as best they can

for survival they shift

they are scared.

And even now,

I refuse to be the fig,

I will not wither on this vine,

And though the desert is dry,

There are still streams of water to be found~