Skip to main content

A Motherswell of Love Dance

-- to our progeny

It seems a plausible imperative,
(she tells us) 
trust yourself  -  ride the intuition.

It will wake you at 3 am, mercurial
as an infant still in womb time.

Unannounced - it can take your breath
like the Tower card from Waite Ryder,

all those flames and falling bodies.

Trust yourself to just exhale.
See, winter passes,

(she’s rolling now)

it's 85 outside - we're between jet streams.
Trust yourself – just be naked sometimes –
turn up in a favorite dream.
lead with your belly, walk with Ursula
rising from nap time. She's ravenous, grumpy.
(so are we)
When we lumber into the stars of summer,
we'll suck on bones of worry -a marrow that kicks like sin.
(she pauses)

Trust yourself - it's in the water,
this love dance of fractals, this swirling Troposphere
weeping mercy onto deserts of Somalia and Djibouti.

Its gift is fresh gumption -
lifts wings and floods flight paths with all the usual suspects -
poets and children, red knots and butterflies.

And oh! The horseshoe crabs -
such ceremony in a May arrival,
their motherhood, blind treasure of foam born
in neap tides washing up in an endless line.

Just like that 
(snaps her fingers)

trust yourself to be in step with our critical mass.
You - pebble launching a thousand avalanches,
                                   a thousand miracles.


Now ride Sally ride! 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.

Cream on Whiskey

-- Women's March first anniversary 2018 Crone privilege abides here in the steady pour of the Mississippi. Her laughter, belly deep, shadows grackles and gulls, her inconvenience, forever indentured with her shoals, and her easy is fickle, full of silt and minnows. Crone privilege abides here. Out of the modern drudge, we know these truths: Wisdom is love, love is patience, patience takes its time. On the shoulders of old women, it pushes boulders up a hill, Defying the Sisyphean habit – they will roll it up and over, be done with that. Crone privilege abides here. Call us queen bees, a riot of pussies, hand maidens over done. Maya Angelou made her heart into a mantra, now when we straighten our backs, the chrysalis splits wide, and like cream on whiskey              we rise.