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Tag: poetry

let go, make space

Let go of what no longer serves you.

Let go of lingering things left too long undusted.

Let go of that habit you perform like an empty ritual, that frame of reference that belongs to a younger self, that idea whose time has come and gone, that assumption handed down to you by someone whose shadow you used to dwell beneath.

Who are you when you're alone?

Look up.

Look up from this artificial bath of illuminated signals, up into that celestial origin, that wellspring of creation beyond this translucent skin of mortal life, up into a billion years of chemical history handed down to you by the cataclysmic death of a giant star,
and listen.

Listen to the beat of the muscle filled with iron expelled by a supernova long before the earth beneath your feet was born.

Listen and let go.

Let go of what no longer serves you.

Let go of what time has shown you you no longer need.

Letting go is a practice.

So, practice.
Here, in this moment.

Listen, choose. Let go.

Let go of what no longer serves you.

Material objects. Habits. Beliefs.
Places. Emotions.

Ideas about yourself. About your future. About the world, about people. About someone who once shared your life and no longer does.

Let go of what you once hoped for, what time and maturity have shown you you no longer need.

Letting go is a practice, so practice.

Let go.

Take a deep breath.

Empty your thoughts.

Exhale.

Let go.

Open your heart.

Be humble. Be grateful.

Embrace joy.

Listen, choose. Let go.

Make space for what fulfills you.
Make space for what sustains you.

August 29, 2024

upon that loamy shore

i listen to the old gods and
the old gods have bent an ear,
girded round by thickets,
they've yet bent an ear.

who listens to barren old women?

ha!

tricksters, an unnamed few.
girded round by thickets,
long obscured, untended,
an overgrown garden.

lush!

canted polewise in our direction,
at last. that two sided coin whose
faces once laughed at ancestral rites
grew cold and sad (without remorse)
at our withdrawal.

they understood none of it,
as we understood none of it,

led by the puppeteering
tunes of the Pied Piper,
the slaver,
the trafficker,
the rootless wanderer,
the stranger,
the mocker,
the liar,
the usurper,
the tyrant,
the destroyer,

to forget (without forgiving)
the compassing direction of
that path, anterior, to find
where they've been hidden,
and girded round by thickets,
have bent an ear, eager.

do remember

the blood, the purifying fire, the stars,
the towering mountain that stands
above the uncanny valley where
our people have been buried alive
under two thousand years of sand,

for it is this, and not the other,
that shall beat
beat
a trail upon fallen leaves
to mend a broken vow and
make whole a piecemeal sacrifice.

ours for us, our own, again.
we make it so.

so says the old gods, in a whisper
girded round by a subtle laugh,
speckled as they are by yew
netted sun, they've bent an ear
and listened to our plaintive coil.

even blind as we are blind,
nature cries out to nature,
and a footfall narrows the ear,
and upon that loamy shore

we find each other.

August 28, 2024

my laughing cat

If I could text you, I'd say,
meow meow, meow.

If your fuzzy feet could
tap tap on a touchscreen
would you say,
meow, meow meow?

I'd say
I love you, fuzzy beep.

and

I never give enough attention
to so sweet a spirit.

I'd say
I'm so down, beep, so tired,
and no one is here to lift
me up, so I think of you,
of your endless
affection,
your
simple
adoration,
your curious
choice to chose
so unworthy a person
as myself, this useless
monkey, melting ugly
middle age, and
failing one day
at a time,
and
you so
unconcerned,
still beaming yellow
photons at me,
fixed upon my
frowning
face
as
if
I
were
your polestar.

Perhaps you had no better
choice, you practical animal.

Either way,
I'd say,

I'm grateful for your mistaken
faith. Ten years, or nearly so,

I'd tap out the words,

encompassed
in the warmth
of your
fuzzy
heart,
have been
not coincidentally
the ten best years
of my life. Beep,
could I have
ten more
with
you,

I'd type with my
opposable thumbs,

I'd be happy in some
smallest part of
every day of
every one,
and
your
reply, my
emoji, my laughing cat,
would once more buoy me
up above the weight of it all
and lift my eyes, my heart.

August 13, 2024

Hope

Hope bubbles up from underneath,
a primal origin originating in
a barren womb, pushing
against my solar plexus,
seat of the soul,
and the urge
to run
lifts
me up
toward a free floating expression
of liberty through this tiny city
with a thousand thousand
foreign eyes, every sign
a teletype narrative
for the Indian,
the Muslim,
the African,
the Chinese,
the Mexican,
a
smug
farewell
to the White man
from the Jews in the statehouse,
and I have the urge to hide
my hair, flowing river
of the beautiful
White woman,
corona
of
fertility,
emblem of
ancient slavery,
women with shapes like mine,
skin like mine, eyes like mine,
chained to the wall by
black and brown
savages,
men
whose
descendants run wild over Europe, Australia,
the British Isles, Canada, the United States,
an infection in the veins of the world,
borne on the shoulders of every
White man, woman, and child
whose ancestors were
conquerors,
builders,
visionaries,
plowed down
into the very soil
like bones and flesh and
failing memory by parasites
who have never fed their children
by the labor of their own hands,
and
yet I run
for sheer joy,
buoyed up by what I know:
that if God is truth, I walk with God,
real truth, only truth, outside the Bible,
outside the Evangelicals and the Catholics
and the Methodists and the Lutherans,
the truth that so long as one
human on earth knows
the truth, speaks
the truth, lives
in the light
of
truth,
there is hope.

May 23, 2024

master and mastery

You are a predator.
Eat like a predator.

Carbohydrates are cheap filler for livestock.
Are you livestock?

Feast or famine.
Eat meat and fat from the bone.

Grazing is for cows.
Are you a cow?

Fast.

Seed oil is for machines.
Are you a machine?

Eat or be eaten.

Sidestep the parasites.
Feed yourself.
Heal yourself.

Food causes disease.
Food cures disease.

Are you the trembling rootless seed
of the conquered?

Or are you the towering inheritor
of the conquerors?

Do you know yourself, body and mind?
Or does the "expert" rule over you
from dawn to dusk, fork to plate,
inch to pound?

They
Divide you by deception,
Deceive you by distraction,
Distract you by digestion.

Your exterior shape is a reflection of
your interior dysregulation,
disharmony, dislocation
of body from mind.

To whom did you sacrifice your sovereignty?

Master and mastery, learn the difference.

Stand upright, unbowed, beside your people.
Embrace duty and obligation.

Free your birthright to roam, to make a home,
to honor, to defend.

Start where you are,
be conscious,
be aware,
notice,
speak up,
lower your eyes to no man,
humble yourself only to nature.

Know yourself.
Know your people.

June 1, 2024

hear them

The parasites drown out our internal
songs because they can't crush
them, can't extinguish them.

If we're quiet enough and faithful
enough, we can still hear them.

June 16, 2024

Our blood is our nation

"Our blood is our nation."

I took those words with me this morning.

I kept them in the pocket of the rain jacket I wear every day, with the hood on, zipped up to my chin to hide my hair, the emblem of White womanhood that I shaved off once a month for seventeen years, like a ritual, when I was a Lefty tormented by "gender dysphoria," hair that has now grown out long and luxurious, a gift to my husband, a magnet to the black and brown men who cat call, follow me down the street, reach out to grab me, who take it personally when I ignore their "good morning, honey," as I walk five blocks to the bus stop at 6am to labor for the Jew, to support my family, to survive.

In fact, I'm keeping those words.

Our blood is our nation.

I hope you don't mind.

July 9, 2024

the flight of birds

When a machine dictates your life
You are a part of the machine
Apart
Of the machine
To escape deeper into the matrix
The unattended machinery
We are a migratory species
Nature is the progenitor
Left alone
We are created
A part of the mystery
In a flight of birds

August 2, 2024

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