Spin me Home

Stealthy mobility drips down my forearms and onto the tulips I planted two months ago.
Haze catches in my throat and blurs my vision
I am blue, I am orange, I am every colour you thought I wasn’t six months ago.

I bloomed a sense of indecency and wrote a pile of suns to play with and you watched me dig the hole of nusiance
and I did and put in my garden gloves and hat you always loved for me to wear.

I am a trusted spoke of a wheel of one hundred
and I hope for you to spin us all the way reverse;
back the way we came so that we can trample all the ugly and make new
our beauty.
Make us dizzy in love.

Letting Loose on a Few Letters

Three scoops of cinnamon loose leaf
T.

 

To drink up the spiced love of
U.

 

Viewing the heart of the red; it is
I.
Can’t you
C?
It is the only way I want to
B.

 

 

A Guilty Past? No Thank You.

No. I don’t need to feel guilty about my past.

He probably half meant to and half didn’t.
Make me pick up bags of guilt when I thought of my past, and carry them around with me in my days of present.

Half meant to and half not.

I have two large tote boxes-well, the regular size used for storage- full of journals,diaries,binders, notebooks— my past writings.

Going through them the other day I pulled out recognition and familiraity.
I write of insignificant happenings in my life then, that at the time were all that I could see or think about. They were the hugest particles that I made my life about.

It clicks into place as my eyes skim over words I wrote 15 years ago.
10 years ago.

Not only did I survive those stories that are in my binders, notebooks, and journals, but I created more meaningful relationships after they were over. They DID end and I was able to carry out more in depth friendships because of the individual I had become based on those trials.

Who says past has to make one feel guilty when it can be the very thing that makes the present make sense and bearable and understandable.