Journey to Your Deepest Self

Loneliness

The wind is wildly throwing itself through the trees, and the streets. And the trees, they are bending and twisting. Peyote dancers feeling into the world beneath the world. The sound is like the ocean slamming itself against the steady shore. Then the wind seems to inhale. Silence. Just like when the water goes from noisy simmer to boil. For a moment it’s quiet. Then the papers fly off the tables and the cat hides under the bed. I can see the gold finches clinging tenaciously to the feeder. My legs stretch out. And I wonder who knows I’m...

What If I Told You

By Pam Bolton and Kathleen MacGregor What if I told you It was me? I picked up the stone And threw it At the bird’s nest And knocked it down To the ground And all the babies died. What if I told you It was me? I took the jumping mouse From the jaws, the paws Of the cat And held it Warm in my palms Until, hours later, It died. What if I told you All day yesterday I didn’t care And the day before I can’t remember Where I was or How I felt? I wanted to be somewhere Else, anywhere And I was. I was in the nest, On the ground, Dying, In my own...

A Kind of Lust

It’s August. September’s on the way. This is the time when she weighs herself down with lists, classes, meetings chores have-tos and should-dos. A kind of lust Has come in. The sea wants to carry her away to a foreign country. With or without her family. With or without saying Good-bye. With or without coming back. No thought of returning now- only flight. A kind of lust, so hard to resist. But resisted, oppressed. Desire. She doesn’t know why it has to be this way. Or at least why it has been this way. Part of her is already gone. There is a vacancy in her face and in her body. She is turning, like the leaves, toward the sinking sun. The draw to follow him down. Down to the south. Italy, France, Spain Or Africa. There. Where the sun never stops kissing his Earth kisses her to death. Desire. Desire to walk down crumbling stone streets wearing high heals which click and echo off the ancient, mumbling walls lined with old women in black and children who stay up late. Desire to hold orange blossoms in her hand And feel her own dress swing and brush her legs. To hear the voices of the men smoking on their apartment balconies. The music drifting from somewhere just ahead. The smells pressing in. Heavy, thick lust. To feel the men wanting her. Desire for all of them. To abandon all notions of right and wrong or consequence. The half-asleep mistiness of all of it. A far-away question floats by, She doesn’t know How this will turn...
Powered by WordPress | Designed by Elegant Themes