A Song for Departing Friends

The air is cold but the sky is burning with a warming light,
And I think that I will stay until the fire turns to night.
And if you’ll stay here beside me than the two of us can see
If we can count the stars that meet the ground and flutter free.
But if it’s time for you to go, then I’ll sing you away,
And you need not fear nor worry for the ones who have to stay.
No, I swear you need not worry for the one you’re leaving here,
For the fire keeps me safe from all the things I have to fear.

Now I Have Grown

When I was a child we would walk
through the dusk-warm breezes, down the street;
always parking in the same place,
by the magnolia tree, with its too-sweet smell,
so strong it filled my throat.
And I would bend down,
and pick the petals up, and run my fingers over them,
like feeling something from a place
that the world had forgotten to touch. Back then the evenings
took a magic air, and the sidewalk which we walked was holy ground.
And we would go to the temple, with her heavy
steps, and high and slanting thrones to either side,
where I and other children climbed like lions made of stone.
We would make our way into her embrace,
the temple, with her long windows and high ceilings,
curves and arches meeting like
the harmonies of a song,
her sanctuary just the right size
for a child’s heart.

Now time has passed, and I have grown.
My womanhood I am finding in her sanctuary,
sitting beneath her ceilings, with my cane in my hand.
And the songs we sing sound like lullabies, but my voice is deeper now;
I sing with old women, and I am a woman.
I sing with old women, and I am a child.
I see the people who I knew, but never knew their names.
I look at them and see their backs are bent, their hair is grey.
I sing with old men, and I look at my father.
I sing with old men, and I look at my father.
There are new children now, as children are;
a little girl is jumping in the aisles.
I watch her while she laughs and climbs the stairs,
each step carefully, as I did once.
Each step carefully, as I do now.
I watch the little girl, and smile;
I watch the little girl and see myself.
I watch the little girl, and smile,
and know I am a woman now, because she is a child.

Scribbling on Seashells

Trigger warning: Though not the intent of the poem, portions of this could potentially hit on a suicide trigger.

I scribble out words on
fragments of my seashell skin, like
Cracked jars of peach cream currency, like
Shards of broken homes washed up on
white sand beaches.

Searching fingers pry at my insides
fitted in my seashell skin, and
I dance on rocks until I
shatter.
I tap out whispers to sit in my shell like
sea songs.

I am turning my breasts into
tablets,
My thighs are too-smooth pages for
soliloquies.
I scratch out sonnets on the shell of my smile.

I am seeping from the seashell cracks like
seawater,
This makeshift house and I must part.
Let the sea snails slip in to be marked
by ephemeral markings,
Let the sea sounds wash away my songs.

Fibonnacci

Golden

Infinite,
contained within
each uncountable facet.
I am flowers, trees, roots.
My birth, my breath, my death, I am…
 

I

I
I am…
I am alive.
I am alive, and now…
I am alive and now I am awake.
I am alive and now I am awake and watch: I am the sun.
I am alive and now I am awake and watch: I am the sun, the moon, and now I am myself.