Please come drink of my fountain.
Golden water and deep joy.
From the purest well.
Take of you hat and your shoes.
Here the chairs are well used.
Worn with years of fingertips.
Water drips and fingertips.
Bury deep within.
Fingers and hips.
Get lost within one soul.
Gratitude is not a big enough word. It’s doesn’t have enough room.
The things in my life that I am so thankful for are my breath, my life, the cells of my heart and body. The way I fell about family and music and friends and art, my children, is the same way I feel about the sun rising in the morning. I am in awe. I will celebrate awegiving.
And I am humbled. When something touches me so deeply I am brought to my knees and am humbled that my heart is soft enough to be touched that raw.
Sometimes passion erupts like color. It boils over, no longer willing to be contained. It’s painful when inspiration has it’s way with you. It hurts that the beauty is no longer inside. Hollow. It becomes a separate being. It’s no longer written on your skin, in your blood. It has been born into the world. Cold and alone after. But try keeping it in… it’s like trying to swallow stars.
The taste of lyrics. The rhythm of touch. The vibration of color. The sound of dirt underfoot. The taste of rhythm. The color of touch. The taste of vibration. The lyrics of dirt.
You’re new around here aren’t you?
Wrapped in layers of chrysalis, change upon change, wrapped in differences. Dreams, ripe, pungent, fertile, root deep, sea deep. Musings. Buried deep in frozen winter. Buried but changing. Musing, and stirring. Flashes of bright burning light. Slashes of color. Splashes of raw emotion. Change.
You body is made of the most beautiful funny little things. Your fingernails, seconds as they tap tap tap. Your long long arms reach into the distance, days, weeks, minutes are marked. Your legs go deep into yesterday. Bundle of time, emotions, experiences, deaths, and births. Your eyes, winter, summer, autumn and spring. Your skin is my ancestry.
...and good morning you beautiful new year! You start so young but in time you will be ripe, full, deeper and wider. You, you beautiful year, you will get everything you wish and want. You will be even more beautiful by the end. I really can’t wait to get to know you.
July 20 2011
I woke up with paint marks on my hands. Remains, afterbirth of creativity.
Remember when you would kiss me just because you wanted to? The light and shadow across my lips would draw yours. Nothing more than raw passion to crash us into eachother, driven by need. A look, a touch, a thought, the way your eyes smiled. Oh god, I remember how the lines of your neck would drive me wild, fill me with the need to feel you, just touch you. Warm skin to warm skin.
Even after all that, even with the layers of day and year covering our togetherness I still can’t go a day without touching you. To feel your warm skin. Rub my hands through your hair. I long to be drawn to you with such raw passion, again.
anything new brewing underneath for a while know. But for the past few days I feel as if we are starting to get slow bubble, maybe something soon. I have put ink to paper, but that has been to express in the matter if drawing. But last night I cracked open my journal, surprised not to see cobwebs. So maybe something new soon, I hope… my fingers are starting to get itchy, and the only way to scratch is to write. But while we are waiting here is an oldie but a goodie.
She wears the night, the weather, like a cloak.
Beneath her shoulders, the snow.
Stars hidden within her hair, her pockets.
Her eyes, sun and moon.
Her feet touch the earth, the sand,
Rivers, streams, and oceans, come behind.
Leaves fall from her fingers,
Rain from her eyes.
She sings the wind,
Songs of ice, year’s end.
Songs of growing, changing green.
Songs of grasshoppers, slow nights.
Songs of rust colored hills.
She comes and whispers.
Whispers of sliver dreams.
Dreams of elsewhere,
And I take her hand, follow.
Follow in her rain river footsteps.
Follow me, I go with her.
The night leaves me with thoughts of sunshine and mischief in my mouth, sweet like sugar it melts. Melts fire smooth down my throat. The covers fall away like dead leaves. Layers of old years crumble. Dreams full with greens and red, so bright, so full with light that it hurts my eyes to look. But it would hurt more to look away, to cloud and fog my eyes and mind. Change comes again and drops jewels and sequins at the foot of my bed. Radiant pebbles in the gold water of my river. The river that flows under my skin, wakes up to the day. The sun touchs my face like a lover and brings a slow soft smile to my lips. Sunshine and Mischief. Melts like sugar in the sun.
I can’t write. I’m no good at it. I think most of my stuff is garbage.
But I’m compelled. I have to write. The words get into my blood and I have to write. I am in this crazy love affair with the written word. I am in love with the fact that these symbols, these lines and shapes on the page mean something, really mean something, that our mind takes them and makes sense out of them. Our minds take these words and draws a picture, invokes a emotion. I am obsessed with the fact that you can take these lines, these shapes, symbols and form them into letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, stories. I ache to write, to read. I adore books, sometimes more than real people. They have always been my friends. I find such deep wonder in their pages. How wonderful it is that these worlds, stories, lives, become alive only when you pick up a book and glaze upon the words with. There is so much power in that. I am in love with the way a book feels, it’s crisp pages, the way my hand aches if I hold the book the wrong way for too long, turning that last page. I love it all.
I try to put a bit of my soul down when I write. I don’t know if you can feel it when I write, but there’s my heart. Right there on the page, on the screen. There it is. The words flow, though sometimes rather painfully. I can’t stop it.
I don’t write because I am good. I write because I have to.
Winter is a smooth special softness. A tender place full of memories and wishes, foggy windows and silent frost, bare feet in the snow.
Love found me before I even got a change to touch you. Found me and held fast. Your words touched me deeper than any lover’s. Our dreams intertwined with each other, stitched together by our voices. All we needed was the silence between the words and the snow. Always the snow.