On Writing

#NPM Intimacy Poems – Disappearing, Worry, Yin Yoga, Kitchen Dancing

The Intimacy of Disappearing

there is worth beyond the words
this is a hard truth for a writer
& so, she learns to disappear
when the learning is in the bellyland
sacral sacred wound unfurling
chanting in a different language
she used to understand, bodies ago

The Intimacy of Worry

Is in the fallacy of control
I think I have when I tell myself
how it will be, go, feel
what it will mean & how I will
need to react

The Intimacy of Yin Yoga

muscles reaching for the edge
skin stretching into the heat of the edge
finger & toe tips pulsing at the edge
folding down & in & the belly expanding near the edge
the mind – a horizon

the edge, smiling, hands in prayer over her heart

The Intimacy of Kitchen Dancing

In the jar of overflowing frustration
turn on the music

Tina Turner, the dirty dishes,
the pudding drops dried on the floor
take her hands & and swing her face into a smile
even if tear-streaked cheeks deny –
hold her close, shake shoulders, hips
hair whip & pound slippered feet to the beat

laugh so hard you pee a little
or a lot

dump the jar’s contents in the garden
seeds for lessons learned to bloom in late July

look into her eyes
give her permission to feel
keep her safe in the melodies of your love


Friends…I’ve been quiet on the interwebs. Needed to bow out in order to bow down to some deep learning…that is only happening with deep healing. It’s amazing what each day brings besides the sun. You’d think I’d learn from her dedication to rise and fall – Nature’s hottest, brightest gift – that this rising and falling is the pattern of love. The forgetting is silky. The remembering is damask in tweed. I’m jacket-ed in hunting gear…as I loop back into ‘thimbles’ in preparation for my reading on the 23rd. Grief has come skipping over my heart; she never stops, never sleeps.

It’s all very metaphorical at times…and then, very literal too. The tears are real. The self-talk is constant and hammering. Why is it easier to sabotage love (of the self, most constantly) than to accept what is and step into the gifts in each moment? Even with the world’s collective tragedy, I can choose love and kindness. Why do the voices say that’s not enough? Herein resides the healing place I am dipping into. So…when I disappear…get quiet…take days (or weeks) to respond to emails or letters or texts or phone calls…this is why. It is difficult to…admit..if that is the best word, I’m not sure.

But this poet, and this is what I am (!), cascades into her deeps more often than ever these days. Sending love from here…

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