Three Words

Three words

A silent scream
Feminist messages unfold
My origami womb
Keeps changing shapes
Folded, manipulated, locked.

My womb is
full of wonder
Heavy with ghosts
Full of emptiness
Phantom feet kicking

My womb is
a safe haven
A soft pillow
Lay your head
down and dream
Golden, swollen chrysalis
My womb a

home long abandoned

Keeper of secrets
Shielded by loss
It leads me
Speaks to me
It bleeds me

My womb is
a temporary graveyard
For lost souls
For those who
misunderstood the meaning
the word, NO!
For the burden
I cling to
For the seconds
For the minutes
For the hours
taken from me

You start to
Believe the lies
truths you were told
All parts rearrange
into faded images
worn out edges
Into stories without
a happy ending

A place that
once held life
once held hope
foolish little dreams
You wanted touch
that ripped through
ribs of iron
Eyes of steel
watching over me

My womb forgives
the improper entries
a naive girl
lost and longing
defiant and angry
I learned to
listen, patient love

I owe my
womb an apology
For ever doubting
For never trusting
My own instincts
For censoring expression
For leading it
the wrong way
For shed tears
For silencing you
For treating you
Like a sidekick
Like a kick
Like a thorn
in my side

I apologize for
too many years
for not fighting
back, when all
I saw was
Black, bleak, blurry
For my feet
that couldn’t move
For abandoning myself
For running away
For letting you
hold this space

For accepting this

For the escape

(inspired by prompts from http://www.isabelabbott.com/writing-the-womb/ )

You Already Are

I dream of closing my eyes, head back, feet rising above the treeline,

toes touching stars-swinging in the midnight summer air.

Being thrust into space and gently pulled back down again.

I dream of rising,

of shedding skin and transformation,

of just letting go of the thoughts and actions that don’t truly fulfill me.

I want a house in the country with a little path leading to a deciduous forest scattered with conifers.

I want a lush garden full of pollinators.

I want color where there was dark.                                                                                                                                            

I want dark where there was color.                                                                                                                                          

I want to stir things up and shake them around.                                                                                                                        

I want to make noise.                                                                                                                                                                

I want to be heard.                                                                                                                                                                    

I want to know my younger self again and tell her she’s going to be just fine.                                                                          

I want my words to echo in someone’s head.                                                                                                                            

I want stories told and learned.                                                                                                                                                  

I want passion and solitude.                                                                                                                                                      

I want to hold a hand that whispers in my language.                                                                                                                

I want to sleep soundly and profoundly dream.

I am slow determined growth,

molting,

rising,

marking my space.

I am just a small part in a grand scheme,

a galaxy within a galaxy.

I am integral,                                                                                                                                                                           connected,

electric.

I am.

Slow Rumble

It happens when the dust clears
When the sunlight streams in the frost bitten windows
When the brass statues are polished, and all the books are gently placed on the shelves.
When the table is clear, the plants are watered
When there is space between minutes
And the room thanks you for noticing
When small gestures feel like rewards

It rests in the pit of my stomach
A fluid weight
Like diving under water and holding your breath
Just long enough to imagine what a different life feels like
To know where your primordial gills and fins would have taken you…

A tsunami.
A tsunami stirs my blood.

It feels like snowflakes, fresh fallen
Cotton, gray skies
The cold pressing against your tongue for a moment
…a second
(the impermanence)
Your senses left tingling

It rests right below the surface,
Skin like ice
A frozen epidermis – with waves and crystallized particles mixing
How it sounds different colliding with the shore
A hollow lullaby washes over the rocks

You ache for warmth
You breathe in the cold
Let it paint your lungs of lace
You pause
Releasing
A visible exhale
Yes, this is alive!
Hot breath, cold air lock hands in a symbiotic dance
A swift rhythm
A pulse

It feels like this,
Right now when the house is quiet and the snow gently falls.
When my pen touches paper and spills out letters one by one
Until they connect
Until they make something
Anything.

Sometimes a low, slow rumbling
Eyes open
An underwater scream
It is mine
However vulnerable or powerful or vain

My rattle
My shake
A ripple of concentric circles
Expanding
My tiny earthquake
A roar
A sound of eruption
A soft and deliberate demolition
A flow
An overflowing
A cadence
A moment
This moment
A satisfaction
A solace
A fierce whisper
An only escape.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesamplify#whatmakesyouroar #roar #poet #poetry #amwriting#writer #womenwhowrite #digitalart #digitalphotography#photoblender #doubleexposure #ice #winter #frozen#CQuinlanDesigns

Walk with fire

I awoke with languid limbs, heavy from dreams I was still speaking to.
My head a fog of past particles mixed by confusion and the sound of my son calling.
Winds had battered my window all night
A banshee knocking, beckoning me to come play
To be swept away in endless frozen gusts
I breathe deeply and promise myself I will get him to school, despite the arguing, despite the begging to stay warm and safe in dark blankets.
My gentle, yet strong words cut through his attempts
He finally cracks like ice beneath his boots and agrees to get dressed.
Only three hours late for school.
I sit in the car, warming my hands.
Just breath.
Just silence.
For the first time in sixteen days.
Home again, I dress the dog in his ridiculous coat and force myself into the subzero
The cold hard ground bites back
My face numb
Winter has taken me.

I walk slowly, letting the cold absorb me, watching the puddles, now miniature ponds
The smell of pine and smoke blowing past me.

I walk with a fire inside
A fuel
An eternal flame of defiance, devotion, disillusion
I envision the burning words I began this new year with

Goodbye to memories that taint my vision, goodbye to dead love lost and long buried, goodbye to fear of failure and exposure.

I am exposed.
Face and hands raw
Stepping determinedly
Like a predator
Like a wolf inside me
Ready to howl with neighborhood dogs paws up on fences
I stop and meet their eyes.
They know this cold,
This heavy gray

I walk with fire burning inside, my charred words resonating,
Hanging by strings
Held tight by ribs
And lungs
By layers of skin and clothing.

I release my breath, I bare my teeth
I watch this slow release
This air escaping in curls and whispers from my silent, empty throat.

I turn the corner toward home
I turn my back to the bitter cold.
I step inside
My stomach a space of grounding, of intuition and trust.
A new breath of fiery coals.

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Grey Matter

My mind was full of thoughts, some stabbing, some burrowing, some digging deeper, past the bedrock of my limbic system where they found the grey. The grey matter of emotion where memory lay still in a cold room, wandering. Then the words came slipping out effortlessly, silently; while inside that cold room was screaming.

The words were quiet, falling out while blood vessels and the space between synapses held on tight.

Tight like my jaw, grinding, forcing bone upon bone, a bright pain. Tight like an animal in a trap, rusty teeth, sharpened.

Tight, closed jaw with eyes wide open, while my pupils grow full, dark resting upon black holes where nothing escapes. Eyes that defy gravity, nothing tethers them or forces them shut. They float freely, always seeing. Always watching. They always see. Playing over and over- an old filmstrip spinning.

I smile and the there is sadness.

I hope and the feeling of helplessness gets deeper like sinking in a bog, lungs full of peat, a stomach of decay.

I try and yet I am back at the beginning.

A rat trapped in a labyrinth, waiting to ring some bell, win some prize, be rewarded for all my hard work, my due diligence, some recognition for this perseverance. This constant state of survival.

Not some Darwinian survival of the fittest, because fit does not mean strong. It is survival of the weakest, the weakest moments, the weakest hours, the weakest lies…these are the things fighting to survive. The human parts that define.

The weak laughter drowned by sorrow.

The weak thoughts.

The “I’m not good enoughs” and the “why do these things happen to me’s”, the “I’m unworthy’s” and “the unlovables.”

I am more than this.

More than these weak, these willful insecurities.

I try to push them aside, tuck them away in corners of my mind. I try to overcome and affirm. The hardest memories. Not the ones where you were loved momentarily, brilliantly, blue sky, sun shining, passionate kisses and sunkissed skin, bodies in and around one another.

It’s not these memories.
The memories that hurt the most.

The ones you can’t sleep with, the ones that turn you inside out. Those feelings of happiness that feel like poison, like drinking sweet shiny pieces of broken glass. The traveling pieces you hunger for, moving from lips to eyes, to tongue, to arms wrapped around you and the feeling of losing something that has barely begun.

The fear, the constant sedimentary fear, the build up, the erosion. Climbing up and over only to be pulled back. You don’t hold, you pull yourself back like a rubberband stretching, like breathing, the constant state of a heart beating.

Those plastic memories.
The hardest ones to let go of are somehow the easiest to keep.

Inside the Unclear

Unclear are the lines that frame my eyes, the way they change with time, creased from smiles and anguish, heartbreak and love lost. They twist and turn, little fragments of history written on my face. They form words of flesh, hollowed out space where skin was tight.

Blurred lines between borders. The kind that define love and hate, mother, father, son. The lines that mark territory…my son, my house, my street, yet nothing truly belongs to me.

Unclear futures spun in hope and desire, foundations built with no plans in place. The clarity of an open slate. Unclear decisions and the art of learning to trust myself, of trust in general. Seeking, searching in the mist of my mind for answers, the ancient kind spun from gypsies and severed souls who walk with the night.

Unclear letting go, murky inhales and exhales, the pounding beat of blood in my ears, clouded, collected…thick like summer leaves.

The way that autumn strips you of all things, draining chlorophyll, undressing branches and covering the ground in a blanket of dead leaves. Unclear demarcation of seasons changing, shifting winds and crisp clear sky.

Out of focus perspectives and the welcome of the unknown, the state of sleepwalking through days and following the earth’s cycle of death, of loss. A time to reflect where your body turns to blankets, your senses full of smoke from fires. Your words. Your words are still. A sense of waiting, of turning and shedding, of layers and lost cells.

A soft ringing, a muffled, broken bell, you sit in your haze of nostalgia. Twisting memories and quilting them together. Patchwork thoughts. Invisible stitches tightly bound…

The clear lines that separate the internal from external. Fading, erasing until you find yourself an unclear shape, you shrink, you molt. You have turned yourself inside out.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit#poetry #poem #unclear #autumn #blurredlines

Wild Knowing

What is known is the wild. This valley, the way she keeps me, calls me to her shores with whispers of westward winds. Vacated beaches and clouds thick like milkweed, like a soft crown around my head. The knowing I can always find a quiet place, away from sidewalks and sirens, in between the changing pink hues of the sumac leaves and the jagged rocks that collect distant memories, dead and forgotten pieces of time resting in pools of last night’s rain.

What is unknown is when and where these moments find me, pulling me to the earth, opening my dark eyes wide. They find me in the scurry of an otter along the banks. My back turned and something says “look behind”…there it is quietly sitting, watching me. The way both our senses collide and we respect each other’s space. An unspoken connection, a recognition of what wild feels like, what freedom lies in the stillness, in the moments between these moments.

The sweet surprise of the old Nepalese man I see on my morning walks, how we don’t speak with tongues, we see each other, through and through. I feel a warmth come over me as I study his face, the wrinkled tributaries that trail from his eyes. Folds of skin that tell time. That tell another life. Under this gray sky, he sits, legs folded wrapped in colored cloths and today I hear him singing from his balcony. I look up and exchange smiles, we press our hands together and bow to one another. His song whirling through my ears like a familiar lullaby. Generations and miles that had previously separated us disintegrate, they fall like sand.

Knowning and unknowing. In the release of decisive abandonment. I know the wild, the random pieces that fit together and make this day. Fragments of expectations and observations cast aside. The familiar unknown…we stand hand in hand, chests out, hearts open, eyes wide.

We weave the wild.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit #wild#unknown #eyeswide #poetry

What is clear? (Liberated Lines: Clear)

Clarity.The small space open in my window, letting the fall air drift in. Sweet smoky air, rich with dark clouds, sounds crisp and piercing. A rustle of leaves. The beginning change where humidity is chased by the amber hue of sunset, as if the air paints the colors seen through golden eyes. That light that lingers, that catches the last colors of flowers, petals drifting. Geese calling me back, echoing like ghosts, replacing songbirds who sung me to sleep in the warm summer nights. A stillness, a space. A moment frozen between seasons. Senses heightened. Thoughts muted, mind unfurled, stripped like branches tapping on my window.