in procress – ebb and flow

Ebb and flow

Remember there is
beauty in roundness
and bounty

in a body
that has been indulged,
that has produced life.

The forest does not fast
the ocean would not turn away
a child who is hungry

there is space enough and all are welcome.

I am a record keeper,
a memory keeper
with no memory.

So I try to record
in ink and silver
and hunks of bone

But chances of success
are slim.

So we mend what we can
and let go of what we can’t

and for God’s sake stop buying
to try to fill the void.

I dream
but cling so tightly
to what’s real, always
so afraid to lose my
grip.

I believe in plenty
but I am not good
at sharing.

I crave stillness
but I am not still.

I am the ebb and the flow.

I breathe deep
and teach my daughter
to do the same.

Her frustration
is hard for me to bear,
but I bear it.

I change
though I constantly
resist changing.

I do not wait to use what is cherished
I do not wait
I dive in

I am the optimist
who will not die,
who cannot sleep.

I want to be light
But the heaviness
Remains.

The need to soften
is a pattern
repeated a
million times
in my weaving.

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Pale green stars

The two of us lay side
by side facing each other.
She suckles contentedly.

I take a deep breath trying
to relieve my tension and breathe
love and comfort
into her.

The worst thing about our fighting
is worrying that she can feel it.
That we are scarring her,
creating some deep issue
that will one day rise up and make us
wish to God we had been better
in her early years.

These days I can’t feel anger
without bringing along with it
worry and guilt.

She signs and turns
releasing my nipple.

I move carefully,
slowly, so as not to
wake her.

I emerge from the dark bedroom
ready for another evening of
anger and avoidance

but thankfully my stubborn
heart pushes the issue
and we talk
and he sees
and I sigh again,
this time with relief
and much warm air.

I hope that the girl can feel it
from her darkened room
under pale green stars.

The Build

I stretch myself like a bridge
between fantasy and reality
with not enough of me on either side.

We are too close to both edges.

I only ever wanted to fight with wooden swords
I plead,
reassuring myself,

I am harmless.

But then I think back
on all the harm I’ve caused
and I am less sure.

If everything we build
is made of glass
how can we hope
to keep the world from
breaking down all around us?

Perhaps if we put away
even our wooden swords
and angry words
and eyes,

we can begin to build with wood and stone
and make a thing more lasting
than dread and fire.