Todays mantra and my bad handwriting

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Measuring

Just like my Mother,
I never measure the
salt when cooking,
instead we add it in
small pinches between
our fingers until
it seems about
right.

Really we don’t measure
much of anything
in the kitchen,

instead adding a
dash here and a dollop there.

But my father, he measures
two or three times before putting on his goggles
and turning on the saw.

As children we didn’t know
much of the real lives
of our parents.

Really, how could we have –

but if we are lucky we
learn it as we grow.

Change happens
like water dripping –
slowly,
one blow at a time.

Dreamscape

Day 1
I am on a train, in danger I think,
moving quickly, holding on for dear life
but with no real fear
of anything.

I am surrounded
by those I know
but I do not feel like myself.

The train stops and
we hide in our open air
seats till we continue
on again..

I do not know where we are going
or see when arrive there.
Day 2
I am sitting in a bathtub.
the lovely kind with feet,
there is no water and I
am fully clothed.

I look around and there are countless bathtubs,
all side by side, perched atop very high pillars.

There are people in many of them,
but not all. We each move by
leaping from tub to tub.
Sometimes there are
two or three of us in a tub.

I see at a distance a tiger.
She is coming towards me.

I feel afraid as I begin to leap,
not looking down.
Day 3.
I am on a boat,
kayak like, small,
with familiars that I
cannot place.

The water and air are cold
and we are all bundled,
rowing to keep warm,
escaping perhaps.

Suddenly a sea creature
shows himself,
all tentacles and
one huge menacing eye.

We struggle wildly and
manage to beat him back
with our oars and boots,

but not until after
many have been stung.

Next we are ashore
in a warm comfortable place.
A doctor of sorts places
a blue jewel on my back
on the place where
I was stung.

He tells me
I cannot
fall asleep,
that if I do
I won’t wake again.

I struggle to keep my eyes open
longing for an escape
from the tiredness
and sorrow.
Day 4.
(in the middle of my first books editing)

I dreamt of a book
I haven’t yet written
dedicated to a daughter
not yet conceived.
Day 5.
I am climbing
forever climbing
up a gigantic ladder
made of pink hula-hoops.

The sky around me is beautiful blue
the sun is shining and there are
fluffy white clouds at regular intervals.

Eventually I reach the top.
I jump.

The fall is delicious,
warm air on my face.

I wake up before I hit the ground.

Closer

We go into the wilderness
to find a wilder version of ourselves,
to release her out into the world.

We look, trying to see everything
between the curves and the edges,
how it blends together and fades.
We circle back, again and again,
each time getting just a little
closer to the center.

The sounds of the ocean and
the windswept pines belong together.

We desire. We demand. We rage.
We are quiet when we should speak.
We shed layers. Grow. Surrender. Leave behind.
We die and come alive again.

We dance wildly in an empty room
trying to enjoy instead of endure.
We live together on our separate planets.
We arrive again and again.

My body was made for this.

tastes like raspberries

I stretch myself
like a bridge between
fantasy and reality
with not enough
of me on either side.
I am too close to
both edges.

Everything I build
is made of glass.

I look around me
afraid to move or
touch, unsure of
what may break.

We are creators to our core

and necessary
to creation
is destruction.

I suppose the
only question
is timing.

In the evenings
I watch through
the window as the
night creatures fly
obsessively to the light
that will bring their doom

and I wonder
what it would be like
to live without obsessions.

They say the
Milky Way
tastes
like
raspberries
I mumble as I
pull one from our
backyard bush and
place it decadently
into my mouth.

A Tractor on the Highway

Driving
I am stuck behind
a tractor on the
highway.
 
I curse,
embracing the anger
I feel at this inconvenience.
 
I worry for a moment about my
level of self-centeredness
(we all have one, and its best
to keep an eye on it).
 
When I arrive home I pick and eat
3 strawberries from the plants
growing by our back porch.
 
The sweetness reminds me of summers past
and the roots of a need to create
that is not new.
 
But now I cling to it more tightly,
because she who creates
cannot be barren.
 
I am not completely powerless yet.