Rest a while

So the hot water doesn’t work,

the man divorced your ass,

the chickens became coyote snacks,

black widows took up residence along beside you,

flying ants infest the house,

your regular bleeding has voted for hyper-regular status..

what, what to do?

Yell, cry, tear out your hair,

drown in movies and wine,

sleep until it ends,

throw things, set others ablaze,

stomp around and,

and,

and

What else?

The toaster still toasts, after all,

and the dentist DID say your teeth are healthy and great,

the walk into the hills has redeemed you

before,

many many times before,

and why tear out perfectly good hair,

especially when it’s yours,

and yes, a rest in that bed sounds perfect,

because

you are tired, child, bone-deep tired.

And beyond the chaos and conundrums,

hallelujah resonates in your heart

with each

remaining

beat.

Hallelujah beats,

here in the mess,

hallelujah beats with you…

I bow

Molting is awkward.
Ugly.
And completely amazing.

When stumbling in awkwardness, I am being asked to understand.
I bow to the learning.
When hiding from my own ugliness, I am being called to love what has been unacceptable.
I bow to Beauty by deepening her definition.

As feathers drop, the wind takes them.
In this lightness,
change.
In this change,
potency.

Call me Pele

Call me Pele.
All forms burn and
none stands outside creation.
Shake your definitions loose-
this is generosity.
The fires sustaining me,
I sustain.
Unbroken circle-
food, faethm, corage,
the Wild.
Do not question
if you desire
better.
For, certainly,
better
desires you.

Mosaic garden

The most dangerous words

she spoke-

“…but he has a really good heart”-

a knife

cutting her own heart out

in sacrifice to his.

A ritual, repeated,

a trance-beat of the drum

thrum pum,

only not for something holy, as imagined,

but for destruction.

The cold knife now shattered-

dropped gleefully from great height-

is planted in pieces in the mosaic garden.

Among lush green and fiery blooms,

metal glints in sun’s eye

as earthly reminder.

So it begins

So it begins

with

but They but They

and the story pretzels and snarls

morphs into a thorny thicket

of

Yes but.

So it begins.

Reaching in with pruners and magnifying glass,

a madness of 

I will get clear!

muscles work, tire,

eyes pierce, squint, wrinkle-

strength and a certain Sight grow.

One silent morning arrives

with a way through,

not simply a way through,

a path clear- as intended-

and They

are long gone.

Suddenly, dust still in suspension,

the same pain jolts its head through packed earth

and there’s no

But They

anymore.

Only you.

And so it begins…

The creation of this space~

Because this was dangling in space and needed to be revisited, I post this a second time- with the contact info.

feralpoet's avatarSalt, Smoke, Water and Stone

About:
Rooted, embodied, bound, nourished.
In.
Grace, the Infinite, artful movement, the expression of silence.

A gathering of the ephemeral and the limitless.

A medicine of word.

Welcome. Your presence, and any comments you may offer, are a gift.

Reproduction or use of any of the materials on this site are by permission only. Please send an email if interested~
feralpoetrootedingrace@gmail.com

In gratitude…

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