How?

When we were small-

We caught little bugs with see-through

Wings

Your hands bigger than mine

Your safety stronger than an angry revolution

Carries me softly (safely)

(safety).

Brings my hot feet into the cool sea-salt drenched sand.

See: half-moons set into each of your cuticles-

perfection.

Rode our bikes by the snails

                                                You taught me those trails

            Like the lines on your hands

Or the dry skin patch

                                    From scrubbing the pans

                                                Your shoes smelled of

                                                            Butter.

your laugh murmurs in my ear- low rumbling under each lobe.

we were small-

now we are big.

We have seen the end of many chapters-

Too many goodbyes

begin anew

without you

?

Alone

I am only half here. 

I am half there: Over where you left me. And tied my shoes. And took the training wheels off my bike. And took away all safety you had created. And glass shattered.

Like slow motion.

Shards

caught the light and-

Glimmered

stardust into the winter night.

Fell

on banks of snow.

         Slow motion-

and like silvery-white sprinkles on a birthday cake.

We slept over at their house that night. One of many where we left you home alone. 

All

A

Lone.

A company you kept your whole life.

Now she paints a picture, my mind can't help but replay:

You shuffle slowly. Find courage in encouraging words. Hear the echo of your slippers on the linoleum.  Wait for the elevator while gripping your walker like a child grips his backpack, nervously, on the first day of school.

Alone.

And I cannot be there to comfort you.

I am stuck. In my pink socks. Can't walk across the shards of glass.

Stories

When you became my muse, an intimate relationship was bound from my words to your actions. Binding us closer to each other.  Cathartic relief is released from the sinews of my muscles and small air pockets between the tendons in my spine.

But,

You do not know.

You know none of this.

No.

However, I do.

I

Know.

And it is enough.

So we are bound.  Like in a tale told in ancient carpets-

they are stories, you know? Stories.  Like how they met and who was courting whom.  The people, setting, season, and costumes of the golden years: a forgotten time remembered in pictures, silk and wool.
Who is the proprietor of the stories: the child sewing each strand or the keeper of the carpets?

fireworks

Don't act like that-

Or do I feel deeper than you?

I know you sense this, this surge and this connection, yet somehow I know-

our love tremors in a lower baseline within me

        than within

you. 

How do I know this? This truth?

A stark clear white. Eggshell.

I know from your lackadaisical ease: the strut in your walk and the glance in your stare

(gaze along the sand at the other beach babes) 

Don't be so lazy, lazy with your love.

Sunshine-ing your days away suckin' on orange Popsicles …

We could have been great: you and I

crowned Queen and King of the Funshine Fair holding our own

aquarium castle-

taking it home in a brown crinkly paper bag.

twilight and busy sidewalks

pink brush strokes on navy skyline

Where will it go; where shall we place it?

Our carpet feels warm on my feet,

humid

Oh, easy, next to the spider plant on our

Windowsill: cool breeze in my hair as I place it on the stained paint.

Makes everyone laugh at our next party.

Decorate it with tinsel for our first Christmas together.

It never was this way-

I was not nearly as brave as to take you on.

And you- you knew me too well.

Too well to see our future: the realization that I wasted all my youth on you.

And now I have nothing to show for it.

Nothing,

but some used teal tinsel and a

plastic castle.

For my darling Daddy

There are no words to describe the magnitude of love between my father and I.  Our friendship, our bond, and all that he has taught me and given me.  There are no words. 

My Dad was a non-conformist who valued love, family, friends, and everyone's happiness above all else.  

My Dad was a man with a heart of gold who had the courage to walk among us with his great big open heart on his sleeve. Allowing such vulnerability in order to spread love, happiness, and peace.  

My Dad was a great man who has left us a beautiful legacy.  

I am the luckiest girl to have had you as my father. 

Thank you for everything. 

I will see you on the other side Dad.

I love you.

Collision at the Caspian Sea

Peace is in me now; peace is in me.
It’s been howling in the woods,
far above the city,
for a dangerous number of years.
Waiting for the midnight-pacers to hear its call
from city lines
and seascape places.

I heard it,
in the thunder rolling hills-
Remembering
a long time ago
smoke swept you in its haze.
I searched to find a piece of your spirit-
did it still remain?
Smoke stung me-

made me cry.
An image burnt in the glimmer of your eye?

No time for your lies here.
I will shut them out.
With cement walls, built tall and miles long-
cobblestone upon cobblestone
I cut the clay
cobblestone upon cobblestone
I spread the cold grey
piece upon piece
between university classes
piece upon piece
Strong.
piece upon piece
between midnight dance classes
piece upon piece
Solidly grounded.
piece upon piece
between doctor appointments
piece upon piece
and long hazel-voiced calls
Each piece, a fortress for my pretty pink heart.

Meticulously,
now,
serene winds and sing-song tides
disintegrate
these walls and scars-
leaving my heart of havoc
a haven of forgiveness.
 

Peace is in me.
And also, in you.

Auntie

Unearthing the buried facts, from over a year, creates such a stench that your incense cannot clear-

Unable to find the most precious piece of the pain:
her assured smile, cast in red, leaving lipstick imprints on the side of my face.
I'd glow with pride while my little fingers searched hurriedly for mirrors to see her bright mark
of
Approval.

You really should know that her laughter rolled like the waves of the deep blue sea and she would rock me in her arms while she sang songs of the Old Far-East,

rocking me,
her voice gliding on ocean beds,
rocking me,
her sweet sound waves,
rocking me,
back to the centre
of
Me.

Song for Sylvia

Sylvia, put on your pinafore
the children are going out to play
in houses hit by bombs-
where clammer hits the clay.

It is time to strap your boots,
let your heels fall where they may.
Time will heal all your wounds,
but for now it is time to play.

The cold wind came so quickly that year-
turning snap dragons into grey.
And the one who loved you most of all has left you astray.

Tie the pink ribbon in your hair for her, and let the anger wash away.
Melt cold and cool under greying skies and marmalade sunshine rays.

The war it shall be over soon, but sad songs tuned to play,
for fleeting sorrows never grow old, even with the coming of New Day.

You know the desire to bury this-
a memory long forgotten.
But time reveals the deepest plot,
without the slightest pardon.

For you I wish this simple wish, this simple wish for you-
let ashes turn to cinder wings and float out to the blue-
the clearing air will melt away all signs of your sorrow,
setting you free for all your new tomorrows.

my soy americano misto

as if it were normal, to overlook the truth and follow one's misgivings. but we do it everyday and it is done so often it feels right.

hurrying home to get in the bath where i felt i would finally relax with
a tall glass of red wine-
spilt-
staining the side of the cheap coat i was taking off

racing for peace,
a peace i can never hold onto much longer than the water emptying from the drain-

all around me the sounds of muffled pain, souls needing expansison- one gets accustomed to this white noise.  we race by it.  stand silently next to it while we wait in line for our coffee to be made. the one noise we should heed and yet-
my coffee order is up.

Being Mommy

To me, being a mother means sharing the most mundane parts of my day with two little people who are still very near to God, not yet trained in the ways of the world and its Ego-driven rules and expectations.

Every day, these two little people shower me with unconditional love and pure adoration. They trust me with their health and happiness, and look to me to teach them about 'the ways' on this planet: how to manoeuvre through this strange world of ours. And I know that, as a parent, my roles is to teach them to live and thrive independently on this planet. Ironically, they have taught me more about this life than anyone else ever could. These two little people have taught me about myself, compassion, patience, passion, and what it really means to be alive in this world today.

I thank you, Lennox and Lachlan, for blessing me with the gift of being your mom. I thank you for laughing at all my silly jokes, and not judging me for having a laundry-room full of dirty clothes and closets empty of clean ones. I thank you for forgiving me, in the blink of an eye, for the mistakes I make. You have taught me about forgiveness and the power of the present. You know, I bought The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle when Lennox was born, but was too sleep deprived to read it. If only I had known that Lennox and Lachlan would model the tenants of that book for me and teach me its wisdom through their actions- I would have saved twenty bucks.

My darling boys, I thank you for putting your tiny hands in mine, every day, and trusting me as I take you on my adventures. You make trips to the coffee shop so much better than they could ever be and ever were. You make a drive to the grocery store fun because you belt out pirate songs. You make the lineups at the checkout extremely hazardous and very stressful, but I truly love every moment of it because if you were not there my mind would be wasted on useless information about the Kardashian family.

When I was a single gal, walking by day and dancing by night, reading Deepak and pondering life's mysteries over coffee with my friends; I believed that women who defined themselves as 'Mother' were placing a rigid label on themselves; neglecting their other attributes and caging themselves in a label that defined a singular role/profession. I attributed this to the fact that they had clearly lost themselves in 'being Mommy'. Only now, I realise one does not lose oneself in motherhood- a woman both earns the right to call herself "Mom/Mother" (much like a PhD is earned) and is blessed with the title mother (much like a natural blond is blessed).

Our human souls desire and require expansion, freedom, and flight.  Becoming a mother gifts each woman with the chance to truly expand her soul.

Thus, defining oneself as 'Mother' is knowing your soul is expanding, knowing you are blessed to soar above all that is mundane and earthly, to see the truth of this life and the truth of love. Becoming "Mommy" is having wings and taking flight, indeed the furthest thing from a cage.

Namaste and Happy Mother's Day

pale

if it fits to pale yourself in tender flowers and eyelet ribbons, then so it is.
i cannot cloth you in anything but what you feel within.

an open smile from a stranger, scratches the ice thin surface-
'twould sink, warm and ice crumble
coming, if only, from him.
i wait my tea and steep it boiling, water over me.
i watch, i wither seasons stumble wonder where i'll be.
alas the day arriveth-
but i am there no more,
what is left is a distant shadow,
watch it dance across the floor.

Lana Del Rey and SNL

I woke up this morning and read that one of my favourite new artisits 'bombed' on her North American live performance debut last night.  At first, it was unclear to me if they meant 'bombed' as in "Lana Del Rey was the bomb!" or if they meant "Lana Del Rey crashed and burned badly, like a bomb."  Upon further reading, I realized that the public reaction was not a positive one. I was surprised because this girl and this band are extremely well trained, the music is fresh, and they seem to be ahead of the game as they have skill, talent, and uniquness oozing out of every melody. 

So, I came to the internet to watch what happened last night.  As it turns out, Perez Hilton and Huffington Post are sorely confused about the deffinition of what is good music and a good performance. 

It may not have been mainstream: she did not gyrate on TV, she sang differently (always on key), and it was not your regular pop-song.  SNL is having Bon Iver on this season as well, I wonder what the mainstream press will say about his performance!? I am sure it won't be hip-hop enough for them, and thus he will 'bomb' too. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with Bon Iver, he is NOT  hip-hop, the music is also labelled as Alternative).

As for Juliette Lewis, who tweeted her dislike of Lana Del Rey last night, I expected more from you.  For a woman who has starred in many indie productions and has played many off-beat characters, I thought you would understand the beauty in non-conforming.  I think it is cool to speak your mind, and please twitter away, but realize that last night, you were introduced to a band that plays Alternative music, not Pop music.

In the early 90s mainstream press used to downplay Nirvana's live musical talent all the time, saying that they were just a bunch of punk rocker wannabes, unable to keep a tune or play in time during their live performances.  It was not until people who attended their concerts and stood-up for the band's musical skills and talents, that those critics stopped airing their 'mainstream' opinions.

Excellent music does not need to be manufactured and engineered to someone's idea of 'perfection', to be perfect.  I was recently told by a musician friend of mine that Garageband (GarageBand is a software application that allows users to create music or podcasts) is better than the studiorecording equipment that The Beatles used when they were recording their music. And look how their music has spanned the decades!

A beautiful red-head in a white dress does not need to sing a pop song in a particular way to rock the socks off of her viewers. And for the record, I thought that Lana Del Rey did, in fact, rock last night on SNL.

Woot woot!

Namaste

December Orchids

the winter sprigs
turn cold and blue
purple with night flowers-
the sunless days when i was close to you
turned into midnight hours

the blue the jade of evergreen
remind me of the yearning-

the wanting
wondering
waiting
longing
hoping for beginning.

Only those with tender cloaks and steel inside their pockets,
can tell You to move forward-
intrepidly against the pain
and cold december orchids

Yes,
time passes, but cannot erase
the broken of the hearted-
i tumble, stumble, abashed, i crash
amongst the dearly parted.

Down the hall and straight ahead

Hear them whisper
in your bed
                  Make impressions, in your Head.

Go on,
forget the spring time
and
Let the Blues wash over you
in silent hues
                    - and moonshine.

Come on,
Receive the dawn, with its burning light: casting a spell on the Night.

Forever parted.
Forever bequeathed-

Enduring with you- They will-
dry your tears,
                       while you fall asleep.

Anew

the love lost wasn't the love for you.
let go, rewind, the story, unwind, the one that you outgrew.

she held you tight, long, through the night
not wanting to let you go.
only, minds wander and years pass, we often let love flow-
through our fingers
streaming out
far from where we started
darling, i did not mean to leave you broken hearted.

amongst the rubble, ash, decay
where we let our love part
there lies in ruins:
the gleaming wishes of my tender heart.