The Deep

“Have you ever?” she asked.

Her lips scarlet, her skin made more pale in the moon light. Drops of water clinging to her skin, eyelashes clumped together from the damp and fog just barely lifting off the water where we swam.

“Have you ever?”  She repeated. “Just to be there,  feel swallowed up. Swam, without hesitation, out into the middle?”

I closed in on her until I could feel the vibrations from her body, swirling eddies brushing past my naked skin. My fingers reached out to trace across her chest and down to the curve of her waist. Only a silver sliver of the moon between us.  I could see her moving in the water, slow, effortless. Lips parted, I wanted to kiss her. She smiled, but only a little. It made her look vulnerable and in a moment, that small minute, I knew she was undecided.

That the future didn’t exist to her, not now. At this moment, there was only this moment. She wanted it to last, not knowing what would come at the end. I pretended not to see her loss. With big strokes I swam past her until I was far enough away. Letting the vision of her settle into my mind. Perfect, simple, not asking, not taking, not expecting.

At the edge of the water it was loud. Noise: animals rustling and calling, insects singing, chirping and buzzing and the sound of the water lapping endlessly at the shores. Here was quieter, muted, and I turned to see how far away I was. She was still beside me, her face, inches away, skin radiating as the moon rose higher. She came close. Looking into my face, searching.

“From here it looks like nothing.” She said.

Her breath was wispy, soft, but close enough to dislodge water droplets on my cheeks, send them in rivulets down to my chin. It was my turn to offer a smile in silence.

I turned to look back into the dark, into the deepness. Silently she slipped past me, brushing softly against me, effortlessly going forward. Her head slightly swaying, swimming silent in the still waters, a tiny wake of a ripple trailing out from each shoulder. Transfixed, I followed.

We swam on an on, I wondered if we’d ever arrive, wondered why we were going. It looked like nothing. It took the length of night and no time at all. Memories of the journey stretched but time pasted effortlessly. At last she slowed.

“We are here,” she whispered.

Quiet enveloped us, the kind if silence that sucks away the air and the sound of even your own breath. Her back still facing me, she, looking into the deep. Tendrils of mist rising around us. Sections of her long hair snaking down her back and swirling around us. I searched, looking. At first I saw nothing. Then slowly it materialized before me. The Deep.

“It’s here.” she said barely above a whisper, “They call it jumping in with both feet, letting go, or falling. Really it’s here, far away from the edge, The Deep. You chose to come, let go and turned your back on your retreat. Unforgiving, magical, you give up your safety, hope to believe, risk it all, even yourself, that’s The Deep. The place you find yourself when you choose to let go, unafraid, abandoning your needs, your fears, your own wants and giving into the deep.”

I hear her words just as she turns to kiss me and the waters swallow me up. I don’t fight it. I’m not afraid and I’m quietly terrified. A siren speaking of love. I wanted it, not her and I let The Deep take me, watched as the shimmer of her body got further and further and I sank…

~M

If You’re Lucky

You told her to get a life. Find something better to do. So she did, but now she’s too busy for you.

Selfish. That’s what has become of her, what it feels like to her, being normal. Where once being a good wife, a good mother, having it all, meant falling on her sword…for the greater good. A martyr’s common mistake.

That the world won’t be okay without their blood without their sacrifice. The selfless giving away of…all of it. Who told her that, why did she make that her fairy-tail? Kiss away hopes and dreams, ambitions for an endless story and no kingdom, only a king.

“Get a life”, like a light switch she remembered when she was full of life, when she thought she still had time to chase butterflies and clouds and dreams.

Now she’s dreaming again–like riding a bike–she still remembers, she needs practice, but she’s getting faster and stronger. Only, now she barely has time for you, it’s not selfish, she’s alive, all of her. No fetid, stinking necrotizing odors. Not practicing origami, or stacking marbles, she’s not going to play by anyone else’s rules.

She’ll wear dresses or pants or go naked. She will climb trees, swim naked, drink spirits, eat chocolate and she won’t apologize, won’t agonize.

If you want her love, take it. Consciously, confident. Don’t cage her, hold her or make her, she won’t abide. She no longer thinks about what’s expected or who’s to blame, she’s thinking about laughing, and dancing, and writing. (If you’re lucky, she’s thinking about you.)

The Butcher

Have you ever had people in your life  (lovers, parents, siblings, friends…Heck, I guess even an addiction could fall under this description..) that you hope and believe in and then they declare themselves? In no uncertain terms they make clear that they are there to cut you into tiny pieces? Not to feed you and nurture you, not light the way with their knowledge and wisdom…cut you up, feed you to dogs…that is what they are there for. Walk away from them. Here is my corny poem about that. 😉

 

The Butcher

I used to wonder who you were
imagining the love we could share
unencumbered, unmarred by things from the past.
Pretending that you could be whole,
finding something to last.
To fathom that I could be me
that truth would be easy
if we started out free.

Now you are naked
in front of my eyes.
You’ve declared who you are,
you’re nobody’s ally.
No guessing, no hoping, no tales I can tell,
not the enemy, not a friend as well.

You are the Butcher.

Like a slap and the loud sound of thunder,
jagged and jolting.
I can’t hate who you are for being a beast,
I no longer wonder
and no longer fear.
You’ve declared who you are
and I’m not scared in the least.

You are the Butcher.
Not the Baker.

You are unbreakable.
Except, just now,
you took off the mask,
showed me your face.
stepped from the shadow,
part of the rat race.

You are the Butcher,
not the Baker
or the Candlestick Maker.

Now you bear no disguise.
Rapest, repugnant
and rapacious cries;
words are your knife,
your mind and your deed;

You’re the Butcher.

Don’t hide.
I’m not afraid,
of an animal.
I’m also not blind,
I see your actions,
your loathing and
even your lies,

You’re the Butcher,
not the Baker.

Keep your kindness,
your friendship,
your mercy,
good deed.
My eyes don’t cry
and veins won’t bleed.

You’re the Butcher,
not the Baker,
not the Candlestick Maker.

To Build a Kingdom…

I want you to stay,
be in this heart.
Things that were hard start to recede.
Except now we look at each other,
both wanting more.
Want the passion the desire
want the pinnacle, perfection.

We set out alone promising ourselves;
not going to settle, not willing to slow,
seeking out fullness, passion and fire.
Waking up finding standards set low. Concessions we made
losing resolve.
Cool to the touch,
temped at best, beating just bearly.

I can’t hold my tongue when it’s breaking me down,
I can’t hide my truth
or feel hollowed out.
I am a seeker, an explorer,
almost let the fire die-down.
I don’t crave being happy
or need for content,
I want momentum and progress
and goals to achieve.
I want wonder,
discovery and light.
I want to believe
and
I want you to stay,
no promise guaranteed,
I’ll play and I’ll laugh
and we can make it all up.
You’re welcomed too.
Not for a castle, a playhouse with tombs and with halls.
Stay for the Kingdom and a place with no walls.

Day 315 – Crawl If I Have To

There’s nothing to add. Well written.

The 365 Poetry Project: Year 3

It’s the attitude that saves a man
from lying down and dying,
saves a heart from ceasing,
saves a soul from fading,

that I would rather hurt than quit,
will ache before I’ll stop.

It’s the knowledge of our particular wounds,
the throbbing mess we face, eyes wide,
that proclaims for us “it is not in vain,”
and powers us further on.

I know where my bruises come from.
I know what they’ll always be.

I know that this knotted sore in my chest
will not heal, and I do not try.

But I will crawl if I have to,
in order that I will one day run
leaving a trail of blood, if that may be.

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Would You

You come, rush to me
consume my breath,
devour me.
Eyes, deep into eyes.
Long arms wrapping round.
Bodies bent, arched.
Lips swollen, kiss me,
own me.
Come to me.
Dominate, subdue,
press to me.
Push into me.
Pulling, teasing.
Lost, searching,
come to me.
Heart full, Eyes longing
Breath deep
Burning, aching.
Hands to neck.
Whisper to ear.
Come…

Embers to Ash

He was an addict.
She didn’t believe it,
even when he lit her on fire and began to inhale.
She saw the hunger of addiction,
mistook it for passion.
He breathed her in.
She swirled.
Flowed and ebbed into him.
her a flame,
for him an ember.
She burned.
Impetuous and simple,
she saw only desire.
Believing in magic of shared experience.
A shared moment yes,
but different experience.
Not jaded, she did not judge.
Instead she reveled in the heat
and in the moment
and was consumed,
breathed deep and deeply breathed.

A moment of stillness,
a pause.
She felt the temperature change,
the stall
and then a push.
At first slow and imperceptible.
Then full and hard.
Evicted in a single breath.
She, intent on staying near
swished, and circled.
Her form a shadow,
a memory, a smell
and she clung,
then was swept out into the ambient air.
Dissipating, floating away on the wind.
She’d been transformed into smoke,
taken from her identity,
there was no going back,
could not keep herself
or remake her image,
having turned to shade,
and so it was that she blew away,
carried off in a breeze.

All things burn,
then turn to embers
and embers turn to ash.

The above loose form poetry was inspired by another blogger. Crap if I have any idea about blog etiquette. Hopefully I don’t piss him off… I think he’s Greek and hopefully being married to a half Greek buys me a little blog personality cred…if not, hopefully he comments and tells me to shut the hell up and stop hacking him for inspiration! At any rate, go check him out...he’s a way deeper thinker than yours truly…there’s your heads up. 😉

Naked

I did it.
It never plays as well as the fantasy.
Even blindfolded.
But I did it.
I made my demands,
laid them naked before us,
without ceremony,
without explanation.
I want…

If I’ve ruined anything
it was by taking and fucking.
Setting the stage for an expectation
that I don’t want to own every time.

I’m easy.
I know about pleasure.
My pleasure.
And so I know I am part of this,
This that I seek to undo, untie, unbridle.

I used to speak and not think,
now I think but don’t speak.
His withheld passion is a tourniquet.
Always his mouth is soft,
his touch gentle, tentative, waiting…

I take him.
I use him.
Waiting, hoping to be used.
So intent on the performing
he holds back,
keeping part of it from me,
or else why does every kiss have to have a moan, need
to need.

(And I ruin it some more,)
Shhh. Don’t speak.
Don’t make noises.
I say this.
To unhear gentle, passive.
I ask and my ask hurts.
I want to see the parts he hides away
that are scarlet and terrifying even to him.

A story I don’t understand.
The strong man made vulnerable, impotent from the simplest asking.
Honesty too bare and forthright.

I wonder.
If he had it to do all over again
would he free himself,
lose the judgment, the expectation,
Not put her on a pedestal.
Let her be real.
Not rescue her.
Teach her to fight.
To be free.

Religion

From the very beginning
she knew her conflict,
pulling on her,
obese,
and fleshy in her mind.

Not vague shadows
or concepts ill defined,
but turbulent
and tumultuous
trepidations to bind.
Hers to carry
and hers to align,
already too heavy
a burden too big to confine.

Her solace,

and her condemnation,
the consecration of wine.
Medicine for her
means feet on the ground,
moving mountains intended for the climb.
Meditation and prayer
for peace to find.

Still, not sated or resigned,
never dulling the roar of the cry.
A storm, not a gale,
blackening her sky.
Other hesitations and strife,
made bashful, brittle, dry.
But for these wars
raging inside,
so far, nothing abides.

So she delivers her dissention
to the hands of her tribe.
“Hold fast to the rod to which we subscribe.”
Have Courage, She’s told.
Be strong
and be brave.
Is it courage and faith or eyes closed,
voice crushed for those she might save.

There are lines to be crossed
and hands to be held.
No turning away.
To the edge of her ability.
Fall down.

Rise up.
Each stand finds
new strength in her might,
new strength in her mind.

Please.

Come to her heaven.
Where everything’s perfect.
Where we look at each other
with love and abundance,
hope and acceptance.
Arms open,
hearts wide,
each of us perfect.

Completely Divine.

Where we are here to impart all our knowledge
and lose all our lies,
where big hearts get bigger
and there are no divides.
Where open means open
and equality is on all sides.