Dear Jesus, Who am I, God?  Woman, thou art
loosed!  Words of love, between you and I, “Intimacy, East of Eden.”  The language of
letting
      go, the secret language of dreams:  absolute surrender,  an invitation to friendship,
                                               day by day.  The sacred
                               romance. Love-in the time
                                                of cholera




From the prompt at rhymes with tao (which I did not submit because I could not find the cord to my camera!)




I had the kids do it too and I think theirs are better.  


Here's Annika's (7):


I see a picnic
and how my mom stole
the lightning and 
lady with man,
oh, he and she 
and I see my math book.
Now that's
something I don't want 
to see!




And True's (10):


The 
  door
within
      is 
the first
step
   2 forever.

So what

So what If print
               this way is for present bringing purpose.  
                     So what If I’m still writing as though in some imaginary
conversation, pretending there’s a challenge, pretending
you are saying stop
       And I’m refusing.  
So what If it’s only in my head that I defend my freedom to and that I’m once again procrastinating writing
                                                               what I
should, 
saving for later, thoughts on captivity tales.  
I’m breaking free of my own type of bondage and this is
                                                                                                    how I do it.
And so what if all I’ve got of actual workable scarlet
                            letter commentary is not too
                                               much yet; I’ve got enough real
                                                                                                             life
tormenting, teasing
                    in my life and mind at current
                                                              to aid when I get down to work.
                                                                           I can’t escape
                                                                                                       it- 
it’s
 all
around – in the every
              day.  Though, Red’s not my favorite, I have wet
                           the thread
                                                 and my skin affirms the knowledge of
                                                                                              hunger for a
certain
color.   
Call
the
thought police, the word police, the god police.  He knows
and I’m not scared.  Chances are, chances took.  
Who do you
                   think you are?  
With no fighting chance, fat chance now.
 it was a long shot in the first place.  
So what, I ramble, rant.  
My words, they mean
                                                                                                 something, 
at
least  to
me.  
The grind no longer works and  I’m no longer working out
        the grind.  it's said, Don’t sweat the
                                             small
                                            stuff, so
                                                this
                                                     is how I sweat it out.  
Not
 everything has to be a
masterpiece. Sometimes you just spit
                 it out, work it out and wipe your hands, your feet...
                        of dust and sudor.  
Not everything needs to be
                                     super hard.  I’ll align it how I do, how I can,
                                                       adjusting how I do every now and
                                                                      then. 
 So what if no one
                                                                                  says I see or means 
a
flipping thing when they
talk to
me. 
So what if I saw contrast in what you said and what you
                                                                                              did. 
 I’ve owned
my share of alteration.  There’s irony, comparison to go
           around so everyone can own their share.  
how much
                         difference can there be
                                                                      between slavery and
captivity.  
you Dot your Is and cross your ts and I’ll tittle my
         ts and divide
my is and bear my cross cause The coast is clear now, it’s a
         sunshiny day and I’m seeing better than ever before.
                                                                                                   Verbs may
                                                                                                   vibrate but
not
    those nouns, so
I’m steadying up and standing
                                                         ground.  There was resonation
for a while but resignation
                                               now because I’m not married to a color
                                                        but to sound.  red’s as good as
   cobalt and sea flows like blood and I see pearls emerging
      out of
both.  WE’re all
                              let off the hook, not graded on a curve.  In a
                                                                    new york minute, the blink,
                                                                         wink of a twinkle in the
                                                                                                              eye, we’ll
                                                                                                               each tip
                                                                                                                         the wink and quickly point it firm.
                                                             




T.S. Poetry
Sunday Whirl

In overgrown brush, lush,
                   she sits
and waits amidst
       the thrush like chorus of outer work
and inner work and the silent
                                  science of it all,

                                  cultivating flora framework
                                               for the growth and fare and fair  
                                               of vintage
                                                 vineyard so
                                                          she may one day drink
abundantly
and have her
fill.  Bursting forth, exploding bloom, she
          surveys the work and knows full well that much
                    has come from one who started out
                                          with nothing. 
                                              Noontide
shimmers, glimmers graciously
with much ado, 
            aiding progress and she notices
                                                now the need,
                                                     the speed
                                                     that
brought, propels and gives.   
With singleness of heart, she
diligently shears – allows- that she, herself
might be grafted into this prized
                             place that she adores.  It’s
voiceless here ‘cept for the whisper of the wind
                             which she recognizes well and  
                                    she’s the only creature
                                           here 
and therefore safe. 
               She’s untamed and breathing, coming into life, domesticated,not.   It’s the sky that will train her.  She’ll take her
cues from hues and clouds, gladly
                              gulping rain. The wide world
                                                  waits but she
                                                             has
no wish to leave her habitat of heaven where, light, 
she’s buoyant body.  She knows not the
meaning of inhalation but steady, focused anyway, she
                              swills the air.  Staying is what
                              she
                             seizes, understands and toil,
                                instrumental which brings
                                                   her rest.

Showers
stream, mingling
with tears
         she can not
fathom, saturated
        so, by so much sufficient satisfaction.
                       How can she know so much and so
little and still be still? It’s the versant,
                                  virescent variegating
of veined but violet
   vision where introspection ripens into more than
      speculation and all
              is bare
                but beautiful
                      and beckons,
                           bright.  She doesn’t see her skin
                               here; it’s pallid colored but       
still allowed to blend with seed or star and she lodges,
                 burrowed, anchored to exist in absence of
herself.

                                           


Gooseberry

Really, what can I say but,
                     Thank you?  Honestly.  Because there was enough felt
                                                      love ( if not real – and who’s to say?)
for a time, to
get me away.
               And if it
was going to happen later, I’m glad it happened sooner. 
    So, thank you.
Maybe I ought not reveal much
                               more (though I often can’t keep silent) because
who am I to debate or fight or plead?  And what would
                I be pleading for?  There are truths all
                              around and
though I believe there’s a difference between opinion and
                                                             conviction, we all in the
                                                                                     end have to choose what          
works
for us.  And I’m trying not
                              to be angry cause I see how fruitless that really is
                                         and I’m trying not to
                                                                guess at how you must have
                                                                         seen me cause turns out I
                                                                         saw you all wrong, too.
                                                                                                           These
words are not for you. 
                       but for me – to remind me later
                                       of my strength
and the fact
          that a heart can break but
won’t stop
               pounding.  And there’s a bigger purpose.  I no longer
long for less than what I have.  It’s not about ideal.  It’s about
accepting and
          that on a certain level, I won’t and can’t because vow or not,
                        a man is called but if he
                                                               heeds it not a woman will.
                                                                        So I have. 
                                                                             I’m stating now
                                                                                                    that it’s not
okay, by me – and that’s okay.  But for the record, I never
                                                                                               needed
saving – only staying
    and your reasons are yours
       and mine are mine.  At thirty-three
                I’m dying now to self,
                                                     finally and I’m ceasing the impossible
                                                                                        search
of meeting Jesus in a fallen man.  I don’t need to crucify you
                   for what you could not give and why bother with
                                that yearning when I am already
so well
         loved.  I was bought with a price and belong to only he who
                                             thought of me above all.

So…much obliged that you fed me when I was starving.
                              I see, we’ve both had
                                                     our fill of any ephemeral delicacy
                                                                        and objects in the mirror -
                                                                        are now behind me.
The
true image is within.
I’m pleased I could entertain you, let you play your role
              and I played mine and though I wasn’t acting,  I learned
                                                       the art,
                            learned too,
                                             to let the curtain close.
                                                                      I’m done with all high
                                                                             drama, ready to
                                                                                             embrace
the romance offered long ago.
                   And in the finale, you know
                                                                                                       what else
is over?  That need for you to understand.  I don’t care what you
              think and I mean that in only the nicest possible way. 
                 If actions speak
louder than words, yours have released me and I don’t want
  or
                  need an explanation. I want
                                               to walk away, head held
                                                                          high, in honor, dignity and
                                                                                  grace. 
What will be will be and I will now be still but later if you hear me
              laugh,
know I laugh at me and not at you because what else am I going to
do?  It’s true-I’ve been flipping coins, of late,tossing ‘em with a
                                            prayer, thinking that: 
what else am I supposed to do? It’s all new but glorious, too.
              Soon and very soon, they say and that soon is now the past.
                                                       The future’s where I’m focusing.
                                                                                           I’ve wasted
more than a decade in appeals, in making cases for my worth and
                                                                                                     yes,
                                                                                                    you’re
right.  I am guilty but aren’t we all? And guilty or not, I’ve been set
free, ransomed,  so you won’t find me banging on the prison door.
                                                                                                      I was
                                                                                                        wedded to, too long, the notion that if I
was cherished properly, void of all suspicion, maybe I could be the
        savior.  Either way, that’s all mixed up.
        So it’s not vain to fly now, ethereal at last, as long as I’ve
        successfully let go
                                       of earth.  The higher I soar above what no
                                        one in this calamity craved anyway, the
                                                            clearer my vision becomes.
                                                                                     I never fathomed
                                                                                                        this vigor,
                                                                                                         how
eagle like I was till I met you. Studiously, I studied and now have
      arrived at
flight.
                    I’m not a snob.  I just don’t belong and want no more to
                               try. 
                              There’s a genuineness in this that
could not have been discovered in any other way,
                                                                                   which is why you’re

not
   the villain nor even marked erroneous because you took it as far
                  as you could.  That fact, once declared, that I could have
                                            taken it further; there might lie the
                                                                                     mistake, happily
                                                                                       avoided.  On
                                                                                             declarations, I
must add that it did not go unnoticed, that yours you
                                         gave from get
                                         go and when I at last returned the
                                                                            sentiment, you rescinded
                                                                                               yours.  It
would be a deception to suggest that it doesn’t somewhat
                        (considerably) sting (as close as we did eventually
                                                    stand)but I allowed the pittance, waded in it,
                   took
                   the offering, in trust and that permits me peace and
license now to swell from this horizontal standing ground
                       which only ever kept me down.  I’m quickly
                                                                        discarding any hint or
                                                                                                       notion
                                                                                                           that I
                                                                                                           have no
right to
write.  It’s therapeutic and who doesn’t have the right
     to heal?  I’m laying claim to making good on all allegiance
        hereby non-observed.  All you have left to do is continue tune
me out, turn me off.  Done. 
          The counter-poison serves as balm
                                                                  but in the end
                                                                        I’ll die.  So, my words,
I’ll
no longer use as darts,
                    swallow all lingering resentments.  I’m improving

daily, shiny. 
         “So raise your glass if you are wrong in all the right ways.”
Whether I’ll find there’s more to say, I can not
                                                            say at present just
                                                                     that I’m wrapping up for now
                                                                      the exanimate phantasm
where I was – what?
                  and you were dashing, brave.  I suppose a peace
                                                                                      offering is
                                                                                              in order and so
my resignation.  I never was quite war-like enough
but
  that’s for your sex and not mine.  Doves depart
     as you all search out, relentlessly, some unnamed and invisible
                           enemy.  I’ll
                                            leave you to it and I have my thoughts but
                                                               those, I’ll leave to me.   My
final solo
           sings but one last note:  I, after all,
                                           am not
                                                     that woman in the woods.  For, I could
                                                                          never, seven years after, hold a
coward as he made amends.  God would and he’d forgive but I
    would have boarded ship, and never would return.
                                                                                          

I had a dream where the world, I saw as though
                                             through a window, the glass clear,  

                                the scenes not but rather air drawn and I sat, stared
                                                                 and figured what it meant, what
                                                                                                       they meant to
                                                                                                                 me and to
                                                                                                                      each      
other, these stick like figures, moving.  And I dreamt I was awake
                                                                                    and they were not,

                                                                                 though they 
moved rapidly and I was

                                   still.  Briskly, they seemed to bustle in and out of

                                                                                                        one another’s


lives….and business.  Births and deaths, as though all in mere moments. 


                A blurred display or show of young and old

   alike carried on and the players detected me not.
                                                                      

       Indeed, I

know not if
                    I existed as the seasons threaded through
                             this one short night.  And I wondered if I
                                         ought
                                                  to join them but could not grasp their
                                                                                                                    purpose or
apprehend what I might add so I continued only watch.  The mundane
appeared as fascinating as a
horror show and the grotesque only perplexing, as I felt safe within
my room. 

And soon, it came that perhaps I ought
                                            to leave, return to bed and them but I could not
                                                   avert my gaze.  Hours, or at least it felt as
                                                                                               such, passed, but years
outside the window and finally, my eyes began to droop.  I had almost
       succumbed when a startling vision struck them open wide again.
                                                            It was nothing and everything.  A man
                                                                who walked
among them, humble in appearance but more vivid than all the rest.  I
                                                                  rubbed my eyes.  His dress, plain but
                                                                                                      his lines,
                                                                                                        stark and his
movement, mesmerizing.  I had a sudden urge to leap from where I
                                 perched and join him, for he seemed to be searching         
                                                                                                                                 and
yet unseen by all. Often, he would lean close to one and appear
                                         to whisper into a wanderer’s ear but
                                        the stroller would stroll along without pause or
flicker.  My heart ached as
   I watched this
                               scene play out again and
                                                                again until at last someone stopped
                                                                and turned . 
                                                                       This someone,
                                                                                       man or woman, I could not
tell,
  looked at the
stranger but it was
      as though try
     as they might, could not perceive him.  I wanted, then
          to shout, “He’s right there!”
but
before I could, I awoke, regrettably, in my bed, turned my head and
                                             gazed out the window.

Carry on Tuesday