The brush of your lips upon my neck The reverberating purr rumbling deep in your chest as you press against me
The grip of your fingers tangling in my hair Each sensation its own spectacular pyrotechnic show within me
The heat of your breath on my throat The tension in your arms as you pull me into you As if any room between us is too much
My lips swell from our eager, crushing kissing Goosebumps pebble every inch of my too-hot skin Sparked into existence by your exploring fingertips
My hands gripping your arms Your hair Your back Your hips
My nails sometimes teasing Sometimes scratching as I surrender to this tempest of desire
Sighs and moans Gasps and groans Hunger and need Primal and demanding our surrender to it and each other
I have no desire to resist Neither do you seem to
We are wonder and fire Surrendering to this conflagration As we quest to find in this consuming bliss The evocation of when our essence blazed as brightly as stars
I love being in the company of poets Words flowing in raging eager rivers Cleansing souls in their deep waters of truth The air in the room stilling reverently To allow voices to take up every bit of space As the walls, like the audience, lean in to listen
Poets mold experience and emotion like clay And through alchemy, transmute these raw materials Into golems of living language Puppeted by skillful tongues In rooms filled with those eager to experience The wonderment of such masterful magic
I am left in awe and enchanted with inspiration Yearning to find myself an acolyte Amongst a coven of gifted poets Happy to surrender myself to their castings Enraptured and enchanted again and again
Joy and grief have made strange bedfellows in me As my smile breaks so does my heart I do not know when their synchronicity began I do know I wish their relationship would end Allowing me my lightness Not pulled down by pain
This emotional eclipse as regular as heartbeats A quiet walk in cool, cathedral woods Interrupted by the unexpected sharp snap of a branch underfoot Sending a flurry of birds screaming into the sky Like storming clouds suddenly covering the sun on a perfect day
Of course joy needs pain so that they can tell themselves apart Trauma and struggle have conjoined them in me No scalpel skilled enough to detach them into their unique parts... Or at least not yet
Behind each smile lies is a threatening tear Every laugh has a sob waiting in the wings I will chaperone this opposing pair Let them fill me as they will Sweet nectar and bitter pill At least I'm blessed enough to feel
If you were to ask me to describe “home” I would tell you:
Home is big, cotton candy banks of white fog in the late afternoon rolling over the northern Santa Cruz Mountains like an ethereal sea crashing silently down into Crystal Springs Reservoir then running like a river down Highway 92 until it meets San Francisco Bay Or Cascading over the central Santa Cruz Mountains gliding over Palo Alto to meet up with San Francisco Bay Or Flowing over the southern Santa Cruz Mountains getting caught in the pines like ephemeral fabric woven of spider silk before blanketing the Valley of Heart’s Delight beneath its majesty
Home is the sound of the miniature train in Central Park clacking steadfastly along its track to the delight of small children Or The sound of a CalTrain whistle as it approaches Hillsdale Station Or The puff and squeal of the air brakes of a SamTrans bus pulling up to a curb full of chittering teenagers leaving Hillsdale Mall
Home is the tea-colored, glowing hills full of gossamer, golden-hour light on the northward drive through Los Altos and Palo Alto on Highway 280 in the autumn Or Being greeted by The Cats standing guard overlooking the winding, redwood-lined drive on Highway 17 to Santa Cruz Or The moment when the Pacific Ocean becomes visible while driving Highway 92 to Half Moon Bay knowing any minute Pastorino Farm’s pumpkins patch will appear
Home is the gazebo sitting over the lagoon at Leo J Ryan Park while kids run up an down the cement and grass risers while watching the windsurfers on the water Or Walking or ridding along the levee bike path surrounding Foster City, under the San Mateo Bridge and its fisherman until you arrive at Coyote Point Or Remembering which way to curb your wheels while visiting friends who live on or near the insanely steep hill that is Alameda De Las Pulgas
Home is the book of memories stamped upon landmarks, imperfections and inconveniences forgotten due to time or will and held in reverence in the heart forever My home has no walls, only the beauty of time and familiar places
Remember how it was before When I confidently walked through my life Believing in a future full of infinite possibilities Idealistic and self-possessed Inspired and free to manifest the life I desired Never apologizing for the joyousness of my nature Never apologizing for my independence and adventurousness Never apologizing
Such a contrast with who I would embody for too long Cowed and questing to find the right key That would unlock your love for the me I was before The me that I thought you cherished The me that was once upon a time enough I remember how it was before I am on a journey back to myself The version of me that resembles the echos of my unscarred self Together we will offer an apology to the me that was before A reclamation of what I thought was lost And I will be a wonder again
She’s not beautiful She’s a bloodied beast A bold, brassy, badass Bravely battling brash bandits Bone-weary from the bullshit Burdened and burnt out Building a budding new self Walking away from brutality Becoming balanced Banishing bad habits from her bones Barefoot upon the earth and beaming Beginning a brand new bountiful life
Words Wishes and Wisdom 