Image pulled from The Mind Unleashed Facebook page
The deep secret of the divorce. I stole a pair of my exes jockey shorts. The ones that are actually like shorts. Gray cotton soft, gentle waist band and my ass looks great in them. Even the flap in the front seems to flatten my belly. I love that flap. Like the secret door to a magical mystery tour. I wear them to bed or dance Zumba topless around the house. The naughtiness is in the theft and that they’re the wrong sex for my wide hip need. My friend thinks it’s odd, but I challenge she simply lacks the courage to step out of the feminine box. We tell men to find some estrogen, well I dig the testosterone rush when I slide them on. Sexy and charged is what they give my lazy Sunday’s reading the paper.
They remind me of him, in the way he liked my style. My need to be only me. For many reasons, I needed to let him go, but his jockeys still belong to me. It’s the part of the story of us that still lives in my jeans.
(Work in progress from The Writer’s Church in Boulder. Hosted by Marj Hahne and inspired by “Pink Pantsuit” by Nancy Simpson)
I feel the lapping at the farthest reaches of my mind from a stone thrown centuries ago
Cracking barriers like a dam giving way
It is more effort to hold in, than to break loose
I have nothing to hold onto
Bits of sand and dust
Everything to give
What is this resistance really?
Rubber band girl
It is plain to see that with what goes out only more floods in
A dam letting loose a rivulet that becomes a stream
A river to a great delta water course gushing into the bay
That opens further to an even greater ocean
There is no purpose to these chains that bind when I have only love to give
Let it rain until the floods have washed even the mud away from my feet
I walk freely in the reeds, a great white crane
Sandhill Cranes: re-posted from Bing photo of the day by Patrick Frischknecht of Aurora Photos
Dead leaf beauty. Photography by Noelle
Engulfed by grief I am driven to my knees, until back bent I am little more than a sapling in a hurricane.
Raging, fists to the sky with hunger for death in my heart I pace the hours certain of Divine betrayal. I am Shiva, Goddess of death. Blindly I plot tales of woe poor sirens must be calling to me from the deep. What wretchedness creeps into my soul as I tediously survey my faults, mistakes and missteps; no less a miser at his ledgers. There is no light. I am crawling in gravel up a mountain with no visible peak, but miles of trails that lead no where. I am confused. I am deluded. I am lost.
Still. Still. Time moves grief as a plowman’s mule. Bloodied knees always heal.
All wisps of smoke curling up into the ether now. Formless fog fading down the river of my life. The moment the last breath left my lungs it was already dead and gone, buried as my ancestors in dirt holes. Air fills the vacuum of my fading past, sweet and new.
When did I leave the bridge? What was the step that took me to the other side?
Kneeling to my sorrow now I dance to my joy. Swirling round and round free as the leaf floating on the current. The sorrow has ripped out my moorings it would seem. I drift with the river and worry not where it goes. I have already been where I could not go. With the hunger and vigor I gave freely to my rage I embrace the beauty of my life. I run with pounding heart captured by the power of my body no longer weighed by death and dark shadows. The mountain has gained no peak, but a fool’s laughter is heard along the trails.
Life, anyone’s life, is an endless sea of choices. Sing my hardy voice of love or hear it crack in the silence to a whisper.
Spit and shine, tarnish be gone. I am liquid silver, glinting in the sunlight.