A Work In Progress (<---- Me)

I.

Awake

Today I awake with great awareness, great recognitions of self and everything around me. Today I awake with a renewed sense of my path. Today, I am more aware than I have ever been and today there is a heaviness in my heart for I realize my path and in recognition of one's path there comes a sort of loneliness. Not loneliness of spirit, or self, but loneliness in life, here on Earth.  I wish to be among the clouds, the wind upon my face, to smile all the time. I do. I truly do. Yet as a lone eagle soars upon the skyline, I, too, soar alone. That is my realization. That is my path. I am a conduit, my palms raised in supplication and in gratefulness, simultaneous. This I understand and in understanding comes a great weight. Not a bad weight a most wonderful weight. Understanding life is not difficult, being human is hard.

II.

Slumber

In my solitude, I am not alone.  Thoughts are a spectrum, no words nor emotion, images at the speed of light. Like raindrops that fall from the eyes of heaven. They run through my head like thoroughbreds, I hear their hooves clamping down upon my nerve endings causing pain in my neck and shoulders. I am a weary traveler yet have great miles to cover.  I meditate here, now, and ask the Universe to give to me what is truly in my heart. I am gifted by those around me who understand, I am gifted by my child, I am gifted by caring souls who stand by me and I, myself am gifted in knowing.  Yet I wish to concede and sleep. A slumber of all slumbers.  One of princesses and kings. 

I wish to lie my hands folded across my breast and close my lids to humanity yet it claws at my calves as waves rushing to slate rock.  I am being called to duty and I hesitate. I am human and spirit and I want what everyone else has, I held it once in my palm for a lifetime yet the purpose of this existence is being unearthed. Like peeling a fruit, each layer falls, another lifetime. Shed. I am shedding skin every day and parts of me are distributed among the dirt and sedimentary layers of this Earth. It is tiring. I am able to look into one's eyes and see fathoms they do not. I know why I am here. I bow my head in grace . . . not quite knowing how to proceed.

III.

Doubt

My lamplight is dim. The desert winds are cool and my forehead is hot then cold. I am not feverish.  It is Earth calling my name, my real name, the one given to me in incarnations long past. I wish to be lain in lambswool and protected. I need solace from the harsh winds.

IV.

Recognition

Calm, my heart. Calm your fears and attributes.  You are good and needed in this world so calm, my heart. Calm the aching memories of past, calm the present thought that pools like tears in ventricles and atriums. Calm the future. 

Calm my heart, sleep, do not be afraid.  Nightfall is your solace and daybreak is your pain.  Calm, my heart for the angels watch over you. They smile and know. You are too large for this world. Do not close your pathways, keep your senses acute and open.  I understand it is difficult, for you, my heart, you take this world in all embraces, in all cultures, in all aspects, you my heart, you are too giving and that is a beautiful thing.  Yet calm yourself, my heart. You have nothing to fear.

V.

Realization

. . . and then I stepped into the sunlight this strange hour, autumnal cerulean skies, cloudbursts, scries of flight spoke to me.

God:  holding my hand in mediation. 

The drone of an an airplane was above me, eyes closed, peace.  Diaphragm relaxed, colors into view traveled from my eyes to my arms to my palms to my heart:  green, yellow, orange, blue, violet and finally, RED.  And I smiled.

Know Thyself.
Heal Thyself.
Love Thyself. 



© Susan Marie 2009

The Thinker

i have often thought
what The Thinker
was thinking

perched upon granite
or perhaps, antiquated tree stump
clad in nothing
but tendons and muscle, striated

he is solemn
one fist clenched
holding the weight of his world
upon forearm of steel
beneath fine jawline, resting
with right shoulder
bent on left thigh
feet apart, toes grasping dirt
his calves, perched taut
to tree

a frown is apparent
and confusion graces his face
as his left arm lie limp
upon left knee

holding his patella
as if it were
his heart

broken



© Susan Marie 2009

Reference: Auguste Rodin : The Thinker 

 

ignorant american

maybe i am an ignorant american
sick with fever
undiagnosed by modern medicine

one that fills my organs
so that it rains for weeks
and clouds elbow sun
from horizons

maybe i am an ignorant american
blind to beauty in ugliness
and ugliness in beauty
yet all of it mingles
like oil and water
convoluted

this world is madness and i am sane

for children with hungry mouths
have fat bellies
and women survive
with no means of surviving
while men fight wars
they do not believe in

my tuliped crown is weary
and i have yet to battle
for my throat has already tightened
swallowing the world whole
causing me to choke
on my own insight

maybe i am an ignorant american
yet i am unable to deny the universe
as it pulls my sternum forward
magnetic
directing me to stand
                                   speak
                                               change

do something other than
                                        stay
                                                 silent

and my mind

cannot fathom dramatics

there is no room for apathy nor treason

yet this world is chaotic

and i
this ignorant american
am set loose on blind chase
for strings upon strings
of chains and weights
shackled to wrists and necks
where spirits float
to endless realms
smiling, once smiling
now they smile

gone

they are free and i
this ignorant american
am left to assemble arms, legs and various leftovers
of existence

i hold a ball of yarn
no beginning, no end
not even a middle
no explanation, nor solution
nor quotient

it is tight to my chest
safe from onslaught
for it is mine to bear

this ball of yarn
with no beginning nor end
an ignorant american
i am

but my heart

is good


© Susan Marie 2009

Vater

I watched your rebirth onto this plane. We all looked on, noble wolf, while Mutter solemnly masked her pain. Vater whipped you in your later years while I stood silent in shadows. The time was not yet right.

A Bohemian should have suited you fine following the death of Vater. The canvas was to be your escape, yet you held no decree, no privelege. The key held tightly in my bony grasp. Waiting, waiting for the day you would be attuned to my voice.

I foresaw millions waving to you in homage and showed the skin of my teeth in skeletal grin.

Was it the constant rejection of Vienna which caused you to change your train of thought? To lie your brush down lightly to rest and pick baton in hand as whip to march the masses?

You certainly were far from unintelligent. My constant chattering eventually led you to write words I had been whispering for ages.

When Mutter passed, you began the uprisal. I honestly did not realize the impact I had on you then. I only wanted to be heard, yet you outlived my spirit.

You began to frighten even me with your constant babble and I held hands to my ears, drowning out the rivers of bloodletting I birthed.

Even when you stopped listening to me, you led them through the wires. You ceased to believe in the cause. The message was lost when the armies marched yellow stars to silent deaths.

I only needed to speak Führer. The plans we schemed were far beyond my reach. You did not require my guidance. You forced me from your heart.

Oh, Lieb Junge, I weep tears that do not fall from your eyes. They grew cold and dead while Berlin startled itself awake to gunshots in the night.

Your body lie in smoke and ash, alongside family and comrades. Bitter almond trailing, colorless.

Wisps of history lost in rubble.

The Führerbunker safe within the breast of the beast you battled.

© Susan Marie 2007 

Spectrum Theory

I have always disagreed with the theory of black and white and spectrums. 

If you research how the colors are described it states:  Black is the color of objects that do not reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum.

Scientifically, a black object absorbs all the colors of the visible spectrum and reflects none of them. This is sometimes confused with black being called 'a mixture of all colors', but that is not the case.  In fact, an object emitting or reflecting all colors is perceived as white. Sometimes black is described as an "achromatic color"; in practice, black can be considered a color, e.g., the black cat or black paint.  Black is the lack of all colors of light

They say black is not a mixture of all colors yet absorbs all colors, reflecting no colors. I disagree that black is a lack of all colors.   If black absorbs all colors then black invites all colors (as one would take on positive or negative energy) so if black absorbs all colors taking them in, how can black lack all colors? Black INVITES all colors therefore all the colors are absorbed into black.

White is the combination of all the colors of the visible light spectrum. It is sometimes described as an achromatic color, like black.

White is technically achromatic, and not a color, since it has no hue. The impression of white light can be created by mixing appropriate intensities of the  primary colors of light — red, green, blue.

Ok so above:   (black is a color, white is not yet they are both achromatic -->  Any color that lacks strong chromatic content is said to be unsaturated, achromatic, or near neutral. Pure achromatic colors include black, white and all grays. How can they both be achromatic when one is a color and one is not?  Black has hue, white does not. An object emitting or reflecting all colors is perceived as white.   White is not a color since it has no hue.

White is only a color when other things are added or mixed to it.  White can emit or reflect colors but cannot absorb them.  Thus, never inviting any colors inside, rather sending them outward.   To me, white will never truly be a color because it stands alone and without pigment is just white.  

Black absorbs all colors - inviting them, White reflects all colors sending them out.  To me, it is an oxymoron to compare black and white.  They have different properties and functions. 

A spectrum can be defined as:  a distribution.   A common list identifies six main bands:  red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Newton's conception included a seventh color, indigo, between blue and violet  (ROYGBIV)

So, a spectrum is a distribution of colors.   Black is a color, white is not a color.   Black absorbs all colors, white emits them. 

Black being a color that absorbs all colors then can be a part of a spectrum where white cannot because white needs a spectrum in order to be a color.  BLACK actually IS a spectrum of color.  WHITE needs black in order to become a color because black absorbs all colors.  White can never be a spectrum.

White is white without black.   Black is black without white.

How can black be a color and white not be a color when you need white to lighten black?  To me, white added to black allows it to be a color because it lightens black.

Red cannot lighten black, only white.   Black takes all colors - colors added to white makes other colors.

White is devoid of color - black has all color.   One cannot exist without the other because if we only had white we would have no color and if we only had black we would have no color.  What then happens to the colors themselves?  Do they have a voice?  Why does black and white dominate the beauty of a spectrum?  Red, yellow and blue (RYB) can mix all colors.  Primary.  Newton and daVinci would agree.

So then, when thinking of all things, why do we focus intently on black and white when in reality, one should focus on red, yellow and blue because these 3 colors - without them, we would have no color, rather one specific color. 

Black to me IS color - white is absence of color and if you define these colors they say that black is the abscence of color and NO it is not, it absorbs them all - white reflects them absorbing nothing.

This theory of black being absent of color fails.  

Black to me is this:  R  O  Y  G  B  I  V  = BLACK   

R O  Y  G   B  I  V  cannot be WHITE  (white needs ROYGBIV to even BE a color.)

This fails . . . Black IS color - all color . . . a spectrum unto itself.  White is nothing without other colors.  White cannot be a spectrum because it has no color while black IS a spectrum.   The irony is that one cannot exist without the other.  

Good vs. evil

Black vs. white

light vs. dark

life vs. death

Take your pick . . . WHY is black associated with everything bad and white with everything good when black is the color that has all colors and white has no color whatsoever and can only BE a color with the help of other colors?   If you take survival, white would die.  White cannot survive without all of the rest but black can, black can thrive, it actually holds all colors but they cannot always be seen.  

White needs black to survive and black needs white to progress.

Why then is black a color while white is not and black is considered a lack of all colors?

Why is it that these two dominate all colors? 

Why are we so focused on black and white when in between lies beauty?  

© Susan Marie 2007

Literary Withdrawal: Death of a Book

I sit here in the dark quiet of my sanctuary, the place I come to write.

I have a stabbing inherent fear that books, like many of its authors, shall one day become extinct. This revelation came to me because I was forced to purchase a tape cassette recorder to listen to a tape and as I held it in my hand, found myself thinking: I cannot believe I found one to buy.

Think about 8 tracks, LP's (Oh, how I miss LP's.) There truly is nothing like an album, the words displayed proudly in a double album. Amazing artwork like tattoos scrolled across the flaps of the cover and on the inside. The band invited YOU inside of  their minds for an hour or two. Mind you, I adore CD's and DVD's, I am an IT tech afterall, yet wonder if I purchase a turntable would I actually be able to find a needle to set beneath the arm?

Thank goodness for eBay. Garage sales. Used bookstores.

Used bookstores.

You must take pride in the owner of a used bookstore. A secret society where members only travel at dusk, perusing olde wooden shelving like mad Norseman, pillaging layers of books, bindings, blowing cobwebs from dust covers quite possibly uncovering a treasure or two or three.

If you are like me, you leave with insurmountable treasures richer than gold or silver. A book is the fruit of self. Knowledge unsurpassed. Everything I have learned has come directly from books. Let me correct myself, books and the street.

At this precise moment of writing this, I hold in my palm the first print of "Kaddish" circa 1961 signed by A.G. himself.  I  bought it for a dollar.

Don't get me wrong, I adore mainstream bookstores. As a rule, I live in them.  Soak myself up in a huge overstuffed chair by fireplace, an Italian Soda or Cappuccino by my side, a stack of books at my feet, music I have never heard before playing overhead (and yes, I know, a masterful marketing technique) and sometimes I do fall prey to a Frappuccino and end up buying the CD I heard while reading, the artists words ringing true in the background of my mind as I delve into Welsh Heritage, Kool-Aid Acid Trips, Nature, Photography, Art and Poetry.

When entering a bookstore, I bypass the front tables streamed with discounts and deals.  New authors with their third book published about the exact same things they said in the first one. I head straight to the back, where the literature is hiding.  You can always tell they attempt to hide it. Try and ask someone working there
exactly WHERE the LIT section is and they point you towards . . . someplace . . . over . . . there.  (In reality, they have no idea what LIT is.)

*sigh*

Poetry is the second place I visit. Then onto biographies and music, art, photography and lastly, the horribly sad cart where tattered books lie that nobody wants. The cart of misfits. It is upon this cart, I always find a volume I want. Maybe that is because I, myself, am a misfit and that's ok. I like being different. It is who I am. I cannot pretend nor would I wish to deny myself precisely who I am.

I find myself sitting here now and surrounding me are books books books . . . how I adore them so. They are best friends to me. Make me feel comforted. Just to run your hands up the spine of a book, life itself breathing inside waiting for your eyes only to discover an entirely new world created by anothers' psyche.

How truly fascinating.

The smell of a book is glorious! Scented with glue and wax, possibly leather, dry leaves bursting alive in an Autumnal flurry before your sight as pages speak, unfolding life, a bloodline, an adventure. A life you possibly wish to lead.

An old book holds something entirely different. They are my favorites to own. I often wonder what hands had passed these pages and how many? Whose hands touched this very book? How many people cried, felt happiness, pain, grief, love, enlightenment from handling this book now in my possession?

The corners are tattered a bit, sure, but this gives it persona. Tells you it doesn't fuck around, man and it is meant to BE read because it has BEEN read. Now it's your turn to ride that steep climb up the first hill of a coaster.

Get ready . . . the turn is coming, you can feel it now, can't you? The existential drop of your belly as you lift slightly from your seat and remain airborne for a millisecond that lasts a lifetime just to be dropped straight downhill into an Inferno that brings you around dark corners, through forests, screaming wild and flipping pages as night turns into day.

This just caused me to think of not only the books, but the writers of such books. Where have they all gone? Why is it that they are noticed after their death, after their struggle, after their entire lives have been a complete and utter living hell interspersed with momentary lapses of euphoric bliss?

As I attempt to complete my own novel, as many of you are right now or have, I transcend into the minds of writers I pay homage to. I use the word homage well, because they are all quite stone cold dead.

(Ahh . . . but not in the pages. Within the pages, they survive. This is their gift, the gift of any writer to the reader. Regeneration by pure esoteric thought.)

I think of Hemingway . . poor Papa. No longer could he write, he could not think after they strapped his brilliance to the electro shocks and stripped him of his gift. It is no wonder he took one of his prized shotguns, ironically purchased at Abercrombie & Fitch. It used to be a sporting goods store. I knew I despised that
place for a reason.

Kerouac. Oh, how I want to lie his wearied brow in my lap and let him cry. The thing with Jack is that he saw so much fucking beauty, had traveled so far, so young, ran with bums, slept in alleys, walked in below freezing temperatures in order to FEEL life beat in his veins as his own blood, becoming one and he did just that. Jack set out what he meant to do. Jack had a purpose and when it was met he was done. Tired. Down.

Jack was beat.

I could sit here with you for hours speaking of writers gone home. I wish I could but fear boring you right out of your mind.

Besides, you really should be reading something of worth.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti must be lonely.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars . . ."

—Jack Kerouac's On The Road

© Susan Marie 2007

2 AM

(This was inspired by something my friend Torrey said to me about writing:  Talent can take you places but it's skill that keeps you there.)

Day Two: eyes burning, mottled veins, massive sleep deprivation, caffeine O.D. Words, words, mocking me. Read aloud, thought, typed, backspace, delete, retype, fuck . . . where IS that arrow? Type again, fix, beat, bitch, bury my fucking head in the sand and sink.

Had a stroke of genius (it happens) and thought about waking the doc up at 2 a.m. Tell him I have that dry eye syndrome I saw on t.v. and need a script. The convo goes like this:

"Hey Doc, its me. I have that . . . uh . . . dry eye syndrome. YES, my eyes hurt . . . no . . . I have not been drinking coffee . . . what? I don't owe you money! Look, can ya just call in a script? Yeah . . . yeah for that, ok . . . and uh . . . while you're at it, can ya pick me up a pack of smokes on your way to the O.R.?"

Life should be that comical.

I wouldn't mind the side effects anyhow: heart palpitations, kidney disease, possible stroke, urinary retention, migraines, constipation, stomach pain, blurred vision (oxymoron), short term memory loss, confusion, dementia, risk of diabetic coma, and eventually . . . death.

I can risk that for a dry eye or two.

Sat in the mall today. I despise the mall. Forced to go there, was the only place this one store was and I felt my heart beat fast, chest pain (great), onset of perpetual migraine, so I grabbed a cappuccino. Walking, walking, thinking if one more motherfucker nudges into me that's it. I am tearing into the fifth toy
store I pass and grabbing me some lethal childs toy.

One by one take 'em out, like a nutjob in a bell tower. Sit in the middle of this excuse for a living room where we can "socialize" and hide behind a plastic palm tree. Wait for a bratty pisspot to come running by, stick my foot out and watch the parents half heartedly console the spoiled replica of themselves they spawned.

If there is a Hell I live in it so please, dont even think of telling me I am going there.

Figured I should probably eat, my legs hurt, wandering around, wondering what the fuck I was doing in this place and how much I would rather be in a bookstore or a cafe or at home watching Tony Montana shove his face into a pile of snow. Instead, I took a seat in the "Garden Cafe" and looked around. Felt I was the only one without pennies on my eyes.

Lil' girls with g-strings pokin' out their low cut bootleg sad excuse for a wanna be somebody they never will be showing off to boys who only wanna get in their pants.

As if that would be a difficult task.

Pierced everything up and down brow to lips, backs of necks and kids kids kids with cell phones, ipods, portable dvd players and I thought I was cool when I had the Bionic Woman and her arm opened up and you saw wires and shit in there.

Saw a woman sitting alone, had a laptop in the booth. Thought, Man, you should be at a cafe what in the fuck are you doing in a mall? Felt like walking up to her, handing over the a book of tattered poetry, a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. But, I didn't.

The mall is ----> Denial from the misery felt by those who still think that the world is flat.

There was an angel there today. Was just a man - olive skinned, radiating supernovas swirling like sunspots by the mouthful and I gobbled them up. Watched him there smiling, the angel. Brown leather sandals, a nylon cord sneaking inside his shirt, wondered what was on the end of it. Curls of sardonic silk reflected light shining from his retinas, cerulean, and I looked around felt like screaming:  "Am I the only one seeing this shit?

Nobody stirred, kept right on stuffing their faces with eventual heart attacks, talking, fake smiles lipstick stained teeth grinning skeletons already dead to themselves.

This man sat on a hill and I was a child. My chin upturned listening as he told stories. He was cotten robed, his raiment, a burlap bag. The whole scene, transparent. Lucid dreams and waves. Sketches of memories past.

He was one word ----> IMAGINE.

Compelled to talk to him, every bit of strength I had (which wasn't much, trust me) kept me from doing just that. Pisses me off now. I saw him there and knew it. He looked right into my eyes and said:

Ssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .

I heard THAT inside my skull.

then he continued talking to the ghosts seated next to him.

The cursor blinked. Maybe it wasn't my eyes after all. An hour had passed and I  had not written a single thing. I stared though . . . at this:  There are plenty of talented nobodies in the world who are too lazy to do jack shit with their lives.

Held my palms to my cheeks, cracked my knuckles, put on some tunes and began to type.

© Susan Marie 2006

Jericho

lead me to Jordan
the doves have ceased soaring

they berth in silent revolt
far from the Dead Sea
where bones rattle as tongues
spiked as forks
and the vegetation is barren
such a waste, this womb

The Garden of God
can no longer produce
cloudbursts of dinosaurs

my son's fragile fingers
waltz across canvas
under similar skies
knowing full well
that same small hand
shall one day raise
but one candle to this sky

to speak
and cease
the fright
in inherent night
under starless skies

another child weeps

why must we fight
for an inherent right
to simply
be

Oh, Isaiah,
your prophecy has come full circle
far from the blades
where you saw
the halves of times
the blades they sawed
your fragile diaphragm

sssshhhhhhhhhhhhh

the children speak for you, prophet
the wind is shifting
Sephoria awakens
her womb, a welcome

the children they shall rise
to denounce
the Kings and Chronicles

and you, martyr, shall envision
Vesuvius ablaze
and masses of movements of

children

The Genesis
of Exodus

(Dedicated to Jacob Gray United States Army)

© Susan Marie 2009

He Asked Me of My City

he asked me of my city
said it was dying

the sewers ejaculate
spoken word
frames and pastels
oil paints and prints
photo-genic videography
of still
            lives

poplars stand sentinal
along bleeding streets
their weary arms
stretch outward

an embrace, waiting
for the onset of winter

when the river cries
her voice is that of a dulcimer
like church bells pealing
during blackout restrictions

one
minute
silences

winter's sister wind child
grasps my hair
bony fingers tear
every ounce of my soul
until there is nothing left

nothing

but alabaster arrows
that announce
the first road of the Americas

where immigrant wools
and blackened hands from soot
united footpads of merchants
to one mouth of the mighty Pacific
paddling through streets

named

for The Great Emancipator


© Susan Marie 2009

nothing

do you think
nothing, do
nothing, dream
nothing, pray
nothing,
want EVERYTHING
yet strive for

nothing . . .

do you sing
nothing, plant
nothing, create
nothing, love
nothing, kiss
nothing, hug
nothing,
yet cry because you feel you have

nothing . . .

do you fly to
nothing, spread your arms to
nothing,
kick your legs
to nothing, make love to
nothing, write about
nothing, speak about
nothing worth speaking about
nothing,
do you believe you are

nothing . . .

you are here
now
today
this minute
is
not

nothing

right now
is something
for today
is tomorrow
is today
is the present
the future
is me
typing letters
fingers frail
palms upturned bleeding
screaming
to you
right now

TO
WAKE
UP!

dance, sing, write, play, kiss, love, like, scream, shout, run,

FLY

for the Love of God
spread your wings

and fly.

please.



© Susan Marie 2009

i write

I am awake. I am wide awake. I have never been so awake in a lifetime. 

I am exhausted, yet fully awake. I am one with the night.  She comforts me.  Sister Moon Child smiles upon me through the window above me.  I tilt my weary chin upward and smile.  She tosses stardust upon my crown like confetti.  For a solitary moment, I am Cinderella.  When I close my eyes, I feel stars resting upon my eyelashes.  I wish to place my palms upon the crushed deep velvet of night. 

Daybreak is stark realization.  When light comes, the beauty of this world shall cease.  My pulse, a deafening halt shall be.  People, society, madness.  I do not welcome the incessant chatter.  This is mine right now, this night, now.  Right here.  Only mine.  For me alone, this night.

The quiet of night is a lovers embrace.

The dawn is also angelic.  When she drags her belly, pregnant and full across the purpling sky, it is then I also feel alive.  Gossamer cotton streams of dreams are translucent upon the face of dawn.  Nights shallow breath then trails midair, swirling in blues and pinks, a trapeze artist on tightrope.  Only to fall to untimely death.  Those are dawns that when night falls, I hunger for the day.

Night can also be deceiving.  There have been seconds to minutes to hours, I have been assailed by terror.  The clock on the wall thunderous, incessant barking laughter, reminding me that I am indeed, very much alone.  It seems the dank stench of hell is sometimes present at night.  I have heard voices of the stricken in night.  Those are nights I pray for the light.

This is not one of those nights.

I write.  This is what I do.  Tonight, I write of the night.  Of the quiet stillness of her breath.  She welcomes me, this night.  A reprieve from the madness of this day. 

The room I am in is blessed, protected.  I come here to write, to find myself, to refocus.  Here, this night, tonight, I am alive.

It is here I found my own small voice.  By the side of my sleeping child.  I kissed him on the forehead and was gifted with sight.  It is the quiet tips of wings of angels that surround me, found me.  This is night.  This night, only tonight, right now, my senses are intense. 

It is right here a new dawn shall greet me.  It is here I will then be lonely for the night.  It is here, right now, I hold the heavens in my heart. 

I am a stranger in this land, a bastard child of the new world. 

I do not belong here, yet must plow forward. 

There is no turning back.


© Susan Marie 2009

I call you self

I call you self

mirrored in an iris
solitary drops
of tears
the dew of morning, fresh
gracing petals
pristine and magnificent

I call you self
standing in baptism
in blessing
naked in purity
no weights nor burdens
as the wind
your voice
speaks volumes of ages
of antiquated species

I call you self
alive in the turbine
the hurricane
the tsunami
the earthquake
the deep rich soil
beneath footpads
in other worlds
times and lives

I call you self
the fresh breeze
that kisses my cheeks
as my head tilts upward
towards skies of cerulean

I call you self
my beloved
for I love self
and self is love
and all of this

existing

is divine
as a dream
as no sleep
as the deep black dark
velvet coat of night
as the rich morning burst
like a palette of desire
the sun
shines
for you, my self

I call you self
for you are alive
and all of this
for you
for the universe
is self
the moons, planets, stars
are an extension
of your heart

all faith, belief, nature
dirt earth, and mineral
roots, and wood
fire and water

the leaves of the tress are your limbs, love
your spirit is self
in this world, this great expanse
this great book of knowing
and not knowing
being and not being
laughing and crying
loving and letting go

in this immense skyscrape
where all of us are as pixels
mere dots on a screen

you
are
self

do not discount your being
you may be but one feather
on the tip of the wing
of an angels flight
but you are golden
self

so be happy
be happy self
and awake not with
confusion
but with pure joy
for you are self
and this is what I call you
for I am you
self
my beloved mine

I belong to only you
and my heart whispers poetry
in this hollow place
this beauteous world
this troubled time

come, come and smile, self
do not despair any one confusion
it is easy
it is not difficult
you were born with wings
that beats as thunder
with the volcanic rumbling
of Mother
Father
Earth

simultaneous

self
my love
beloved self

I call you self


© Susan Marie 2010