100 on Pain

It slides, slipping degree by degree down that slippery slope. A dark diamond, exquisite, tear shaped, catching light along this fiery plight. The pain so ripe, showing me how blood blossoms in beads. Jagged edges, little nicks, cutting flesh, leaving scars upon the heart. Strange how fragile the pain, an elixir of tears in crystal drops. So much more weighty than joy. It wears me low. I crave only dark, a place to shut my eyes. I’m so tired. Vibrating through my nerves, the pain reminds me I am alive. Even here, caught in a landslide, I can still feel.

100 on Old Clothes

Old socks, comfortably worn with threadbare jeans. The favorite shirt, stained and faded, hiding the bra that refuses to die with the poked out underwire. Too soft, too well worn, like part of my skin sown inside out with red thread. Stretched out elastic, tiny holes, unraveling strings, popped buttons, weaved cotton, rayon, polyester blend, frayed and abraded from contact sports and sliding seats. The snagged silk, dry-clean only. The hand wash fiasco, dry flat sweater, shrinking and warping with each go round in washer and dryer. All, beloved items yet the closet is full, it needs to be purged.

100 on Pantsing

Character drops word bomb. Roll with it or not? Check gut. Roll with it. Think this is stupid. How can this possibly make it to the final edit of the book? I’m only wasting time writing these words. Pour heart out on the page. Don’t hit delete. Just leave it to marinate overnight on the page. Come back, debate. Let it marinate some more, tweak and find I’ve been pulling this thread the entire time since before I ever put a word down on a page. This is good. Continue with plot and character arcs. Got a new word bomb.

100 on Cold

It runs in your veins creating ice trails through that splintered heart. I didn’t see the crystal shards embedded in your blue blooded, pale hand or the deep-freeze under ninety degrees that never thaws. It lingers in your voice, the cold, detached goodbye, the frosted turned cheek, and the dismissal with your eyes. How I wish we never got involved. I’m tired of the hardened heart, the chill of this empty bed, the heat misplaced and displaced. How simple things roll off your banks and careen down mountainsides laden with snow. Caught in the avalanche and buried in your cold.

100 on Beast

It sits in me, this restless urge to fight the depths of what I do not know.  To bring light to the space where darkness grows. The void, pitch black, the feared and the not. Sacred somehow in its time and space. Of me it does not care, I am merely the beast knocking at its door. The fire breathing tendrils and caught up smoke, trapped and panting with rapid eye. I am the nothing to its all. The attached and unaware. Still I dive the depths and search in frantic waves. This thing that is me, aware and free.

100 on Hunger

Its sits inside me, an eternal flame, demanding quietly, gently, something more. Breathing it in, breathing it out, it hungers for all I can give. Every experience, taste and sound it wants to know. Every touch it wants to feel. A bottomless pit I cannot feed enough. It wears my skin. Knows no bounds as it reaches for you, eager to sample yet again another sweet drop of tumultuous heat, rousing from the deepest places in me to the sky.  Somehow to bear witness, to prove with nothing more than breath the sanctity of us. Satiation there will never be.

100 on Bliss

The salted sleep, the ocean waves, sand between my toes, safety, peace, the world revolving round, trees in the wind, all the simple things neglected or that which has been taken for granted. The heart fractured and now opening, healing, the stars in the sky, books, fingers entwined. The innocence returned with wisdom entwined. Songs, peals of laughter, dogs barking and a smattering pitter pattering of rain falling. Knowledge life’s enumerable pains all pass. It is not the big moments remembered, more the day to day grind forgotten in its simplicity and the growth of soul, now that is bliss.

Poetry in Motion

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Beauty in Motion

Books…

Those mystic things With timeless beings And worlds standing still They give my heart a thrill I walk through pages Of all the ages Battling countless foes And sharing in characters’ woes Whether digital, found on a Nook or Kindle  My how my battery does dwindle Or found on a self As if placed there by an elf With hard or paperback in hand I sit or I stand Until I have read I cannot go to bed They catch me with their hooks Those magic things I call books.

Wild Horses

Wild thing, heart unbroken, moving free across the miles The tundra your playhouse, the whispering grass and wind, your friends Traps set, now sprung. Magnificent beast fallen to your knees Ropes they strap upon your flesh Binding and herding every muscle’s movement. Centuries fly by, the taming has been done Loyal as an old dog Except when the human hand nears your skin The touch – electrified barbed wire – Brings with it the mix of fear and trust built up over years. And there, for a moment, beats the heart that still roams free. Almost visible to the naked Continue Reading →