100 on Voice

It starts in a rush, the low thrum of vocal reconnaissance. It carries along the skin, stands the hairs on end. Such a simple thing, this rumble of words. They reverberate deep in your chest, catch in your throat. Live in my ears. All the things you have to say fumbling over me in tidal waves. Trapped and wrapped in vulnerability, this sound penetrates all defenses. It’s welcomed to the core. Changing integral parts of me, these spider fingers of filigree wander old corridors, tickle bones, wrestle muscles and sinew to life. Everything sings because your voice rains down gold. 

100 on Burnt

Burnt. It was how I made my eggs – which always left me thinking of you. When did I tire of the highborn drama, the ranting and raving? Was that just yesterday? You left me carcinogenic with a rotted out core. Used up and adrift far from the shore. Burnt like my toast, unable to be salvaged with a scrape of the knife. Soul hungry and weary with nothing left to give. And yet there is a spark, a space that cannot be touched, a place where burns cannot leave a mark. Here where I stand, on the opposite shore.

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 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 Writing

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It comes in waves, the good, bad and ugly. It sits in my soul, scratching to get to a page. It is my nemesis, my beloved, my best friend. Word upon word, building, crashing, digging deeper into the shadows where others live. Schizophrenia? Maybe. Lurking below the surface of a rational mind is a Dr. Suess inspired ride. Voices of pasts, of futures yet to live. Waiting. Waiting to dance across the stage, speak whatever words fall from frozen mouths to ink dipped quills that tap, tappity tap, tap, tap tap, in keyed up rhythms on letters fingers dance upon.

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