Poetry/Prose

The Friendship Game

Image courtesy: animecourtyard.com

Image courtesy: animecourtyard.com

Level one

I tell you a secret truth

Your inner judge stays asleep

We go to the next level 

Drilling down to deeper truth

Rising up to greater comfort

When the judge wakes up

Turns its blind eyes

Perks up its blocked ears

Swings its leaden tentacles

The game will end

Many people will play

And few people will capture the princess!

Bonus! Friendship game soundtrack:

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

The First Thing (Stream of Consciousness)

Houdini

Houdini

I guess I’m a good writer

Good enough to tell myself stories

 

So many tales

About who I am

Why I do what I do

How it all makes sense

 

After all

It’s all true, isn’t it?

 

But you see

Nobody knows

What you leave out

As a writer

 

A literal escapade

You can’t say it’s a lie

If you didn’t say it

At all

 

But you can

Outsmart yourself

To the point

Of being an idiot

 

These days

I’m tired of

Bored about

Joking around about

My life

 

So I’m tranquilizing a tiger

Sitting my animal down

Writing a memoire

 

And I don’t want to write

A pile of shit

That tries too hard

 

Just stuff

Really true stuff

That whispers to me

From just slightly left

Of ordinary

 

But I see, as I try this

It hurts

Like cutting yourself

 

To go that deep

You can’t pretend

You’re talking

About anyone else

But you

 

The more you denied

While it happened

The deeper it’s buried

The deeper the cut

 

And what comes up

It’s a poison, in reverse

Healing you

But burning you first

 

And you’re going to bottle it

Put a sticker on it

Something smooth, criminal

 

You’re going to

Sell it

Heal other people with it

 

You’re not making a profit

In the way that counts

 

You’ll never get back

What you lost

And they’ll never know

What it really costs

 

First you have to trip through life

In the dark

Fall

Look back, take a note

Continue

Until you have enough

To draw a map

 

And you can finally do it

But as you do

You have to go back

Feel it all again

Confirm the coordinates

 

This time

Holding your own hand

Forgiving yourself

 

Every time you say:

Holy gods

Why didn’t I see?

 

Every time you answer:

So that others could

 

Shadowland cartographer

 

All the impulses

Curling fingers

To the status quo

To the tea kettle

To the web browser

Far away

To another mind

 

Stir up that tiger

To dream of tall grass

Where it can hide

From itself

Live on meat, alone

 

Escape, escape, escape

I’m not Houdini

Or am I?

 

This map

That’s been drawing me

And wants me to see it

For the rest of my life

 

A writer

An authority

 

Until it comes time

To know the first thing

About myself

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Poetry/Prose

I Don’t Want Anymore

Image credit: Panoramio "a moment of perfect contentment"

Image credit: Panoramio “a moment of perfect contentment”

It’s just that …

What I always thought I wanted

Still wants me to want it

And I don’t

I just don’t anymore

 

One day

Sometime after I was born

I caught a glimpse of it

Started following it around

 

It took me to many places

Showed me stuff

What I was studying

Was something that never ends

 

But not in a poetic way

More like a dull, repeating way

Not even like waves

Because waves are interesting

 

No

Wanting is more like a factory line

Like a big hamster wheel

Based on past constructions

That strangle the future

Time’s ticking hand, stuck

 

It’s the fragmented offshoot

Of desire

A bug in a program

A cranky robot baby

 

Wanting

 

In that space

Where want was

I grip the moments

And they feel me up

 

Penetrate

So I know where I am

Not where I was

Not where I’m going

 

Where I am

Time moves

It’s a river

 

At nights, after nights

I do drive home alone

But I don’t flinch at the cars

Even the big ones

No matter what they do

Even when they nip my mirror

In this silly town

Anymore

 

Free from all this want

Free from all the weight

Of that silly, silly want

That still wants me to want it

 

You may ask:

What to do if not to want?

 

Pardon me if I offend your wants, but how about let’s just live to the max and see what happens?!

 

Because

I don’t want

I just don’t want anymore

 

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

Happy Endings

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Usually I need music to write

But I sit in silence tonight

Because something has been pulling me

Like thread

Finally, through the eye of a needle

Just noticed now

After 30-odd years

 

Like an eight year-old girl

Tugging on the hand of a woman almost 40

Tugging her through scenarios

She thought the gods wanted

Tugging and tugging

 

Year after year

And she thought she was older

Past all that

Just living like people do

With ups and downs

And downs and downs

And stories and fodder

For blogs and books

 

Tonight she discovered

This tugging child

Some weird flinch

In her hand

That words in a book

Drew her eyes finally

To look down

In one breathtaking moment

To see

That little fist

Strangling her fingers

 

Yes, tonight was the night

After a particular series of events

That seemed loving

Could have been more loving

Found me in the bathtub

Looking up from a book

Weaving words

Through my mind’s voice

Running films of the past

‘Or my mind’s eyes

 

Dumbfounded

Aware

The girl was right there

Always has been

Tugging at me

Only now

Looking at me

 

Like thousands of yesterdays ago

Playing out

That kermit the frog sweatshirt

Anemic face

Blue, penetrating eyes

Nerves like a rabbit

Distracted, wild

Lost, somehow

Yet stunningly lucid

 

Her hunger for love palpable

Her attention

A warm breeze of empathy

With survival-grade hooks

Save me

She could have said

 

Instead, she smiled

Looking down at an angle

Nowhere

 

Her fist squeezing tighter

Around my hand

 

I wiped my eyes

Collected myself

Asked her some questions

Began to weep some more

 

Oh, you only have two pairs of pants?

She looked down regretting her penchant for truth

 

Who are your friends here?

Well why don’t they talk to you?

What do your parents do?

Oh.

 

All I want to do is adopt her

Tell her I have nice clothes for her

That we can talk every day

When she gets home from school

 

I will make her snacks

She doesn’t have to wait until dinner

Fight over fish sticks

Tuck her importance deeper

Every night

Into her pajama pockets

 

Everybody did their best

It’s not about them, anymore

It’s about us

Now it’s our turn

 

Lucky for her

She has no choice

And neither do I

 

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

All Together Now

472424a-f1.2If there was a checkbox for me, to choose, I would tick undefined. But somehow in this world we must define ourselves. What on Earth kind of paradox is this? How do you define a human being?

Tags, IDs, social security numbers … sounds tidy, as per the usual epic fail.

How then? Writer, lawyer, teacher, occupational therapist, plastic surgeon, engineer, scientist, tour guide, relief worker, programmer, dentist, DJ, circus performer. Really? Is that really who you are? What about yogi? Honestly, it’s time we all got a life.

Yes, I spend time practicing yoga and teaching it–learning just as much each time I do.

What I’m trying to get at here actually, as I sidewind my way into the point, is that just because I do this, doesn’t mean that a lot of other things people glue to these termed-yoga activities are true. Same with any title–they’re all about as misleading and temporarily reassuring as a Klondike at 2 a.m. when you’re trying to lose a few pounds.

So many people look at me as someone who has some answers. Someone who can help them. And to a degree I can, but only to the point that guides and demonstrates how they can help themselves. Because it is through these practices that we “yogis” do just that, for ourselves.

Specifically, we bend, stretch, open and, basically, tenderize ourselves. We aim to explore ourselves and interact with the world from a more raw yet deeply faithful place. It’s like moving into high def about life, yet developing, through, shitloads of practice every day, more wherewithal and strength to detach and realize it’s just a TV and all of these melodramas are inevitable programs.

The challenge is that, with this perspective, we have to get real grounded into the role we play in whatever series we find ourselves. It’s not an escape. There is no escape from what we were born to do.

This, in a very crude nutshell, and in my humble opinion, is the pursuit of someone practicing yoga in a deeper capacity.

And yet!

Expectation hangs in the air–that I have it all together. I get it from guys I date, friends who are just getting to know me, people who just discovered my classes. I’m the lady who has it together and will teach people how to have it together. It’s really interesting. I bet a lot of people, in other healthcare professions, know exactly what I am talking about, too.

This month I hit a new personal record on things I thought I could accomplish. I will spare you. Just imagine James Bond is a woman and she’s in Doha and it was so intense that it could only be handled moment by moment, with the big picture in mind. My gears all but burned out … and my composure let in some light through a few cracks toward the end of it all.

Last night I realized–over a glass of wine at a party–that I don’t feel home anywhere and at times totally rely on the logic and reason of people I have grown, over years, to trust to tether me to the closest idea of home a person can ever truly have–human connection.

Yes, I am a practitioner of yoga. But this month really waved it in my face that this life is not at all about having it all together.

Newsflash: you only think you do–stop thinking that for just a second … before life forces you to do it … to see something important.

This gig gets really good when get a sense of when to be strong and when to be vulnerable. When to take care of ourselves and when to surrender to the love around us, the help of friends.

When to get it together. And when to get it all together.

I looked into quite a few eyes over the past week and was utterly rocked by all of the comfort, understanding, deep perception I saw. The few words spoken in passing to help me along.

The grace and elegance that people demonstrate when they reach out to help you is one of the most incredible displays of magic and beauty I know. I drove through the city–sensing the pulsing clubs and house parties at full throttle yet enjoying the quiet roads–totally baffled by hindsight reflection on the loving tentacles of spirit that reached out to grab me lately, despite my dire need to be a strong, yogi, leader type.

So many people smiled and said: relax, relax, relax … like the cheer lines along a marathon.

We are so much alike. The differences so slight, only made bigger when we think and believe we have it together and always will. Ha! Well, honey, you will see it all for what it is when you don’t. When you’re truly tied to everyone you’ve tended to loving, or the people in the institution paid to love you.

For life, it seems, is designed to teach you what it really means to have it all together.

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Poetry/Prose, Yoga & Spiritual

See

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There is a sadness in true love. A sadness I have come to depend on, inspired by separation. The closer we get, the more we realize we are somehow apart, and yet we strive all our lives to overcome this.

The meantimes, the space, fills with sadness and longing. Why are these feelings like bastard children? To me, they are at the table, feasting on my adoration and, in turn, feeding my dreams, my art, my imagination with all of their truths. Sadness reminds me we are born into duality. Longing reminds me have the capacity to see beyond this–into spirit–through the eyes of the soul.

Our unity.

We grasp for each other. But there aren’t enough kisses. There aren’t enough words. There aren’t enough tender touches. Silent moments. Shared breaths. There aren’t enough poems or paintings; songs, plays or films. There never will be. There never should be.

Look into my eyes. Stay. See. Now. Only now. There is enough of everything.

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I want so badly to tell you

With your mustard stains

Awkward eyes

Bootstrapped breath

It’s okay

It never wasn’t

Unmatched socks

And the more you try to hide it

The more everyone sees

Did you hear me now?

Sidewalk tripper

It’s okay

Somewhere inside you know

Disheveled

Inside

Nonsensical

What you know

What you don’t

What you wish for

What you can’t have

You can drink

You can smoke

You can lie

You can cheat

You can run in circles

Jump Jacks and Jills

But you don’t fool me

You don’t

You know

It’s okay

One day

You will

Lonely groupie

One life

You will

Watch checker

Let life

Take off your clothes

Save you from shame

Kiss your chest

Wrap its arms around your waste

Run its hands down your sides

And slap your ass

Awake

One day

You’ll know

You know

 

 

 

 

Poetry/Prose

The Ticket

Image

 

Milk and honey drip

Like constant rain

From invisible breasts

Clouds of compassion

Unfathomable mother

Embracing blue sky

 

Breath

Like a thumb

Pressing softly

Between a cat’s eyes

Moving

Up and down,

Up and down

Your whole life

 

The music of our minds

Blends and finds discord

But always wants to marry

Unrequited compositions

Satisfying duets

Sacred, confident pauses

Silent meeting points

Intense recognition

 

Why fear anything?

When the sky offers its hands

Invites every concern

For safe keeping

Automatic shuffling

 

The wheel of time

More like a filmstrip

Rewind, fast forward

There you stand

In the projection room

 

Laugh when you can

Cry when you need to

You are only ever talking to yourself

Making movies

Cradled gently

Loved completely

 

Don’t you see?

Your ticket was free.

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Poetry/Prose

What if We’re All Adopted?

What if I’m like the most people in the world who was raised in a broken home or broken country or broken economical system or broken broke festival?

What if not being raised in a broken home was a handicap that caused one to live in a delusional state, expecting everything to be within a relatively rigid set of norms their whole life long?

What if when you got older, you stopped calling the humans who gave you their sperm and egg DNA, love and attention (no matter if they were coddling, attentive, overbearing or sending you to a baby sitter, drunk or self-absorbed … whatever they gave you) parents?

What if you started calling them Mary and Jack, or Peggy and Martin, or, in my case, Alesia and Gregory?

What if the words parental figures meant those who supported everyone, constantly?

What if you had an epiphany that the Earth and Sun are actually your parents?

What if you suddenly realized yourself as an adult and Alesia and Gregory became people instead of what your unconscious was programmed to think of them as: gods?

What if Alesia faced overwhelming odds against the development of her self esteem to create a colorful life for herself, even if she couldn’t be there as a mother in many ways?

What if Gregory came from an academic home, wherein his father was a renowned and well-loved professor on campus but a cruel and ruthless grouch to those closest to him, behind closed doors?

What if Gregory raised his kids mostly by himself and sometimes had an Irish temper but really, over the long-run, did an amazing job?

What if all the ways that Alesia and Gregory disappointed their kids was a story that could be dropped when the kids became adults? Even the most disappointing things?

What if the kids decided to hold on to the stories forever and expect these people to be more than people, in fact, to be like gods so that they could worship deranged stories based in the past and never come fully into the present or envision a future they could create?

What if you thought of everything/everyone you eat, wear, walk around on and in, look through, watch, listen to, soak in, bump into, lie down on, make love to, sing into, drink, breath, type on, kiss, pet, touch, see and smell as a gift made by the Earth and the Sun.

What if you are old enough to see that you write the story of how life is?

What if life is asking you to be its co-author?

What if you decided that the story you started to write was too much like that of people like Alesia and Gregory or Sarah and Jeff or …?

Wouldn’t that be plagiarism, anyway?

What if you wanted to write a different story?

What if you wanted it to be a damn good story?

Like a Pulitzer?

What if those people who gave you your genes and tended to you while you grew were also children of the Sun and the Earth?

What if we did a super-conscious dance with them whereby, over the years, we turned with the table, became chummy and then assumed the role as their caretakers?

What if humans found a million lines of conversation unspoken in nibbles on raw spinach … the unscripted cacophony of birdsongs … the foam and tiny crab dens left just moments after the retreat of a broken wave … the movement of clouds that almost makes us a bit dizzy as we relax into the grassy earth under our backs … ?

What if the Earth and the Sun produced the perfect food for us?

What if we didn’t need to refine, fix, package, market the perfect symbiosis we enjoy?

What if we did it anyway and the sense of separation made us instead feel like we had no parents at all?

What if this symbiosis surpasses any form of true love?

What if this is a necessary prerequisite for the luxury of thinking hours on end about what true love is?

What if us making it this far, with intelligence in tact, was against amazing odds?

What if just our zygote form was millions of times less likely to happen than a baby sea turtle making its way through trappings in the dark to the sea and growing three decades old through constant threat of predation?

What if you realized that the Sun and the Earth would never judge you, or anyone?

What if you recalled every time in your life where you felt alone and realized that they could never leave you … and you could never leave them … that you are inseparable? That we are all of the same parents, in the end?

What if we’re all just adopted?

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