Friday, July 29, 2011

Year Two



The time between Year One and Year Two seems to have passed so quickly. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been as present on Dreams, these past few months? For that matter, I really haven’t been present in Blogland, period. How life changes! And how our priorities change with it!

Since my Year One post, I’ve left teaching and gone back to finish the last leg of my journey with my own education. To say that graduate school is eating up my time is to be making an understatement. And to think that when I’m finished with my Ph.D. I’ll be finished with education forever is to be kidding myself. I’ve come to the realization (as if I never knew!) that the field I’ve chosen requires me to be the eternal student, even beyond the Ph.D. But I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not. I’m drowning in clinical mental health and I love every breathless, gasping moment!

Yet, in the process, my blogging time has been cut down to . . . what . . . ? maybe a third of what it used to be? In all honesty, though, I can’t blame this entirely on school. Real life is right here, after all, begging to be loved—and lived—in all of her glory, and with full engagement. And I can't deny her.

Dreams is a quieter space now than it has been in a while. Having tried both the clamor and the quiet, I have to say I like the quiet a lot better. It’s simpler, more honest, and more me. And though I have been a terribly sporadic blogging friend these past few months, some of you continue to swing by Dreams, ever so graciously. What can I say to your kind, dedicated, and much appreciated presence, except . . . Thank you!

Here’s to another year!


* * * NOTE: I’m off to my summer vacation in a couple of days. Woohoo!!! I’ll see you all when I return. Take care. :-)

Sunday, July 17, 2011

an angel returns

Veiled Glory by Dan Addington


This is a follow-up to my most recently posted prose poem, waiting for angels.


* * * * * * * * *

another night passes. another day breaks. seeking angels, we walk.

she walks with us. she has always been one of us. but she has always been a rebel.

at dusk, she leaves us, seeking her own angel. she walks alone. she rests beneath a tree.

she sees them as they circle the sky. they observe her from a distance with knowing eyes. they go.

but one returns in the secret folds of night.

to him, she says:

come now, beloved. we are alone. i am beautiful in my painted silk. i loosen the knot that hides me from you. i let down my lovely hair.

shed your wings. rest them beneath this tree. and show me your hidden arms. lie down, beloved. lie down, right here. your right leg raised at an angle. your head resting on your shoulder. your lips slightly parted. your fingers penetrating the earth.

do this for me, beloved: close your eyes and imagine a silver flurry of stardust falling from the heavens upon you, upon us.

i am your sky. i am your sea. i am what is reflected in the mirror of your eyes. i am the silhouette of trees against the blueness of this moon.

i let my hair
fall
into your face.

i am the unfurling of heat in your flesh. i am the taste of apples in your mouth.

your eyes are as black as the sea at night. you want this to be quick. i won’t let you move.

i listen to the silent clamor of your nakedness. upon my lips your breath is mist. against my breasts your lips move, speaking in secret tongues.

do not be afraid. i know how fast your heart is beating. touch this body with your pulsing fingers and beg them to remember this moment, when you craved the warmth of human touch, and received your wish.

this body is your garden, beloved. fill it with your seed.

against my sex, your sex is another angel. a dark angel who bends down with black wings, digs beneath the earth’s surface, then flutters back up.

how you humble yourself before me with tender pleas and ardent worships! together, how we chant, how we sing, how we scream!

i am the taste of apples in your mouth. i am the vessel of your seed.

and i am lust. and i am dust.

and i am your confusion.

and i am your fall.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

waiting for angels

Art by Steven DaLuz


we walk in night. wrapped in darkness. we seek a place to sit. to stay. to wait.

we rest. hurling words at one another as if they were rocks. flinging them high. waiting to hear them hit. and bounce. and still.

in stillness. the sound of water. brackish. gushing beneath the roots of trees.

we hear it so clearly. the sound.

we hear them. we see them. rocks. their lifeless elegance. their earthy splendor.

we reach out our hands with struggle. with hunger. with greed.

the rocks cut our flesh. splinter our bones. our hands glimmer with blood. we raise them to our faces in terror. now, our faces are bloody, too.

we gasp at the horror of being exposed.

we take shelter in a tree with limbs praying to a bountiless sky, frozen in mid-incantation. we scale the sky with weary eyes.

we see him. an apparition? he stabs with his actuality.

he circles. he curves. he descends. he sheds his wings. lays them on the ground.

he glances at us. brief eyes and ethereal lashes.

he curls into himself beneath the tree. he catches the rain as it drips from the leaves.

we sit. we wait. expectantly.

in the morning. we will still be waiting.

he will uncurl himself. he will brush off the rain. he will mount his wings upon his back.

and he will rise. slowly.

and we will be left. waiting.

for him. or for another angel. to come. and shed his wings. and leave us waiting while he sleeps.