Wild Woman Makes Herself a Garden

not-quite Journaling, 9

scabiosa—
yum for butterflies,
bees and me

3/22/2021: The first hint of color in my garden. I hope they’ll be fully bloomed by the time things get warm enough for butterflies, bees, ladybugs, and other pollinators.

 

Hoping
the found
corpse I planted
last year sprouts pretty
tulips.

3/25/2021: The mystery bulb I found in someone else’s trash, last autumn, has grown 3 inches. It could be a daffodil, a hyacinth or something else… But I am sooo hoping for a tulip. Also, it’s possible that my favorite bit of The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot: “Stetson! / You were with me in the ships at Mylae! /The corpse you planted last year in your garden, / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?” has been playing in my head nonstop. I blame it on the approach of April, which we all know is “the cruellest month”. 😁🌷

 

truth is a wonder-
full and terrific puzzle
to self-decipher

3/27/2021: Someone I know (perhaps, a relative *cough*) told me that they were afraid to explore the whys behind the fact that they always reach for their purse, when a Black person sits next to them on the train. I was feeling uncommonly nice and didn’t point out that the phrase “racist in denial” came to mind. But later that day, the same person suggested that their behavior must’ve been triggered by something a Black person did to them in the past and that “God helped [them] forget the pain.” The blatant stupidity of the comment cured me of my niceness rather quickly. So, I sent them this poem and asked them to explore the evils of internalized racism and convenient self-deception.

 

more garden photos

3/26/2021: They say, “Nothing can fill hollows the world grew out of loss and misery.” And I laugh (ok, cackle), and they think me mad, (and I probably am—I mean, what else could explain all these commas?)—still, I stick thought and fingers and toes in dirt they’ve tried to disdain, and I say, “Poor thing, you have never felt the power of wild and woman: a Wild Woman makes herself a garden. She fills her-Self, and she shares. Want some?”


 - for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #63: I Say and You Say…).

Dancing… in Ink

The COVID-19 pandemic has stolen a lot from people. It has taken loved ones, work, health, sleep, easy smiles, peace of mind… It has left millions of souls feeling out of sorts. Illness—especially at this scale—affects everything we do and how we do it.

I have noticed that a lot of my friends have become withdrawn. Some of the online ones have practically vanished. I’ve reached out… Some of them have taken a rather long time to reply or haven’t responded. The ones I have been able to engage tell me that they are feeling tired and disheartened, “uninspired by all this loss and disease.”

I took a moment to gather my thoughts… to shape them into something that would not sound like preaching (no one likes or listens to a preachy know-it-all), then I said to a beloved friend, “Disease can be thief or muse; the choice is always yours.”

After I mentally smacked myself for completely failing at not sounding like a preachy know-it-all, I went ahead and stitched the following blackout poem:

I dream and dance
in ink.

I almost wrote “and so can you” at the end of the blackout, but one (and by “one” I mean “me”) can only take this kind of preachiness so far before getting kicked or blocked.

- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #63: Shut Up and Dance with Me).

What Winter Takes Spring Returns

not-quite Journaling, 8

on the bluest sky,
naked limbs weave a poem
to unchill winter

3/7/2021: It is fairly cold outside (just a few degrees above freezing), but the sky is so bright that looking at it conjures warmth that kisses the skin and caresses the bones. All of me yearns for spring, but I’m still pleased with the beauty winter offers. Today, I hope you are healthy, safe, and finding at least one reason to smile and spread the warmth.

 

 Change is a storm of screams
need can turn into music.

3/14/2021: I found this poem bit in one of the 39+5 (because even numbers are so uncool) not-quite-empty journals unburied by my spring-is-coming cleaning. No, I shall not explain why I have 39+5 not-quite-empty journals (and still want to get more and more) because “The first rule of Journal Addicts Club is: you don’t talk about Journal Addicts Club.” Really. Anyhoo, I feel this stitched poem fits my current situation—life is throwing more changes my way, and I must remind myself to make the best of it—and if feels good to share the thought. So, how do you react to change? And how many not-quite-empty journals/notepads do you have at the moment.

 

The slaughter’d will not survive
on tears, tribute, or revenge.
But the living can
be saved by justice.

3/18/2021: I read a post where someone said “The murder of 8 Asians is no hate crime just a tragedy. They are in my prayers. They won’t be forgotten.” I couldn’t join that conversation (at least not without screaming enough profanity to get my account suspended). So, I decided to share this blackout poem instead, hoping that it might start an exchange between critical thinkers who haven’t completely lost their freaking minds.

 

3/19/2021: Spring is coming… My plants and I are bursting with excitement! 🥰🌺

 

After
winter takes
blooms and leaves,
spring comes and gives
more.

3/20/2021: There is something about the first day of spring that makes me smile like a lunatic in love (with growing things). Happiest Spring Equinox, my Luvs. Let us grow!

 
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #62: Of Spring and Poetry).

Monsters in Love

It scratched its way out the chambers of my heart, whispering, “Close your eyes, my sweet, this night is my gift.” I didn’t always know it, then I felt it, crouched inside me, waiting to jump, drunk on thoughts of pleasure and destruction. I didn’t suspect that it watched me constantly, touching parts of me I knew not, speaking to my blood, telling my flesh, “It is the only way, to demonstrate love is to make it—with soul, with teeth, with tongue. Open your body. I am meant to be free, not a slave to what you think you know of me. Let me breathe. I can’t make you feel good, if you aren’t ready for bad. What do you say?”

love can be
a monster, or not—
be prudent

- this is a collaboration inspired by my stitched blackout, “Love can be a monster, or not” and the contributions listed below. Thank you, everyone. If you do not see your name/comment, and you contributed when I asked, worry not… this is the first of 3. Also, I tweaked (genders, tenses) and/or mixed similar ideas, in order to make them fit.

 Anna - “Ah” he breathes “this night is my gift to you”

@an_urban_elf - Listen to what I say unto you: the only way to demonstrate love is to make it.

@mariemoth - “I didn’t know it and one day I discovered it in a corner of my heart. Crouched. Waiting to jump to destroy me…”

@microgirl3 - He watched her constantly.

Rosemary - “Close your eyes,” he whispers.

@s.haina.writes - And scratch its way out the chambers of your heart

@travcollins_ - Love is free but I have become a slave to you and I can not breathe.

 
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #60: Troubled Relationships).

Love Understands

not-quite Journaling, 7

Were I snow, I would fall on you
gently—caressing, coating…
warming winter-kissed limbs
until spring blossoms.

2/18/21: A video of the snow falling, here.

 

when your fingers play
silent concerts on my spine,
my hips sing shivers

2/20/21: Written on upcycled tea bag paper during one of my forever reviled no coffee years, after one of my Piano Man’s yummy back rubs. They do say that pianists can do magic with their fingers. It seems they can inspire poetry, too.

 

Love understands
wild, weird, and me.

2/20/21: If I had the chance to craft this poem bit anew, I would probably include the word “My” to the beginning of the piece. “My love understands / wild, weird, and me” sounds more personal. The “My” also adds duality to the poem’s meaning, leaving the reader to decide if the speaker is referring to how they love someone or how someone loves them. Language is magic, isn’t it?

 

2/27/21: “Crafting Memories”, because the end of February tends to be a difficult time for me. The 28^th the is anniversary of my little brother’s death, so my heart is heavy—8 years feel like no time at all when it comes to loss. I miss him (and my heart hurts) like if the accident that claimed his life had just happened.

 

exhausted,
amaryllis blooms
a red yawn

3/3/2021: Also, she looks like Audrey II... with more interesting teeth.

 

Some days I am grateful
for all things, most days
just for you.

 3/5/2021: The world is full of people and circumstances terrible enough to make most of us wonder, what’s the point? Then we are touched (in a totally non-creepy way *cough*) by individuals so incredibly wonderful that we can’t believe we ever even considered the “what’s the point” question. Today, take a moment to tell someone just how glad you are to have them in your life—I, for instance, am both happy and grateful to have you to share my ink and thoughts and feels… (especially these last couple of weeks, when the anniversary of my little brother’s death hit me harder than I ever thought possible). So, thank you.

- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #60: What Got You Started?).