Skyclad

Don’t look into the light at midday,
they’ve said it is poisoned with sun. 

Don’t smell the scent of the night,
they’ve said it rots with the moon.

Don’t touch your flesh to fresh rain,
they’ve said clouds coat skin in bile.

Don’t listen to the chant in the wind,
they’ve said it’s swarming with wails.

Don’t look, don’t smell, don’t touch, don’t listen,
don’t be, witch child. They’ve said—

“Shhh, dear heart,
I will sleep skyclad tonight:
flesh and bones serene
on Green Mother’s soil,
soul cloaked
in the ever-watching eye of my dead,
will powered
by the love of my living.

I shall kiss the morning
with sun-cackles
on my lips.”

But they’ve said—

“Shhh, dear heart,
let them say what they’ve been told to say
is real, the fear-ridden know little
of choice.”

 

Full Moon, by SwartzBrothersArt

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #57: Repeating Oneself, where Rosemary invites us to use repetition.

Of Succulents and Pain

not-quite Journaling, 47

in autumn,
my frizzle sizzle
twists and curls

11/23/2022: I can’t stop whispering “my frizzle sizzle / twists and curls” and cackling. I’m waiting to see my oncologist, some people in the waiting room are giving me funny looks. So I, of course, add a little shoulder dance to “my frizzle sizzle / twists and curls” chant, and cackle a bit louder.  Try it. It’s fun. And if you get funny looks, cackle louder and be merry!

 

Storytelling is the storm that calms
my spirit.

11/28/2022: My OCD therapist and I have been working our way towards Exposure and Response Prevention therapy. We’re taking it slowly—since the last time I went right into it (with a different therapist), my anxiety and nightmares and such… got so bad that I could barely function. We’re doing seemingly small things: not listening to audiobooks 24/7, not ending all my alarms with 13 or 31, not stirring my coffee 13 x 3… It’s not the most comfortable of experiences, but I’m doing it (without screaming or hitting something) and that’s a win. Also, when things get really bad, I can pull myself out of the abyss by writing stories.    

 

11/30/2022: Every now and again, poetry is a tree which grows fire for leaves… while refusing to get naked for autumn’s pleasure. Yep, every tree around this beauty has given in to autumn’s desire for bare limbs, but not this one; its stubbornness blooms warm smiles out of my soul—a good thing on a rainy, chilly day.

 

I will be

a succulent
leaf--

patient, keeping
in mind healing and growing
dance with time.

12/7/2022: I’ve been on physical therapy for my left and right shoulders for a looooooooooooong time. I tell myself that torn flesh can take months (even years) to mend. And that often does the trick. But when the pain is relentless, when things throb and THROB… it’s much harder to remain patient. Lately, I’ve been trying to do like a succulent, letting time and TLC do their thing… Now, if only this f*cking pain would let me get a full night sleep (or, mayhap, grow some new leaves ).

 

When I remember ‘comfortable’,
I sigh.

- Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #56: Cozy.