The way the crescent moon cups in the center feels deep down in the hollow of my heart like this. Like yes for many days now I’ve been laid back in that very good place to hang out a while. Laid back swing– –that’s home, the east, the fall-changing leaves, the peeps and screeks in…
Tag: poetry
The things about Waves.
PT. 1 To swim at a spot where there’s a deep divot drop-off and lots of backwash from pounding shore break, this is what you do. Stand at the seem, the furthest place the water flows up on the sand. Get your ankles wet. If you’re not timid go up to your calves. Now…
New Moon: She takes up pen, again.
It’s been a million days of this I think, and as I write such words I see the gray slant of my ceiling in the morning, the days leading up to, but especially following, Aunt Mary’s death. Grief, which sits like a bone in the air. Its smooth, cold, calcium-yearning. Always there, blocking the place…
Friday, but not my town poem
Friday but not my town, a hawk flies & wings in the air make trilling sound imagined, as the screech above and outside my door puts the hair to raise up on my arms. I am thinking of you again, not for nothing but need for magic. And men. My mother, I finally told her…
Open Letter to Brooks Long, on the prophecy moon of summer fruit.
Catfish, I was sitting on the floor in my hobbit house, on two plush pillows that are hand-me-downs from the upstairs neighbor who moved out. I live in a hand-me-down house. I was sitting in the hand-me-down hobbit house on hand-me-down pillows on the floor, on a hand-me-down rug from the woman who lived…
In the summer you write in the morning.
What can I tell you that you don’t already know? The 101 in Ventura County in June smells strawberry sweet. There are paintings of seagulls on a wall in town, circling a convertible. My sister-in-law is 8 and a half months pregnant and I never got to hug her when her belly was big…
Looks, cast with wary
And here it is, moonlight again; we’ve bathed in the river and are sweet and wholesome once more. We kneel side-by-side in the sand; we worship each other in whispers. But the inner parts remember the fermenting hay, the comfortable odor of dung, the animal incense, and passion, its bloody labor its birth and rebirth…
Reverse racism, outsider language, defending feminism, Syrian poetry, and habits of the creative…
The five best things I found on the intraweb this week: Writer Olivia Cole’s response to whiney whites. Poetry by Adunis. An incredible article by Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah on the landscape of acceptable literacy in the US. Elle UK tries to rebrand feminism. Some inspiring hints from artists past.
Mad-eyed September Tribe
Something about September– There’s something about September, that’s what’s in my head, in my body, what my experience is saying to me. But wait Kel, it’s not September, it’s October, the second week in fact, so really that waft of sensual that grabs me from behind and muscles the back of my legs, that…
Union
At their union I am moved By the course of truth. What has brought me To be madrinha A Turkish man Lovely woman from Spain Her Lebanese born French Husband. Two Romanians In love. The solidarity Of this path. Union: The heart of this matter, To be one.
Wild Women Wisdom 