(moving pictures) postcard from chicago (august 9, 2009)

{front}

{back}

breathe in
breathe out

postcard from chicago (august 8, 2009)

(front)
Windows tiled for miles seen through sunbeamed air you could ring out over the sink.

(back)
unexpected missing
(heart open)
wishing
i knew how
(to tell you)

i just keep going.

postcard from michigan (august 6, 2009)

{front}

{back}

you can look behind you

and own what you see

(all of it)

especially when you find your own reflection

postcard from michigan (august 4, 2009)

{front}
a stack of dusty, tattered-edged rescued postcards wrapped with string that encases whispered missings of long ago...

{back}
a moment to breathe in the quiet
a decision to dance in your life
a belief in you
a bouquet of hope
a smile reflected
a heart open to the world

this is what i wish for you.

postcard from michigan (august 3, 2009)

(front)
Sunshine orange happy susans perfect mountain pose amidst droplets of drink.

(back)
avenue
just
town
quiet
why
hamlet

on the board they went until we ran out of letters and his usual eeyore luck changed as he placed the "x" spelling "ox".

postcard from michigan (august 2, 2009)

(front)
Brown hair in two braids, head tipped back, you can almost hear the laughter as the little girl finds glee standing ankle deep in the midst of the colors and noise and bodies at the beach.

(back)
The rhythm of his breath
The wind winds through oaks
Car whips past, now two
Fan turns turns turns
My foot slips through blue sheets
A voice outside, now two
He turns away from the light
Quiet...
Finding me now
Inhale
Exhale
The rhythm of this life

postcard from michigan (august 1, 2009)

(front)

Sliver of bright burning fuschia sneaks through grey plus white puffy, thick pillows as the lake tosses and trips below.

(back)

The wind pushed through me today as I stood atop the bluff. Pushed and threw me as I watched the gulls float instead of fly even though they pushed to move through; the wind pushed back as they soared in one place. Like me with feet planted, no grounded as I soar with each push and pull, as I float while grounded.

postcard from indiana (july 31, 2009)

{front}

sunbeams dancing through summer-heavy oak leaves dripping from reaching branches

{back}

they say you can never go home

again

but in this moment,

i believe,

you can find yourself

relaxing inside comfort and laughter

and breathing in the unexpected moments

of being the you

you never thought you might be

in this home.

brave. know. love.

breathing in . alki beach self-portrait

i am the tumbled dusty pink scallop shell

i am the whispering knee-high indiana fields

know, a new soul mantra in the shop

i am the tucked inside your pocket talisman

i am the moment she said yes

i am the sunset-streaked wave

this is me . alki beach . photo by jon

i am resting inside truth

i am walking through laughter

i am twirling inside what my heart knows

i am . brave, a new soul mantra in the shop

i am brave

i am hope

i am love

love, a new soul mantra in the shop

*****

these phrases are whispering, no, singing inside my heart on this day.

i am hope. i am brave. i am twirling inside what i know. i am love. i am...

in this moment...who are you?

i'd love to know...

i am

frontyard, looking up . march 9, 2009

breath
space
holding on
heart
cracking open
seeking
beauty
twirling
thought
endless
hope
grasping
truth

Sunday Morning at the Pacific Way Bakery

That was before Uncle Henry came back from the war.
It was?
Yes. Remember, we took the trip across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. All of us…six of us in Dad's Buick.

The first one.
A few years ago? Ocean's Eleven? We saw that one.
No. The one with Frank Sinatra. Frank. He knew how to do it. Those young kids just…

Sit here.
Noooo. I want Mommy to sit here.
But I want to sit next to you.
You do?
(furious nodding)
Oh.

A pause. Quiet envelopes the room. Everyone taking a bite, a sip, a breath.
A couple reads the paper at the circular table in the midst of everything. He in his gray windbreaker; she in her bright yellow slicker. He turns the page with a snap, and it begins again.

Have you been across the new bridge?
Why do they remake the good ones?
Can you believe they are getting along this morning?

Sitting in the corner with my chocolate croissant and vanilla soy latte, I soak it in. The little four year old in me, with the big brown eyes, pulling it all toward me.

When the rain stops, we grab my coffee, his tea and walk outside as the steam lifts the sea and the crocuses and the daffodils and the pavement toward me. I suddenly hear myself, It smells like Spring in South Carolina.

And it does
And you are here
I breathe deeply knowing it has happened again
The eve of Spring whispers her song
Returning you to me

i see her.

i see her.

i see her grounded in her body as she moves across the floor, across the room, with arms twirling above her head. and her hips. those hips that shift and turn and twist to the beat of the song in the air. they twist and turn and she moves. how she moves to the music that seems to be part of her. it is as though she is directly connected to the boom ba boom of the beat of the sound in the air. she is directly connected to the soul of the singer and the rhythm as she moves and twists and twirls. her long hair becomes another extension of the body as her hips circle and her knees bend and her toes point and her arms that once belonged to a ballerina remember what it feels like to stretch as though they reach for the very moment when she first put on the ballet shoes and smiled that four-year-old girl's smile of glee.

i see her and marvel at how she lets go of the need to wonder what others are thinking or how she must look as her size sixteen body sinks inside the boom ba boom. she lets go of what others are thinking as she stretches her arms to either side and finds the rhythm with her fingertips and wrists as her hips rotate and her knees bend and her feet move quickly with purpose. her feet move with a purpose that wraps the entire room in a circle that vibrates with joy.

i see her and marvel.

i see her reflection as she twists and stretches and seems grounded in her body.

i see her and i see me.

i see me.

and i dance on.

wednesday night poem notes...

photo collaboration with miss geek inc, week 9
click to see larger

circling, shifting, begging
seeking heat
yearning to be touched and twirled and taken
my face tips up
the sun warms my eyelids

yes

*****

in this spot, i used to share poetry on thursdays...i miss it sometimes (well, a lot of the time actually), so it made me smile when LK let me know that she is hosting a day of sharing words today. i am taking part in the fun just in time. to visit other participants, head over to LK's.

and, i also invite you to spend some time with the poetry of li-young lee. his poetry speaks to my core. you can read several of his poems here. ("persimmons" took my breath away one day in 2006. you should read it. right now.)

have any poets wandered into your world lately?

live it baby girl

in jen's kitchen, 11.9.08

sometimes you have that moment...
someone holds up a mirror
and you see you
with an open heart
you see yourself
with your heart wide open
and you own it
you
you own it
who you are
who you want to be
the path behind you
and the possibility
that simply sits before you
(it. is. there.)

this
this is a gift

see it

and live

postcard from indiana (8.1.08)

{front}
an ant's eye-level view of endless timer-sprinkled green suburban grass.


{back}

(often)
being quiet
being still
being present
and breathing
is the only answer.

postcard from lake michigan (7.29.08)

{front}
light blue with white wisps fading into pale blue fading into white fading into gray fading into sparkling, bright rippling indigo.

{back}

if you were here, we would record the sound of the waves curving, pulling, swishing, climbing, pushing, tumbling. we would record the sound of the waves so that whenever we were apart, we could each listen to the curves and the pulls and the pushing forward, forward, forward and remember.

(can you hear them?)
(do you remember?)

postcard from indiana (7.26.08)

{front}

humidty-soaked towering oak trees awash in early-morning soft, blurry light serving as a perch for chirping cardinals and one insistent blue jay.

{back}

i feel the space around my heart grow
inhale
exhale
let go of
the need to know
hold on
to quiet truth

postcard from colorado (7.6.08)

{front}



{back}

remember when they have to figure out how to fit something square in something round to make a filter to fix the need for oxygen in apollo 13?
it's kinda like that.

postcard from colorado (7.5.08)

{front}

{back}

scuffed dusty thirst
twirling singing wind
water-fed growing green
quiet wide history
lumpy twisting path
squeaking unseen hunger
constant still beliefs

postcard from colorado (7.4.08)

{front}

{back}

she whispers in the green and the wind and the rippling, tinkling water. she whispers to remind me of her true voice.

she whispers in the background of the words spoken by another. she whispers to help me see that all is at it should be.

she whispers in the whirring as the pedal is pushed to the floor and the fabric moves with each stitch. she whispers to remind me who i am.

she whispers as i look out at the purple, full, encompassing clouds above the mountains. she whispers to help me see who i want to be.