Dreaming in the Color Blue.

I’ve been a bad girl, haven’t I?
not really though –
I’m afraid,
it’s all in your mind…
the come, the go –
made unmade,
just side-steps in time…
when did the bridge begin to smolder?
I didn’t know –
pre-occupied,
a cheek turned to the shoulder…
the highs, the lows –
de-mesmerized,
turn the cold season colder…
In which direction did the gallops go?
stampeding through –
heart is filleted,
opened seam, for you…
the yes, the no –
nocturnal dread,
dreaming in the color blue…
forbade be me by my own spirit?
a shame to know –
over-analyzed,
too loud for you to hear it…
the quick, the slow –
self-sold and bought lies,
to become truth because you fear it.

Dreaming in the Color Blue.

Accountancy

Accountancy

I’ve been a bad girl, haven’t I?
not really though –
I’m afraid,
it’s all in your mind…
the come, the go –
made unmade,
just side-steps in time…
when did the bridge begin to smolder?
I didn’t know –
pre-occupied,
a cheek turned to the shoulder…
the highs, the lows –
de-mesmerized,
turn the cold season colder…
In which direction did the gallops go?
stampeding through –
heart is filleted,
opened seam, for you…
the yes, the no –
nocturnal dread,
dreaming in the color blue…
forbade be me by my own spirit?
a shame to know –
over-analyzed,
too loud for you to hear it…
the quick, the slow –
self-sold and bought lies,
to become truth because you fear it.

Empathy.

My Great-Grandmother Tannuea (who is full-blooded Shawnee) is the legendary storyteller of my mother’s family, and has always told me stories and lore that were a macabre mix of her own personal and epically divine inclination towards the “Mysteries”, and the blood and guts and gore of the American Yankee Spirit. She always spoke of Great Spirits that took on the form of animals and men and women, fish and birds and trees and rivers…she is the eldest member of our family, who has told every child in her far-extended family the most cherished and sought out tales to be told. I have blood relatives through this woman whose faces adorn Totems in places I’ve never even heard of, much less visited. Grandma T has bore and bred true greatness in her lifetime, though she would NEVER stake claim to this TRUTH. She has also bore and bred sheer Hell during her years alive, but would not be caught dead in allowing such a thought in her mind. She has the whitest hair I’ve ever seen; she always has, since I can remember. She smiles, and I swear to the Gods it seems as if everything else just evaporated around her – she holds strong energy, even at age whatever she is – she is ANCIENT. She is my GREAT Grandmother!!! She has outlived several generations of her offspring, another heartbreaking truth that she neither leans on or against in times upset. She is just present. Always, ever present, in the moment – alive.

I can tell you that not a single one of her stories was lost on me; I was typically either terrified to the point of tremors, or was intrigued by a thought she had tickled deep down in my cerebral cortex during one of the wild sagas she had us entertaining . I always had the feeling that my brothers weren’t listening; they were hearing the words…just not listening to the messages.

She demands alone time often, always has; she can meditate for hours on end, quite happily.
Sometimes, I would happen upon her during her quiet times when she “rests her mind”; she would be silently sitting: the picture of posture, humming her tunes into the air – with ever-replenished tears streaming down the deep lines in her taught, leathery cheeks.
“Who would make Grandma Tannuea cry like that? And why?”
Humankind makes her cry; because it is a damn shame.

Tannuea hails from the Ohio Shawnee clan that Tecumseh lived amongst and led in the late 1800s; she can recall a childhood full of discomfort and prejudice thrown at her after her tribe’s forced assimilation with the Cherokee Nation in the 1870s; she grew up in its wake. She is a stickler about kindness; I have a funny feeling it is because she was never shown much of it throughout her lifetime. For the young Tannuea who endured her own ‘trail of tears’ as a result of being a native-born tribeswoman during the formation of the present day United States of America, a life of hardship was embedded deeply and without awareness. Still, this woman SURVIVED, still survives to date – to be a solidly founded boulder for others: many, many others.
Because of my Great-Grandmother’s support and guidance, I was able to deliver a very healthy baby girl (Boo, 7 lbs. 13 oz. /19.5 inches tall) in 1997, under extreme duress. Because of the same soft-spoken woman’s wisdom, I was able to find the inner-gladiator that it took to testify in court against the father of that beautiful baby girl for his attempt on my life in 2002. She showed me how to be strong when I didn’t feel strong; even still after all these years, her very presence in a room with me naturally humbles me beyond words.
A human being, who has never seen kindness in the first person, yet knows the intricacies of it as if she created its very essence.
THAT is empathy.

Boxcars on Fire.

The stars could not capture that flash from your soulful eyes;
The Gods could not have chiseled such perfection, if they tried;
The nights could not grow longer, without you at my side;
The desire could not get any stronger, by the time our lips collide.

The moon could not hang any lower than how close you need to come;
The sun could not shine any brighter than this thing we’ve gone and done;
The days could not be any better, unless you found them in my home;
The senses could not fire any faster; the bonds are set within my bones.

The clouds could not move anymore quickly by, over our heads;
The clothes could not look any better than they do under the bed;
The hand could not fit any more perfectly around my upper leg;
The Spirit could not be fooled or replaced by another one, instead.

The darkness could not have foreseen you strike a match-light;
The winds could not blow out the glowing embers through the night;
The storms could not come wash our dreams away during the daylight;
The promises could not be broken by the trivial wrong or right.

The memories could not be sold or bought for any price;
The tears could not be wiped away with sugar-coated lies;
The smiles could not be faked by either of us, no matter how we tried;
The grip could not feel any better as it tightens on either thigh.

The authors could not write a better Epic Tale than this;
The composers could not compose music better to my ear than his;
The horns could not trumpet a sound more profound than our kiss;
The girl could not believe that the boy finally turned up like this.

The years could not pass any faster between your heart and mine;
The blood could not bleed any richer than the color of My Valentine;
The skin could not feel any smoother, like the fruit pulled from a thistle vine;

The kisses could not be any sweeter, like candy every time.