One Place to Start Loving Myself
Today it will be the top of my calf.
It’s a good place to start.
A place to start loving myself.
You’re not so bad, top of calf
You have an elegant curve.
You haven’t been sore today.
You let me jump a few inches off the ground in cardio
With you on my side,
I might not be so bad
So unappealing
So doomed…
It’s a start.
A Mother’s Day
Honesty politely asks I remind you
How often we fought over absolutely nothing.
How I held the needle that brought you pain,
But also made you laugh in the face of the Reaper
Who sat politely by the bedside, waiting.
Love was the undercurrent under our arguments.
We did not live in flowers, we did not bring hearts to each other.
We clashed as Amazons, and snarled like lions.
And when you left, I could not bear the joy of others.
Their sentiments made me wretch.
Their sugar hurt my molars.
Because they denied the truth of love,
Which is it survives and thrives in the blasted furrows
And binds the sharp edges of broken hearts.
Yet in the passing of time, I can take their flowers and hearts
And recognize our truth within them.
How we fought.
How we loved despite it.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Was a saltwater woman in soul
Yet within the timbers of her heart
Rested a peculiar hole
Now, Jovial Jane of the Spanish Man
Had a very fine feathered hat.
She sent her foes to the briny depths
(But never harmed dog nor cat).
And Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Had a Damascus steel blade so light
She could the cut the heart out of a scurvy knave
Before even starting to fight.
Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Feared naught but the squall and reef
And woe to the wind or sandy shoal
That brought her ship to grief.
Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Sat in the crow’s nest above
And wondered if maybe the thing she was lacking
Was someone to trust and to love
So Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Picked up her compass and steel
Her fine feathered hat she set on her head
And planted her feet at the wheel.
Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Never stop sailing the blue
Because Jovial Jane of the Spanish Main
Was always looking for you.
We make the correct decision.
Our hearts are not in it.
To show mercy, compassion, and faith
Seems to yield little but bleeding.
We sense that rage and retribution
Are attractive alternatives.
That grinding a heel would feel
So. goddamn. satisfying.
But we open our arms all the same,
Sensing relief,
Anticipating pain.
We know the correct decision
Will always be tarnished by a second-tier truth:
That cruelty exists in us all.
Still we open our arms
In the faint and persistent hope of being better
than our baser selves.
Of achieving enlightenment from charity.
Our hearts are not in it.
Slapped a time too many to truly shine anymore,
All we can do is stretch out our arms
And try, once more, to heal.
Riffing: Airport: Astaire’s Fascinating Rhythm Part I
(A stream of consciousness poem)
I’m sitting but not still
I’m drumming digits quick and repetitious until
You walk through my peripheral vision
A vision of potential, of a shared beat
Will you remain my refrain?
Will you create heat?
My thumb ceases making up tempos,
And in rapid succession fall
Index, middle, ring, pinkie
all come to rest upon the armrest
of my uncomfortable chair
and I am, finally,
.Still.
Until
You reach my other peripheral
And keep on walking down the terminal
Because you were but a syncopation
And not my crescendo
Not my coda
You create staccato
I am not one to
Get up and move, dance, emulate movies
Or create unnecessary heartache,
Rather let my fingers go back to drumming
Except now I’m humming
A merry tune of nothing
Since a syncopating rhythm
Was Astaire’s way of saying
Breaking a beat
Can be sweet.
Don’t you think?
—
Boredom can lead to wonderful exercises in creativity. Boredom allows for the most intricate daydreams.
But boredom can be boring, so better to do something.
Like write.
Note: this is a song I made up in the car. If I remember to write the notes down, I’ll include it here in an edit. It’s a fast-paced, bluesy song.
Sing it with Full Confidence
I’m a daughter of the water
And a child of the land
I got one foot in a puddle
And my hands in the sand
I’ll take my bucket to the river
Till the waters run dry
Then I’ll cry
Then I’ll cry
It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!
Sing to me, in a tree
From your boat on the Seine
If you can pull on my heartstrings
Then I’ll call you a man
And we can sail down that river
Till waters run dry
Then say goodbye
Say goodbye
It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!
I’ll be found, underground
Digging down the core
With amphora in my backpack
And my soul wanting more
I’ll drink full from the Styx
Till the waters run dry
And I’ll die
Yes I’ll die!
It doesn’t have to make sense
If you sing it with full confidence!
