Tag: poetry

I’m A Woman

A semi-repost with lyrics:

I’m A Woman
Naphtalia

9/22/10

I am a figure of your imagination
I have fooled you to think I really like carnations
But it’s just a web I weave

Nature, nature, nomenclature
Don’t tell me who I am
Nicked and knocked, my ticks and clocks are
Part of who I am
Mixed up, then fixed up, then mixed up again
I’m a woman

I am bold and clear and I have reservations
My emotions are more like a radio station
It’s fuzzy, then you tune in

Nature, nature, nomenclature
Don’t tell me who I am
Nicked and knocked, my ticks and clocks are
Part of who I am
Mixed up, then fixed up, then mixed up again
I’m a woman

Hear my song: beauty, beauty
I sing it all night, if I’m weeping or dancing
I don’t have one way to be
I want you to start seeing me

Nature, nature, nomenclature
Don’t tell me who I am
Nicked and knocked, my ticks and clocks are
Part of who I am
Mixed up, then fixed up, then mixed up again
Woven, then torn apart, then stitched up again
I’m a woman

I am beautiful and that’s not your imagination

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I, the Sky, and Spring

Branches are etched in the sky.
deep silhouettes, skinny
bare from winter.  They are cold
shivering in Spring winds–
merciful, strong, creative winds:
full-armed winds.

hatches,

hatches of black
on luminous, healthy blue.
The sky says, “Bring me your winter hurts, your aches,
your old bearing down.
I, the Sky, and Spring, will make you new.”

The branches are etching themselves in the sky.

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Home is in the Heart

The road home

If home is where your heart is, please carry me in your heart
like I carry you
in my heart.

(February 21, 2010)

–Naphtalia
with a brief, but prominent nod to e.e. cummings.

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Dear God of the Day

Dear God of the Day:
Although I run late once
again, trying to find the
balance of all my new year’s
goals and aims and deep wishes,
I pause enough
to read your word
and say to you,
“I look forward to seeing all
that you do today, this day,
Your day.”
Take this day and show Yourself
God.

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Bits and Pieces

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Tonight I pack my bits and pieces into a suitcase.
It is not the suitcase [nor the travel] that makes them a semblance of a whole.
It is not a semblance.
It is whole before I zip the zipper; the bits and pieces are whole
bits and pieces, bites of me,
recipe.
Tonight there is a suitcase full of me, each part as whole as the next,
creating in me one ready to journey with a full and whole heart.

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Not moving

I am sitting here in the middle of
my room, clothes strewn
bed unkempt, presents flewn
extra mugs and books and bibles
stacked on desk and heart
in my hands.
From here in my room with my heart in my hands,
I’m not moving.
not today.

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waiting for the library to open

I could sit here hungry for hours.
Iced air slipping up wool coat sleeves.
One foot a little sore in my cowboy boots.
No secret cigarettes while people gather in the concrete lobby. [i smell it]
Waiting. I think all a little hungry yet from breakfast.
Ready for some work to be done inside.
Hearts just pumping in neutral until some bit of newness comes. A green light to go in. To seek. To learn. To grasp.
Every minute another set of eyes
Walks in to watch the rest
Waiting.
In hand:
Books on plumbing, teenage novellas, manuals, spiral bound books, backpacks, briefcases, sharp suits, and ratted coats.
We all value the library enough to wait for it to open.

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Not for Hard Days

Some days are just hard
so much so that at the end
I just want to write about them.
To write through my fret, the things
that fraught me through the day.
But really, I don’t want to Etch
those words into a page that
I’ll look back and read only
to think, what was I thinking?
I’d rather not write about it.
In the end, in the long run, the haul,

it’s nothing.
Often, I don’t even know why the day was hard.

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Sighing Bread

Stir a pot of berry wine
on stove stoked full and high.
Rise a loaf of breaking bread
so baked full of our sigh.

Humble, come to table
sure of nothing but this: that
when we eat our sighs together
we then dance around our flat.

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Letter Writing

I had an urge to write tonight.  I sat down at the computer and stared.

Write something–to somebody, but no vague person.  I wanted to write to an audience that had intrigue and fostered intrigue.  The amorphous blogosphere could not handle my request.

I wrote a letter.  I wrote a letter to somebody.  I wrote with specific details and personal affect.  I wrote with intention.  I wrote with question marks.  I wrote in parentheses.

I wrote it, sealed it, mailed it.  Now I wait for a return.

When returns come, they come full force.  They come in tangible thought inked over pages of fluttering, nervous wonder.  And answers?  There are answers, but they bring questions alongside them anyway.

I wrote a letter today.  I will write one tomorrow, too.

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