My candle would not burn, unless i turned it upside down. Or sideways, any-which-way but standard.
Lay me, down on my side, and if my flame is combustible . My wick is ajar my petals will creek.
Yet I’m not out of flame. Cider & Warm Spices, I give because you did not toss me aside. I give, because what is love, unless it’s given away? And what is love unless it bleeds? A heavy love of surrender- of- things, giving itself back to me.
She is a black gypsy her law is love it is the fruit of her lips and when she gives she gives out of her belly ancient waters – running(s) of wisdom from purgatory of lost soul- she loves to find binding the ashes together binding the smoke and flame shadows of all shades shadows of days – in lonely shadows of nights – in longing shadows of scratching and surviving and when she gives the trees bow at her offerings the sky breathe(s) – fresh winds in her direction seedlings jump into germination conjuring up the power of connection the power of affection the power – a simple touch to heal lost souls like mine
I almost didn’t write today. I almost allowed my distractions to get the best of me. I almost felt like giving up was the answer. However giving up is never the answer. So I came back to the page. I came back to the place of hope. I came back to try again. I came back to say, I’m still here. I’m still writing. I’m still trying.
In the words of Toni Morrison “Freeing yourself was one thing claiming ownership of the freed self was another.” If nothing else I claim myself worthy of being free. I claim myself worthy to come again and again to the page.
when rain speaks she has no shallow dexterity she holds the bosom of skies in peaceful mothering’s broken drops of purpose, going back before the days of moses,
she smells familiar, like the beginning, a leaping exodus, barring wide -stirrings
billows, openings and moaning’s to songs of mercy ditty-breaks, of breathing rain, heaving -heavy her chorus, of holy wonder, dimensions and multitudes will look upon her… she is poet, and prophet, falling with the sunrise, and rising with the night sky.
After 30 days of writing poetry. I feel strong. I feel like I could take the bull by its’ horns. I’d never do that of course! Although, putting words down on the page might be something I can once again, just suck -it -up -and -do. I mean, there are times I’ve made excuses for not coming- here, to the page. Times where you just have to put a pin in it. Come back and try another day.
For the first time, in quite a few years, I’ve had a 30 day streak on word-press. Mentally I think, I’m in a better place to write. As I make several attempts to get outside my head. Which many of my poems are about. It’s’ the darndest thing, all that crying, weeping, and leakage that came to sit with me. I tell you I had no idea, I hadn’t unboxed those boxes. All of those tears saved my life.
As I look back, and move forward all in one fell swoop,
The challenges between writing and the kids is really the writing part….
Some things you didn’t know behind the scenes, yesterday, I also celebrated my 100th day of eating clean to the best of my ability. I’m on the journey to better health. So these last hundred days , of no chips, no coffee, no pounds of sugar added anywhere. And what do you know? I feel better. My sugar cravings are at an all time low. Even as my kids passed around chocolate cake. I didn’t ask how it was. Even to live off of their taste-buds and get that sugar-whiff -high. Whew! Right then and there, I walked out of the kitchen, like a 7 foot tall amazon- beauty.
Yes! Here’s to another milestone. Coupled with eating right, I put in the work of exercising 10-30 minutes each morning, even with all that poetry, and more poetry, I got up and kicked my own butt, no gym membership I’m done with being robbed. I never made those meetings. However this time, 100 days eating clean, to the best of my ability, 100 days of exercise that’s including 2 rest days each weekend.
Along with my regular appointed schedule of working for my home -church, kids activities, checking on my neighbors, family and friends. At the end of the day I would be so tired. Writing poems at the crack of dawn, writing poems on lunch hour – unable to post until 8 or 9pm. Writing poems in the car, poems in the garden, poems during thunderstorms -lights flickering.
Oh that’s not to say, I didn’t have my moments, like take the day off. Been there, done that! Returned too many T- shirts! I had to sing my way out of that funky-feeling. Write my way out of my own blues. Lean into moments of quietness, and tune into-silence. And there would be my poem of day ,
I am Eva -former refugee, doctor and a writer. My parents were Holocaust survivors, I escaped communism. I wrote a novel, mixing family stories and fiction. A novel about Holocaust, communism, racism and emigration. What makes people leave, and what happens to the ones who do, and to the ones who stay. I believe these old stories are more important now than ever before.