My Father Walking, and Twenty-Four Other Things

a soul that speaks to mine.
i love this.

Creative Thresholds

by William Michaelian

Am I truly limited by my senses, or are they, too, imagined? Can I prove my own existence? Is such proof desirable, or even necessary? What of my childhood, and everything else I am in the habit of believing I remember? Is memory a thing of the present? Is it a story told, and then countless times retold, changing and continuing of its own volition and accord? Drawing and writing; waking and dreaming; fiction and reality; life and death — I simply feel no need to know where, or if, one ends and the other begins. Does that make me strange? And yet what is strangeness, but the very delight of a beautiful, unaccountable world, ever the more vivid once we have learned to let it go?

Going HomeGoing Home

By firmly gripping a pencil in grade school and beyond, I developed a callous on the middle finger…

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My Father Walking, and Twenty-Four Other Things

……………………..

desert2

the sound of spitting camels at my back

I start to walk (to trudge, to clamber)

sinking with each step;

it is not simply my feet

searching for substance,

but as my toes are sifting sand

all I find is shifting land

Bottomless

this sandbox was poured

(is poured, will be poured)

here and now and then and always

Bottomless:

they call it,

as their fathers called it

and their fathers’ fathers called it

wandering;

before,

when they marked this spot

with a stone

worn to sand

which once was stone

marking this spot worn to sand

by the wind-driven rain,

meaning sand,

that blew through this spot marked with sand

in this mountainous desert

of time,

meaning sand

here, I am
Jonah drowning

But a kitchen sink to you,
is not a kitchen sink to me

……………………..

processing (part 2)

I’ve got to steady myself

The ground had begun to fall away like those video games I used to play where the earth would just descend to blackness and I had to run, jump, run to get away. get to safety.

I’m slipping

I feel it like a wave rushing over me, filling in the holes, every crevice.  It was “lightbulbs dimming as a powerful appliance kicks on.” A force from beyond myself, seemingly with the entirety of existence at its back.  Defenseless, I lie in the sand, looking at the stars, praying that they too are not overcome by the vast blackness surrounding them.

Losing my grip

I try to concentrate on the feeling of the ground moving, vibrating through my foot, my leg.  My knuckle on the table edge.  The breath that flows in and out, stretching the skin on my torso, my ribs, imperceptible rush of wind through the caverns of my existence, stirring the dust on the floor to mingle with the light, floating, dissolving,

evaporating…

processing (part 2)

processing (part 1)

I knew I was injured, but I thought the bleeding was under control. I thought it was a surface wound – situational, temporary. But as the numbness subsides and feeling returns I am getting the impression that I was quite wrong; the cut that I thought was surface deep was actually much deeper into myself than I realized.

When you play with knives, you kind of expect to get cut.
But that wasn’t a knife. And I wasn’t playing.

sirens calling, wailing, whispering – how do they know my name?

The lighthouse keeper must have fallen asleep. Or perhaps the power went out. For these rocks couldn’t have just been left here unmarked, their jagged edges waiting to impale. Murderous teeth hidden behind lips of silky blackness. That would be cruel, unfair.

My dad did always say, “Well, honey, life’s unfair.”
But then again, he also told me that the covered hay bales
in the fields were giant marshmallows…

As the ocean and sky reunite, I am caught in the middle. Blown by the wind, tossed by the waves, pelted with rain. They must be angry with one another, the way they are lashing out. Violent black and stormy blue.

Maybe it’s just a front.

my hands, red-handed

I wanted to answer.  But the thoughts were written on driftwood drifting and the rain in my eyes put salt in my wound, bitterness flowed and the tide brought them out and in and out. I wanted to answer. But this whale of a pet is weighed by tastebud barnacles and there are bricks in my back and I am floating, floating, watching, watching.  “writhing configurations of weeping.” the backpack is heavy, so heavy. my hands…they’re blue…”I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered. “I’m cold.”

His white jacket, brown skin.

“He was adding his own post-assessment question, Then what?”

I was adding my own post-assessment question – then what?

processing (part 1)

have you forgotten you are creation’s favorite lover? (reblogged)

beautiful poem. I love that it has audio too. Hearing an author’s voice, the way they read, adds a whole other layer to the poetry.

be whole now

Wounded Angel

“Wounded Angel”

I first posted this poem in October 2011;
the audio is brand-new.
If you feel drawn to connect with me,
please do not hesitate to reach out.
If you like this, you may also enjoy the video of my poem,
“What If An Angel Took Hold Of Your Hand?”

All heaven’s angels weep today
Release, rejoice, they light your way
To fond embrace, you’ve felt their kiss
And steeped in wonder asked of this
Anointing touch, you’ve felt them near ~
That knowing sense, the lifting fear

You rush to define, to quantify
To ponder what and who and why
Yet while your mind dost creak, then grind
You lose the thread, remain behind,
Midst the everyday, the push, the hustle
You miss the exquisite wings in tender rustle
The rose in radiant blush, the butterfly’s flutter
Have you forgotten you are Creation’s favorite lover?

It is for…

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have you forgotten you are creation’s favorite lover? (reblogged)

Ask

Written by Jacob Ibrag

It’s not about where we end up,

because it all ends eventually. It’s

about what you’ve seen and the

people that have affected the way

you breathe. It’s about stopping

for a moment every now and then

to ask yourself if you have truly

lived. I know I haven’t, and that’s

alright.The human condition goes

on, and so will the rest of us.

Source: Ask

Ask

yoga + pottery + toddlers

Day 2 of yoga at home.  Not quite as good as day 1 because of this headache floating around, the blood rushing to my head causing the dull throbbing to increase. And I humbly had to accept the fact that I will forget poses that I enjoy and certain binds because I am not being led by another person.  That, though, is okay.  Balancing the freedom of home yoga with the freedom found in following someone else will be good.

On another note, yesterday I spent many hours in the pottery studio and glazed my first round of bowls!  It was…different than I expected.  Both harder and easier and just…different.  But good.  I’m excited to see them fired.  Right now they are such dull colors (that completely change apparently) and a flat finish (which should become glossy).  And breaking glazes will come to have multiple colors based on thickness and texture.  Apparently it is all kind of a crap shoot. Or, erm, a uh, delicate art. haha  Even my pottery professor who has been doing this for 20 years still admits that sometimes glazing is just up to “the kiln gods.” That’s one thing that is so fun about pottery.  It fights back.  There is only so much that we can control and predict.  The material has presence and obeys certain understandable rules, but also makes its own. Like a toddler.  Why will she sit in the high chair to eat some days but completely kicks and screams other days?

Hmm…I wonder, if toddlers and clay could fully express themselves to us in coherent English, what they would say… “I don’t like the cat pajamas because they remind me of this one time I was playing pretend and my friend and I got in a fight over a stuffed cat, so they bring back bad memories.  Also, the tag is itchy.”  or “I smelled you cooking soup and I don’t like soup so I knew if I got into the high chair that I would have to eat that.  Or throw it on the ground to get my point across.”  or “I was playing. Leave me alone, you bully. I’ll eat the cheerios I hid under the table if I get hungry.” or  “Well if you remember correctly, my moisture content was uneven when you threw me on the wheel, so I deformed slightly on the left, so you left more hand oils there when trying to fix that mistake, so obviously the glazing will be thinner there which will make it brown instead of blue because of the chemical composition combined with the specific kiln heat. Duh.”

Well…that was a tangent…have a nice Wednesday!

yoga + pottery + toddlers