like my dad always says....

maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

that thing that i really really wanted
that was just within my grasp
slipped out
and went to another person
who had more experience
facilitating groups...

it was a job opportunity.

and i didn't get it.

and that sucks.

but whatever...i'm resilient...

longing. and fear.

i haven't been able to write much
this weekend.

my head just hasn't been in it.

you see,
there is something out there
in the world
that i want so bad
that it makes my stomach muscles
tense up to think of it,
it raises my anxiety to think
of someone else getting it...

and i am within an arm's reach...
i can almost touch it
but it can still be easily
taken by someone else
and i won't know until wednesday...

so that is where my head is.

visualizing what my life will be like
if i have this "thing"
visualizing my response if i don't
get what i want...

sorry for being so cryptic...
i just don't want to jinx myself...
heehee.

thursday

the house is steeped
in darkness
and silence today.

i have no poem to share,
nothing to say...
no tale to tell,
no argument to hold sway.

instead there is rain
and quiet
and the feeling of
being alone
without
being lonely.

stupid five alive.

dear five alive people.

i don't like juice.
any juice.
it makes my throat feel sticky.

but i am sick.
i have the flu.
chills, cough, sore throat,
and so on...
so
i made myself drink 3 juice boxes
of five alive.

imagine my surprise at finding
out that although the juice is
called five alive CITRUS
and boasts NO ARTIFICIAL COLORS OR FLAVORS
have been added
and claims to be a REAL FRUIT BEVERAGE
there is zero percent vitamin c.
zero.
nada.
zilch.

why am i drinking it?

and why was i buying it for my kids?

stupid five alive.
stupid sore throat
which also now feels sticky, too.

ugh.

poetry thursday...lines that inspire.

this was a poem that has
stayed with me
for a long time
in the back of my mind
quietly.


Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

-- Leonard Cohen

and in a vague way
it wound its way into this
not-really-a-poem-but-a-moment-
caught-in-time...

(please excuse the length...)

fresh out of hot steamy bath of bubbles
jet streams of water aimed at my skin
window open to let cool fresh air
and the scent of rain in.

seeing myself through your eyes
as i stand in front of the mirror
red glow of candlelight shining on still wet skin
cheeks flushed
lilacs reflecting from behind

i try to imagine what you would see

in this light, in this mood, in this moment
i don't center on stretch marks
i don't notice wrinkles in my face
my roots aren't showing in this forgiving light
and instead of a belly
all i see is smooth
and tight

i think of swallows
and upturned breasts
i think of your body against mine
the ease in which it rests

nothing else matters
things come and go
change
and stay
the same
ups and downs, highs and lows...
with you, i always remain.