holding

holding

I hold a cup of black tea in a Starbucks vintage mug; the tea is not their’s and tastes way better. There’s a chip on the cup. I should dispose of it but I chose not to.

I’m feeling a joyful glee in my heart cuz my partner returns home tomorrow. How four weeks has fast forward and slowed down all at once. I recall his warm soft lips and how they just fit mine.

I sit still as the sun beams down on my skin. It’s warm with a cool breeze reminding us winter is around the corner. The critical mind tells me to pull away (wrinkles, remember), but I don’t. Fly kisses from the sun reach the smile spreading across my cheeks.

I’m wondering if this is what they mean by “bliss”. This moment. On my own.
That hop-skip-and-a-jump feeling, that “skip to my lou my darling” pep to the step.
I try not to choke it; surrendering is a joy ride.

I sip.
Eyes closed.
Fly kisses to the sun and back.
Smiling.

step up/meet it/match it/expand it

Walk into the darkness.
She said.
Don’t look back at your ghost, it’ll never serve you.
What once was, is no longer.
Step up, meet it, match it, expand it.
She said.

I stood stunned.
Who are you to tell me this?
How dare you.
How dare your courage, your groundedness, your skill, your success.
How dare your reason, your age, your wisdom, your heart.

Oh, child, you need to rid yourself of perfection.
It has never served you.
It never will.
Step up, meet yourself new; match it, expand it.
She said.

I said, fuck you.
I felt hot tears melt away makeup and mask.
I wanted to run away,
but I found myself nodding in agreement and making those “hmm” sounds like, “good one.”

Good one.
Ha.
Like, that’s funny.
And yet, she’s right.
She’s fucking right.

slow motion

Slow motion.
Heavy foot, right left.
Trying to shrug it off.
Get over it, just do it.

Flashes of humiliation.
Debilitating truths.
Two sides, one coin.
No one is right.
Yet it feels so real.

Jump.
Get out there, get out of your head.
Do it over and over.
Fail and fail better.
I am visited by doubt.
I am visited by weight.
I am visited by the Ghost of Comparison, who rears its lion head.

It’s mane as thick as cement.
As permanent as fake truth, fake facts.
It’s a lie, right?
Come on, pull yourself out of this muck.

A rush of cold water to the face, do it.
Do it now. Do it quick.
Heal this wound by ripping the bandaid off like, Right Now.
People are dying, hurricanes are whirling, our world is in need of less self-centeredness, more generosity.

But first, slow motion.

times up!

times up.jpg

You got an hour!
Like a prison alarm – BAAAAAAANG!
Time’s up.

Almost there.
Sit and write.
Close that door and swallow the stillness whole.
Throw it back like you mean it.
Take it, it’s yours.

Cuz you know that Quiet creaks opens the magic door…
Where the Still Voice lives.
The Still Voice, you know the one
Like an echo of an echo that whispers, “What about me?”

What about that book?
What about that play?
What about that movie?
What about that job?

happy birthday [boom poem for lover]

happy birthday, my love

We celebrate my beautiful man’s birthday today.
I wrote this poem when we first met.
I haven’t changed my mind on any of it.

Happy birthday, my love.

He’s quite the badass.
He’s a rebel and he’s the too cool for school.
He’s behind the crowd, he’s the slow walker, he’s the leader of the pack without trying to be.
He’s the sage and the delinquent in one.
He’s the joker, the enigma, the shadow, and then also the ray that seeps in slowly, ever so slowly, before blasting up the room.

Oh, the ever present, Sun. The Son.

He walks into a space and, “All Hail Caesar!”
But he doesn’t like that.
Maybe he doesn’t hear it?
Could be that he tries to ignore it.
I mean, come on, it’s only natural.
Stupid me, should’ve known.

He doesn’t try. He allows all to just be.
He wants to be my Savior, the good spirit in my life, but then he also drags down the rose-colored curtains.
Shoves my face closer to the ever complicated, but neatly organized, brightly-colored (never grays or lights!) and intricate onion-skins, of life.

“Look deep,” he asks of me.
Demands of me.
Softly. Kindly. Delicately.
Skin.
Hot breath.
Touch me.

He’s quite the spirit, keeps me on my toes.
Keeps me thinking and reflecting, and then questioning, and then doubting, and then pondering, and then questioning, and then asking, and then thinking again.

His presence wafts in without your notice.
You inhale him long enough to gain shape of his recognition.
Exhale, everyone.
And then BOOM.
Like, that —

He’s gone.

explode like a motherfucker

explode like a motherfucker

I ache for silence.
I yearn for space, for quiet.
The A/C blares, this’ll help for now.
I push the Creator up and out, write!
Hurray! We don’t have time.
An old voice.

Headache.
Late night indecision based on waiting up for love and hoping to finish that podcast.
Jackie, quiet and sleepy.
Thank God. I feel tension release when I see this.

What’s yearning for space about? What’s this silence I seek?
I know there’s more to this.
Go deeper…

No music. A good thing. One step closer to silence.
Even though those two over there chat away.
Shaded table.
Darjeeling tea brews, honey at the ready.
I wait for her.

No, wait.
I wait for direction.
For me to explode like a motherfucker.
Liza Fernandez

Done (pt 1)

POPS the club

I am drowning
in my own thoughts.
I am confused
in this world of ignorance.
I am lost
in my own home.
I am hurt
by those who say they care.
I am tired
of trying, only to get nowhere.
I am thrown off
by the words that lead one way,
yet mean another.
I am frustrated
with my giving my all
to only get 10% back.
I am at ease
with things I shouldn’t be OK with.
I am comfortable
with people who challenge me.
I am dying
to see who still stay.

__
Done by Iona Scott, Before There Were Bars, POPS The Club

Read Part 2