Matters of Heart and Bloody Core (for Kat, whom I love)

Disclaimer:  Constance, I was just reading a friend of mine, one of my very favorite poets.  I am in spoken word group with her.  I looked at some old poems she had read that I loved so much she had given me photocopies…and I realized…aaaaaakkkk!!!!
I had lifted the title for this poem from one of hers!!

DANG IT!!!

So I want to , I need to change that title.  If you have a suggestion, please comment.  For now, I have titled it

“Matters of Heart and Bloody Core”

She rides today, shotgun
in matters of heart and bloody core,
matters of blood, matters of bone,
her flesh become word and wing
and flight to wider blue skies
and pastures…
…rides shotgun atop
treasure boxes soon emptied
but not until
the very last second…God forbid…
please.

She sits, still shielding
but fingers open
and heart unclenched
in the green ritual of becoming
yet again repeated,
yet again echoing
those who flew before by thousands,
swarms searching for Capistrano
and finding college and career and clouds
gathered…and clouds parted.

She rides shotgun,
she, shotgun,
rides with diamond frozen tears
pinned back callous
behind both barrels
cocked and loaded,
her tender torn eyelids
primed with tearshot

(frozen tears rip as they sit
gathered, bunched, clenched)

Waves, washing by, wistful,
irritated, emotions
mendacious and mirror walking
around that carriage of connection
to futures unseen
swirl and caress her face
with terrible talking fingers.

Her heart is still,
on hold,

(she holds him in her heart)

what was once,
and is, and knows
what will be comes…

(Que Sera, Sera!)

…but not yet.

Because across miles, time,
her blood calls to bone,
her soul and spirit moan
remembering, loving, memorialized
and set in stone
forever.

Miles will pass.  Time
will roll by, and that
return of body and bone
will glad at last be known…
and her laugh, her squint,
(shotgun)
her head toss
and still wonder
will echo to her heart
from babies to be born,
but still bone of her bone…

and heart will thaw and
throat unclench
at last and swallow
that diamond lump stark and
glistening with inevitability.

But now…
Across miles, time
she rides…
shotgun

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Five Fold Blessing

The poem I just posted…“Her Door, Her Red Door”

Dedicated to and written for a helpful person who disappeared…

 

to me
mother      teacher
warrior     sister
friend

Lady Grace Be Upon You
Lady Grace Ward You
Lady Grace Sustain You
Lady Grace Succor You
Lady Grace Challenge You

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Heather

Like the shell pink linings
that tinge dreary drab storm clouds
gathered like fists
on my soul’s horizons,
she extends, she bends,
she surrounds, abounds
and help bleeds from her
with no thought or effort
like the meadowlark’s theme.tumblr_n2vhgxP40F1t5g5c1o1_500Like Polaris,
unblinking and steady
in my soul’s dark night                (river with no eyes following gravity’s destiny),
she beckons, and reckons,
she glimme
rs and hope shimmers
from her gentle tough wise voice
wreathed in honey-bee buzz
of comforting words.tumblr_n2rkfeJTvG1qayerpo1_500Like the Redwood,
full of unassuming majesty,
royal presence in the Black Forest
of my gendertangle
she smiles, she styles
with eyes, she scatters chaff
with 
health and giggle-laugh tilth
that runs and waters
where only dust of death
reigned.sequoias.bigMagic Wise-Woman
of simple mystery!
How can you help so,
without sweat,
like…
like…
bibbity-bobbity-boo!!!
And I rise from ashes
with shining eyes and limber joy…photo1You find niche,
beautify cracks
with persistent roots,
bristle with cheery brush
to scratch the prideful
and bloom with slashing swipes
across craggy expanses
of 
human misery and mournings.North CliffsYou are Heather,
and I am
Ever Grateful.

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