Twitching Hands

The house is tidy and I'm all done, nothing more to sing un-sung.

And here I sit with the itch of what more, moving and grooving me to please for move some sore.

I see these women in Vogue and Vanity Fair pleading cases so close to the chair and I want to be of that turn but then am afraid of how it may burn.  And Yes, I am afraid.

My twitchy hands be twitch'n, my itchy scratchy life be fill'n some but not sure wait we be wait'n.

My voice and story are not extraordinary but my intention is gold, my root is center fold and what I have to offer is nothing but "give me more til I'm old."

I sit, I wait, I anticipate that Thomas Moore Vibrate that jacked me to give more than take.

I will offer the world a voice of what can be of and what can be of when--I just am okay if the world is my sons, husband, relatives and friends that seek vise.  I do not have expectation of more than what is sight.

I am not afraid.
I am of remembrance story for the open and the deep red cherry before the bed.

Accept Accepting

Never will I feel that way.  Never will I prod for anything but today but I am stuck, so in that dudgeon of rut muck slop that is of what now, where is my now, how is my now, where do I find some sense of answer of now?

I honored sat before a couple of might and fight who were in the two year struggle of finding sense of where the loss of their child might guide.

I sat.
I reflected that since my five years I have had a pointed pull path that allowed me strength but also mis-guided remembrance of the grief steps following a friend's babe's death.

Dear sister of eyes blue haze, I acknowledge now how I repressed the stare of your year gaze.  It hurt to look at what was so sound fast pace of loosing the babe a year ago and the delicacy of the steps we all have to trace.

My apologies for the abrupt sound fence fury.  Gentle words I used but my quest was of scurry, as I knew that all was meant was of process I forgot that all we humans are made of is just that: process.

Product is what our dark-age culture requires in the human process of reproductive malnourished.

We are behind.

I accept the realities of life as such and feel connected to the pull and tug of what is so very much life, love, bring, be, feel, pull, bind for the greater all and yet here in my luxury of thought I feel for the women who have nothing for not.  The women who birth babes without support to death circumstance and no chance for a voice to shout out, "come, be my thought!"

We are dark in our ages of group surrounding and I am here to be a light of leopard skin seen kin.  We are not alone.  We are not forgotten.  We are of the voyage.  We are solid and so very not thin.

Thick and rich we bring the life of women voice sing.  You, me bring it fierce, bring it whole, bring it light as a fairy would sing.

Thank you mothers of woven life-cycle-end babes gleam, your stories are answers to what our culture requires to feed.

Mr. Helm

You did, you did me.

I was 16 years old, sold on what not not some Friday night wishing for something more and there you were on TBS singing the Last Waltz sideways and so precise.

I fell in love.
I fell in love with the sideways sing and sideways being and the sideways be all that is of things.

I feel in love with your you, purple shirt give all me and be all sing all tell about I choose all sing.

Mr. Helm you are passed to what you believe now but there is no way that you do not vibrate the sound of our appreciation sound all.

You gave me sound when there was none when I was a lonely teen, you gave me sound after Nora passed as a beginning being and you now give me sound when I ask for the breath of what to be for the beginning.

Thank you Mr. Helm for all you sing for the soft hearted, grind alter to state of what of.
What of.
What of.
Keep singing Ophelia sideways yonder.
We be keeping beat & passion for the love of you.

Nora In Our Family Website Launched!

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For exciting developments to continue creating global grief support to families who hold a deceased child in the family fabric.