Wood Grain

Veins of wood are deep and history sound.  Some yell, some are silent, some are distant and make an owl fowl sing.  It all is deep.  It all is resonant of a time that was not our own.

Something is percolating.  Something is vibrating, a shift that is low and so very slow.

Silence.

Still.

Grain of truth that can carry us on.

Make a night for us, ah ya for real, yet here we are feeling some shift that is nearer than a blush star.

I ache over my voice.  Messages are so uncomfortable, tight and exposed.  I ache over my message.

Yet, Grain of truth that can carry us on.

Honey, lovely, make me some funny the quest for humble pie still lives on.

I yearn to do it...seek to do it....move to do it....love my babes for it....

Grain of truth that can carry us on.

I feel in my goose bumps a shift be shifting.  Not sure if the shift is my own silent sifting but it is taking place and the world is in mid-pace for the world might feel slower, softer, fuller, pregnant in digest pause of where to pulsate.

I am my own wood grain.  I have veins spread to the reaches of unknown.
I
You
We hold wood grain: Grain of truth that can carry us on.

Blanket Movement

Up tonight, like many of worry sight of what will bring and what would sing if time would be allowed.

Nothing anymore is slow.
                                nap-filled
                                quiet
                                sheet calm.

When did we loose naps?  That nap-sacred space to contemplate earth shift and space, when?

What is happening to the thirst of our conscious seek for silent reflection?
                                                                                                  Eye contact
                                                                                                  Hand to hand
                                                                                                  Arm to arm
                                                                                                  Cheek to cheek
                                                                                                  Lip to healing lip?
What?

Blanket movement so she is draped lovingly on the teeth grind.
Earth move, but she move slow.
Can we not remember her so?

Turn off the appendages and be in silver slick how
                                                                       do I think now and know.

Instinct.
Instinct, Motha Lov'n Fuck'n Instinct.

Lets Blanket Movement and just sing INSTINCT.

Elders Make It Last

Elders make it last.
Make it last, oh ya make it last. 

We know in our fledgling wings how to make this fantasy sing.  We know what we think should be our generation Long John Bring for that fling of
make it
might it
sing and maybe, could you please fight It, for the know of how

Elders make it last.
Make it last.
Elders, make it last.

Some are young and some are make thought. 
But oh lord, they make it last.  Make it last...oh lord, how do they make it last.

I sat beneath the eyes of my granny's knees; so soft, so rough so very tender in touch and all I wanted to know was how she would last another winter without a proud smile and yet....

She make it last.
She make it last, oh lord she make it last.

Some Elders see young,
Some Elders see for night. 

I am honored to see my grandmother seeing all sides of remembrance bright, dulled oh ya today sight and well ya......
not sure how she feels about that next stage of life....

And maybe....make me fly for sight.

Elders make it last
oh lord, elders make it last.

Why can't this be talked about more: how we generations are needing to take quality share for the large groups needing emotional, physical, cognitive care?

How?

How can we be Lazy?
Lazy in lack of want: to see and maybe do what is NOT comfortable in thought ....be real....be strong...be resilient...be for the long haul? 
Where did we go?  All races, economic fold, life growth preferences...more and more but How How HOW can you sit and not call your granny?  How, how can you not call your ma?  How how can you not sit for patience, boundaries to be proud and tall?

Where is your patience?
Where is your world know?
Where is that place you are trying to make for your girl, boy, in between and more?

Where?

Elders make it last, oh man women child and growth on this honored earth, they make it last
Oh lordie, they make it last.

Make it last.
Make it last.
Make it last.

Learn please generations of digital upheaval....

Make It Last
Make It Last, please do your part to make it last...communication is more than a digital unfold...it is soul touch, more touch and absolutely do much touch for the interconnected understanding of love and right and how to say "I am Sorry."

Make it last, Make it last.
Do our Elders proud.
Make It LAST, YES PLEASE PLEASE MAKE OUR ELDERS PROUD
MAKE IT LAST.

Transformative Clear: I let this percolate

I  let this percolate. 

I search through brambles I search through brush, I search through the things that are ugly in loud "snuff" but what do I care for the load that does not hear?  I am aware of what is now and near.  

Cedar, Alder, Old Grandpa Maple are all of the Vashon Island wisdom that we make fizzle.  And nestled down with the mossy frost bite given is the little might that is Oregon Coast prism.  

Soft shell take that only a hard eye can detect, you are honest and uncompromising in your earth quake'n shiver.  

We bow. The magnitude of earth make quake forsake placate and yes absolute masturbate is of legends and souls.  The moss-masqueraded faces of "sure!" are overseen by the tendrils of waves crashing to stories, clam-sucked and fury.  

Life is life.  Moss is moss.  Ocean is ocean.  And yet.....

we need to to find our connection of flurry, fight, plight, sometimes-given territory for grounds of good spite, flight, for all we know make us known in this realm as the ever lasting makers of might.

This message is for the children we are fortunate to bore, donate, surrogate, birth, hold, more.  And I say, "What the Fuck more?" Lets make it for-sure.  

The Act of Letting Go and the Yearning for Something More

We learn to sit pregnant in body, pregnant in thought, pregnant in emotion for little or not.

We learn to always make due.  And this next step that feels neurotically real is the place of handing over our next gate of grace.

Never do we possess absolutes and the babe that comes is for full armor suit made of love, cherish and the anxious tremor of where do I hold tight and where do I give flight?

Babes are born from hopes and dreams and who they are is all that they form to be, because they are thee.

Now later when the babes are feeling full and we keep feeding because it lessens the pull, there is that thought of what beyond today?  And even though one of our babes died before it lay, the inner question resonates full force quiet: will I ever raise what I was not honored with at breast?  Will there be a child hungry who needs home and I must save financial place to make space for this little soul that could complete our home?

The questions remain but the answers do not deliver what has to be felt through time and plain.  But non-the glorious luxurious time thought pass, where will the next babe of not womb but of need be born for us to secure his/her stay?

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.