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.

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!

Please visit
http://www.norainourfamily.com

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

Surrogate blue/grey/brown eyed Girl we be lov'n

You entered our lives when we needed you still, not sure what that meant in any portion of know but it continues to grow and ever-essent more flow.

You were blue/brown flecked gazed in our life long and fill. You always endure, well rounded, nourished brain filled.  And we gaze on you.

Not because I yearn for the live daughter but simply because I get to witness a daughter saunter swift and make lift never falter.

You are magnificent in your inquisitive science quest and I feel fairy god mother of your teal topaz quest.

Darling girl Zea, you are our true blue/grey/brown blew and as life shifts to unrecognizable focal, you will remain our ever cast mast blast fast blaze of making something remarkable.  

Thank you dear heart for allowing us to love you.

We are greater people parent care because of such steps of loving outside of blood regard.