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August 26, 2018

It’s Never Too Late to Rise from the Ashes. {Poem}

Time stood still in that late spring shower

that did not bring flowers, but waves

of pleading heartbreak;

an ordinary morning

of hot water washing clean my body,

burning open wounds,

search lights to the gods:

“Is anyone out there?”

Please, I can’t take this anymore.

When will I let him go?

The man whose arms no longer wrap around me.

In the darkness he came to save me from,

as I “drugged” him down

into the depths

of Hades,

fist bumping my best friend Death,

until he said

enough

with “girls like you.”

My savvy red claws, not strong enough to keep a living will

from leaving.

Loneliness, my old friend—hello;

in the scalding hot shower,

April rhythms,

baptizing my nakedness.

I begged for help from the shamans;

they sent me to Puerto Rico.

On my soul trip,

healing hurricane destructions of the land and heart.

I was determined to rise with the angels I met,

who taught me how to dance again.

Singing to the drums I felt in my veins,

bleeding out

into a new season

of fierce love,

belly cackling under the gravity of a full moon,

discovering seashells of power

in an ocean paradox of calm annihilation.

And so I return, three months later,

on a plane named United.

An August initiation

to let go

of control,

blood-choking freedom

like a manipulative friend

who smiles and stabs you in the back

of a life desperately pleading to be lived.

Shaking shackles,

because your name is freedom,

written on the skeletons of our ancestors.

When our ego burns to ashes,

we feel the collective embers

raging to rise,

an Army of Phoenixes

who remember

birthright worthiness

just because

they exist.

I beg you,

mortal beings,

honor the rhythm of change

pulsing through your marrow.

Volcanos bursting passion through your veins,

in this one fairy-tale eruption

that is called a human life.

Yours.

The only one you have.

Wear gratitude as daily armor

to remember.

The spider, hanging on the delicate web,

invisible

in the early morning Puerto Rican breeze.

Dog and rooster melodies

backdrop the lush green,

grown back from hurricane obliteration.

Shhhhhh…

let the wind flow through your messy hair

and trust the secrets of quiet mornings

patterned from dream weavings.

Internal maps

not to be decoded with answers,

but signposts

gently nudging our way back home.

~

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