This Quiet Absence

there is rhythm in the reckoning

of soul and body to it’s maker

designer of fortune and fate

I am the daughter of

a wayward father

lost in the translation of relation

we are one with the furthest point

of self same poetic expression spoken

into existence by prophetic utterances

and I am, we are

at the beginning again

circled ‘round and ‘round the question

is there truth in the utterances of men

or politics all

in all and through all, save one

and in Him only truth

truth sustained by mortal men

is fragile, and fallible

perfection in grace alone

provokes the soul to live

and flesh to breathe

bold and beautiful blindness

thrust  into me like a dagger

sing vibrancy into my voice

solidify my understanding

rewire my hardwired thinking

help me to begin again

loving is the act of learning

and learning the act of submission

to thoughts greater than those of one’s self

begin again with me

in this quiet absence

birthing substance from silence

fashion me new wings of understanding

from the debris of dissension

and we too shall be free

Linking up with dVerse Poet's Pub for Open Link Night. 

Last Flight

blue sky abundance,

billowed expectation

that wanting creates

lavish thoughts in

sky the shape of forgetting

clouds the color of silence

it is there that I loved

in your fragrance, absence

of earthen understanding

alabaster transparencies

heaven in the hindrance of

light,  quiet, cold and

absolute…

refraction of vision

of day sky sewn together

with condensation

malformed tundra and

a terrestrial drop off sans

oceanic sounds that

fling things into

abysmal need

the want of which defy

Maslow and his hierarchy

snake river gorge and

a buoyant regret not even

switchbacks can confuse

blue, like the wide eyed

wonderings of a childlike

exploration of humanness

gripping with the

fattened fingers of leisure

apathy divines the truth

of prophetic expectations

repetition is the pattern

only choice can break

slip between conscious

choice and the automation

of routine and there

lies observance

descend again into

a reclusive innocent awakening

opaque weariness

give yourself permission

for shedding shards of

substantial solitary existence

just breathe

Linking up tonight with dVerse Poet's Pub Take the time to join us if you will. Poetry and community abound. Thanks for visiting and hope to see you out there! ~A

An Oregonian Experiance

Mt. Hood taken from the plane

the natives speak with northern language

the song of the American settlers

carving glacial pathways from east to west

not as much Minnesotan or Michigander,

more like those in Ohio with their approach

to words and meanings far beyond their

level of perceiving it, and my own, foreign to them

this young, urban and sprawling city with

children generations gathered together

upon the remains of the lava flow

formed the land that shapes their lives

in the pew I hear talk of culture and my

southern conditioning is apparent in my

urgency to yell out during the sermon,

my deep fried Amens and Right Ons

that pepper congregational behavior

we are creatures of our conditioning

of the culture and places we inhabit

and here, in central Oregon I feel a settling

in my spirit that reminds me what the scent of

home is like, and I am at peace

humidity of Tennessee a memory and I am pleasantly invited

into the outdoors like my Colorado used to

Juniper and Pine, and how I pine for home

hiking sandals and yoga clothing seem the normal

attire here, espresso on every corner and

local organic produce a staple in every home

breweries under Hooded every dark flavor of hops

birthing center advertisements the size of

hospital billboards back home, and the

contempt for western thought and medicine

has been added to the water supply straight

from these once volcanic mountains

three Sisters overseeing the desert children

and in them lies the possibility of a new

awakening, like giving birth to

life outside the environmental need for it

Mt. Jefferson towering over, as a reminder

of what this place was once, and what it may yet be

in the seat of a Bend lies a craving for

something beyond verbalization

an elevated understanding of life

and the pursuit of all that is good and wholesome

a utopian craving creeping up the spine

elongating the understanding that

this too, was a place without form

until the one who formed it gave it

meaning and in it lies the possibility

that one day the children of this land

will become the children of the Lord over it

in these thoughts lie my prayers

awaken, become, breathe, and return to

this place and it’s people that which

you have received, and in doing so

support your local organic farmers

Linking up for Poetics at dVerse Poet's Pub. The prompt is to observe and describe something you see. I'm in Oregon for the week visiting my sister so these poetic observations of my Oregon experience thus far. Join us, won't you? 

Once Hidden, Forever Remembered

she walked quietly, arms folded
soles upon her land of birth, reflective
her Mother’s adornments remain upon it
las cosas sagradas, like the altars she erected

2000 anios El Senor Sufrio Por Nosotros
it reads, the old wooden cross my Grampo built
Daddy took my picture in front of it
for the purpose of remembering

la casita, now overrun by mice,
descendants of those my Grandma chased
broomstick held high, Aunt Jemima
stood inside on a shelf like a guardian and reminder

we are not without our own
cartoonish popularized prejudices

Spanglish is spoken now, in my generation
English rules my Father’s
Spanish my Grandparent’s
Indios, Latinos, Chicanos. Familia, all.

soy Americana,
con sangre de enspanola
y sangre de la tierra

I walked beside my Grandmother that day
upon the land, the farm de Los Romeros
we walked together and remembered,

toy trees and warm tortillas,
hand rolled cigarettes and poker for pennies,
the multicolored stones in the half walled porch
seeming to hide inside them the stories of us all

in the corner of the yard a Statuado of Jesus
el Sagrado Corazon alive still, with thorns and flames
delivering forth the lifeblood of the stories de la familia

speak them, hermanos
whisper them to your children, primos
tias y tios, never let us forget
we were of this place once
this place where earth meets sky
in the stories lie our
cultura, rich and deep.
once hidden, forever remembered

we lose part of ourselves lest we remember,
speak these stories, dear ones,
stories of blood and water
they are the origin of our belonging

Linking up with http://dversepoets.com/ for Open Link Night.

Little One, I Knew You'd Come

little one,

I knew you’d come

falling through blackness

thrums of voices

singing your ethereal welcome

in languages prime and present

unknown of origin whispers of hope

knit by the hands

of the divine glass blower

who, from lips gave birth

to this dead and dying world

and so too birthed you

from the lips that spoke, let there be

through woman’s womb

into a world in need

of the purity your fresh mind brings

with etches of eternity

still fresh upon your skin

little one,

I knew you’d come

into brokenness of flesh

divine soul from the maker

to be a vessel

of personality and passion

of love and the lightness of being

you are loved little one,

from before the time of your conception

thoughts of you

in the mind of God

his lips uttered your name into being,

come, little one,

come, quietly into this night

come, little one,

come, boldly into this day

come, little one,

come, gently into breathing

come, little one,

walk among the leaves

grow into being

and live your dream

This poem was inspired by my new baby niece or nephew due to arrive any day. May her welcome into this world be blessed. I'm already a proud Auntie. I love you little one! 

Linking up with DVersePohttp://dversepoets.com/etsPub for Open Link Night #50. Write on dear ones. I'll see you around the blogsphere. 

Oblivion

we were all legs and poetry
words and wandering hands
arched bodies over blackness

I need an injection
to restore me from
life-loss lamentations

unusually beautiful
with naked words
you spoke me into blindness

with sable tongue
you textured vibrance
onto my white-walled enclosure

with darkness of touch you
thrust me into oblivion

I can’t breathe
except to inhale you
I can’t speak
except to hide your name in words

eyelashes flick
the tear stained
remembrance of your face

loving is the obscene
act that implodes a soul

whispers that cradle marrow
in the fullness of a moment
we were alive, and we knew it
we were awake, and we felt it
we were one, and we became it

insatiability of the heart
and how we remain
a marriage of want and furry

still alive inside,
creeping through thoughts
and echoed suggestions
pulling strings of conscious
thought into visible light


I am here, they say
I am substantial
I am important
I am beautiful

I look to you
in the mirror of your eye
and respond
Yes... yes
we are,
we are

become again with me
the definition of wholeness
a tangled union of words and arms
birthing creatures of light
into the spaces between




Another absence but thankful to be linking up, and in many ways coming home to Open Link Night @dVerse Poet's Pub. Spread the word tonight, we are waiting, word hungry and poetically proliferate. Join us, won't you?


~Apryl

A Mother's Armor

flawed conscience, negligence of intent

she has resolved acceptance of the imperfect

footsteps she has there left upon this dying planet

I see her there,

in that looking glass,

bending at the waist

drying freshly washed curves

like sun on stone after the rain

memorials etched there

by the ravages of life

this is not my body

she whispers as she traces

waterlines down her calf

with a terry cloth eraser

her hips,

soft, supple

flowing resonance

vessel of life,

see not this snapshot

and with it define yourself

marks in flesh as earth marred

by the raging waters of time

should the evidences of a life

lived be so unremarkable?

breasts once firm 

grow and release

liquid gold and with it she thrives

hips, nearly as round

as when cradled within

a babe yet born

skin, once clear and smooth

scarred, stretched, neglected

there are more important things

a mother’s armor

evidence of birth and of life

imperfect and altered

transcendent