Many conversations on the topic of love with those who denounce it as if they’ve resisted its pull
When I close my eyes to dream I don’t recognize the woman I see. Her long hair flows softly with the breeze, as she stands barefoot on the beach. Not a bikini-clad, sun goddess but a free-spirited bohemian princess. Her crooked, gap-toothed smile lights up her face as she warmly greets passersby. Not with a simple hello, but a sincere, “How are you today?” Her golden brown eyes reflect the light of the sun, as though the depth of her mind did not exist. Not a reflection of no cares in the world, but freedom from the prison of her thoughts. Her round hips sway as she strolls, as if she’s dancing to a private song. Not quite a salsa, not quite a samba, but a rhythm all her own. She is a familiar stranger that I’d like to know; she is the me, I want to be.
Reflected in his eyes: my beauty. His gaze, intense, as it softly strokes my hair, lightly kisses my lips, buries itself in the depths of my soul as it worships my breasts. I feel its caresses as it navigates my curves, explores all of me, before finding my center, craving its taste, yearning to dwell in its warmth, allowing me to see that I am beautiful. Felt through his skin: my beauty. His touch, electric, as it softly strokes my hair, lightly kisses my lips, nibbles my ears, buries itself in the depths of my soul as it worships my breasts. I feel its caresses as it navigates my curves, explores all of me, before finding my center, craving its taste, yearning to dwell in its warmth, making me feel that I am beautiful. Spoken in his silence: my beauty. His passion, transcended, softly whispering, as it tells me that I am beautiful. Originally published in SQ Chronicles
The LDS religion, of which I was a member for many years, believes that family history is important. They have one of, if not the, largest number of genealogical records in the world. But they’re not just about researching your ancestry, they also advocate that an individual write his or her history for their progeny. To this end, they’re big proponents of journaling. Though it’s been years and years since I’ve been a member of the religion, I’m still very thankful that journaling was a part of my youth. I have journal after journal full of…well…teenage angst. Reading them is an embarrassing trip back through my history, and a reminder that I too was once a self-involved, insecure, know-it-all, wanna-be grown up. It had been a few years since I read them, but a few months ago I got them out of storage and found this little ditty. One of my very first poems. Yeah, teenagers those days… P.S. Hope you appreciate the very 80s Jane Fonda video reference I’ve Got to Stop Eating Food …
I was once land of the free, home of the brave. I was a pillar of strength. I welcomed and nurtured you, though none of you were my own. I brought you up to have pride, to build a legacy of hard work and innovation. Though you were all different, your love for me had the power to bring you together. Ten years ago today, I was attacked. The injuries devastating, incomprehensible, meant to tear you, my children, apart. For a moment your love for me prevailed as you put aside your differences to be by my side, to support me, to save me. But it was short lived. Your love turned to sadness and your pride into anger as you looked around suspiciously questioning who belonged by my side. You rushed to claim my name and my riches as your brothers and sisters became ‘the other.’ Your attention wavered as fear took control leaving me to die a little every day and now? Now, I am merely a memory. Distorted versions of me used …
Time passes as the rusting armor encasing me, protecting my wounded heart, shields us from storms. Its lock impenetrable. Then… You, a surprise. Your words earn the key. Your smile turns the lock. Your love is a light that cloaks me in warmth. But in time your light begins to blind me. The temperature rises until I am burning. I push you away, cowering back into the armor that also locks me away from the sunshine. Confined in solitary safety.
Early morning and I sit on my favorite hill feeling the softness of the breeze on my cheek I see its quiet strength as it sways the branches on the trees and I am still I look out in the distance where I catch the sun sneak behind the clouds that softly float over the beautiful skyline made of concrete and steel and I am still while the joggers and the walkers and their dogs run and stroll by I am still and I see that this is life this being this doing it seems so simple from where I sit as I watch while I am still but it’s more than being and doing because we’re complex for in between the being there is joy and there is pain and there is laughter and there are tears and I am overcome with both as the breeze softly caresses my cheek while life happens around me as I am still