Pigeon Heart Ponderings

I lined myself up to knock em’ all down & all that came out was a squeak. A peep of balloon’s last fart of air. I thought I would have more to say than a solid start with a sentence that led nowhere. I even signed up for a group that I thought would have some golden-rope-effect; me sitting pretty, the top of my head open with willingness, & the thoughts magnetized to the lure- streaming out. But instead, it’s another morning in the big, purple chair, with the lazy sun hidden behind the sky’s thick morning gray at my back, the rain dancing through my ears, cold, pointy, defying prediction- & me- empty as a tin can at a landfill once the gulls have cleaned me out. Just waiting for a few beans to reappear.

A few blocks away lives a fellow with a bumper sticker on his bike that reads “fuck cancer”. Hell yeah, fuck that shit. I hope it can read. I want to make one that says “fuck writer’s block”. I know it can read, & it would be just as affective.

It’s not really fair that the slice of day between dusk & dawn is so thin. That patina silver color right when your body starts to come out of rest that holds the most magic for us who wish to put our words somewhere. Illusive coyote. Standing in the mist. I know where to find them, but the timing has to be right.

Fuck writer’s block, you know? What a diva too. All washed out & nothing left to write about but that. Must be nice to feel so important, you heavy rock in the road, you stone formed entirely for toe stubbing, you garden gravel that all the decomposers live actively beneath. I want in.

Is this a Big Tea Conspiracy? The herbs are steeped & a full mug is balanced precariously with a hopeful trust between my arm & though as I put these paper-thin thoughts down. Is this a ploy to get us to drink more tea & that’s it? Have I fallen for the rouse? Making tea & curling up has often proven the gateway to a poem. They seem good bedmates & hadn’t questioned authority for once.

Is this where scatting came from? A stubborn loss of words coupled with an equally strong desire to speak or sing them? Just letting words fly for exercise & the sake of things;
I don’t know anymore than I used to have more things to say that held hands in the weirdest of ways, & it worked, & if I’m not a poet I no longer know one of my own names. I’m here all dressed up for the party, drinking punch alone, waiting for a dance, dancing by myself.

I guess it’s ok to write another poem about autumn. There are countless leaves that fall & no one says “ooh- another leaf. Ok, I get it.” with any kind of spite. Or maybe there’s someone out there that does. And means it. There’s always someone who doesn’t think of life as precious, or doesn’t take the liberty to check in, periodically to the ever-present-potential-of-wow. This is why I walk. I’m a wow hunter. A wow seeker. It’s not a stabby thing. It’s not a “slay all day” kind of thing. It’s a marvel of things. At things. With names. With feelings. It’s hold-an-apple-and-press-it-to-my-nose-&-appreciate-the-temprature-of-it-&-the-weight-of-it-&-the-smell-of-it-before-taking-a-bite. It’s an indulgent type of thing. Prolonged indulgence. It’s for those of us who open the largest present last. It’s a wake-up-at-leisure-come-morning-&-paddle-to-the-kettle-&-force-myself-to-keep-it-slow, maintaining promises of weekend tea time, in chair, with new-day-sily-sky illuminating the room from behind me, in front of me casting soft shadows from my cold feet by forgotten sock promises but it’s ok because I know it’s good to feel the elements beyond my comfort by small margins at least. It’s a lean-in kind of thing.

The crows sound like they know it’s the time of equinox. What do the mostly blushing, bright orange, orbs that appear like loose clockwork upon everyone’s doorsteps with curious cut-outs mean to them? I am suddenly struck with a deep sadness in never being able to truly be wise to nostalgia in crows. Or much else for that matter. Will I ever know what it’s like to have a wild bird land on me -both of us in good health- as an act of trust? So many honors in one lifetime to achieve.

Last night I put on a long, black dress, red lipstick, & knee-highs & went to the ballet. The playbill said it was a men’s ballet, because it was Dracula; featuring death, immortality, menace, an unspecified but ever growing amount of brides… A man’s ballet. I peeked at every dancer’s uncovered areas best I could, hungry to see their skin; their muscles working at optimum levels; imagining going home & kicking so high & elegantly in the privacy of my own living room, by candle light, or no light at all; wishing for a personal trainer of such caliber; amazed by the beauty of gathering & synchrony; of the deep need to connect movement to music; of envy at others knowing their path so early on. The air outside rang of the season, & yes- hoards of crows silhouetting across the blue pallet of night.

One of my healthiest-consuming friends suggested we get hot chocolate. I will keep her words like a replenishing hall pass & trade it in soon enough. Maybe twice. Or thrice.

So far no mice here, but I wonder if squirrels will use my house as a cold night refuge. Maybe I’m a season ahead of myself. I’ve grown wise to the shallow tunnels they’ve dug in the garden I planted; upending new seeds taking root in premature aeration. I guess they know better than I. Now is the time to plant bulbs & soon will be for garlic. I got the braiding kind & will plant it on Halloween, rain or shine.

The trees are just beginning to turn. My heart feels suspended & I love this side of myself. I love knowing that I will be buoyed in a calm, continuous, slow burn of inspiration & joy, reliably during this time of year. It’s upon me now. And I’m honoring the chair beneath me even though my feet want to go outside already.

I already made soup this week. And I got my mind on squash & squash on my mind. And pies. I hardly make pies, but in my imagination I am a pie person who brings pies to my neighbors. I want to find pie-time. Time seems to be the hardest thing for me to find or get to work with me. Mental note to conduct a poll to see if anyone has not enough, perfect amount, or too much.

Time to go take my dog out to run in the fresh, crisp air.

Find yourself a field sometime in the morning when the sun is new to the day, about 3 fingers above the horizon. Find yourself a field that’s wide open where you can walk with your eyes closed, where there’s no fear of bumping into anything. Walk, walk, & keep walking. Your mind will relax, your eyes will soften in their sockets, & your cells will soon, surprisingly, somehow accept safety. A recipe as sure as plum preserve.

You’ll begin acquainting with emerging patterns that only neutral eyes resting can offer, of puddles & pools that look like Larimar stone & Caribbean Sea & Water & the whole wide Earth. You’re looking without looking. Blindness cosplay? A romanticized version, perhaps. More data needed.

Welcome to the softest trust building exercise training you’ve ever attempted. Corporate could never. It’s just you- all feet. Heal toe. Feeling steps slow, tuning into breath, giving sight a break- to see what happens. There is room for play & exploration here. I want to offer the suggestion of finding a goal point in the distance- closing eyes once again, walking towards said point, & after a while checking to see if you’ve walked that way at all. An experiment with no necessary reason. To put you in touch.

Like eating food with your fingers. Slow appreciation growing in wide open spaces.

Easy on the eyes.

Massages for all. I want you to imagine. If we were really looking to solve the world’s problems this would have to be one of the agreed decrees. People calmed from the safety of touch. Almost a mother’s substitute. An in-the-moment blanket of security, soothing all our inner & outer bruised, harmed places long enough to resolve some of the damage. Neutralizing. Thick ice cube to warm palm. Ben Gay to grandma legs. An understood nicety, too lush to be overlooked; too encompassing… though it’s a wonder how some can take stand in a hot shower, not singing hallelujah through most of it. Witnessing someone eating layer cake while scowling: so sacrilegious. What fountain of fortune for one be swimming in to take such things for granted. Kicking up pure quarters in their wake, sans collection.

Imagine yourself in my shoes where we share the pair & find ourselves at a poetry reading with the poet 1 window above the street, driven to reenact a game show segment where we have to guess what strange item was going to be coming out of that window. Spoiler: it’s a giant broom crafted from collected scraps gathered from the city dump because de’d been sanctioned access through a grant that allowed the recipients entry for 6 months to glean with intent to create. It took a long long time to emerge in full, a la clown car releasing more red nose clad painted faces full of polkadots & wigs; a la bottomless mimosa brunch; a la Walgreens receipt of human height; ever more feet of broom handle & eventually bristles came out & out. It ticked my memory back to the wild horses of Puerto Rico with their colossal penises that wouldn’t be fair to draw because they’d seem a gross exaggeration but were in truth bigger that anything you’re picturing.
Later that night I dreamt clearly of a man unhoused, who had a pushcart of items I could not decipher, and the massive broom in tow. The 3 things that hung around my mind once I’d awoke: face & broom & being alone. Shirt: dirty red. Eyes: sad blood blue. The broom in my dream went all the way down the block, rustling leaves in its wake. The things we carry. Humans need to be weighted down sometimes. Tethered to something.

I used to entertain many more fantasies than I do now currently; the dial gets dimmed down in step with the hard knocks that bang into & ding the reality of an idealistically inclined mind, & then swells up again in direct proportion to positive experience, or the impossible seeming, serendipitous surprise alignings just shy of proof of the hand of God. Or maybe 24 karat proof, or palladium proof. Or that IS actually God, right there- moving the chips.
I’ll make room to allow the image of the world being different if everyone would just stretch their bodies more. Or imagine everything being different if people would be less inhibited about singing where & when they want. Or dancing like their feet were padded in clouds & everyone thought their every move was the most beautiful, unique physical expression ever to be witnessed, or they felt entirely private so to be entirely uninhibited & could let their inner phoenix soar higher than the tallest Redwood ever to be. Or imagine everything different if we could somehow have a National Day of Diplomatic Honesty- where we talk to those in our cypher of each other’s short comings in supportive ways, & can hang it up to be able to take the constructive criticism in step & without insult, because it is the day of growth, communication, respect & introspection… or perhaps the introspection would be the prequel to NDDH. It’s all on the drafting table. The drafting table is in the sunniest room in the house, with old, healthy, potted plants who stretch their leaves window-ward to the bright view of the sea below where breeching whales, & kites being flown by encouraged children from good families.
When I was a young girl first learning of the Holocaust & still having a closet full of homemade dresses- I would allow myself the fantasy of sitting in a room with a mean Nazi man. I was cognizant enough to know that a one on one experience with an innocent child in a lovingly made dress by her own mama in an isolated instance could help the man see humanity. Even with a figurative gold star. The power of such intimacy- recognized by a kid so filled with hope that there could be a better way.
Familiarity begets empathy. This could never be overstated.

So familiarity & touch. Have we whittled things down to the most basic of needs this way? I want to feel more certain, because I’m sewing something that I do not want to rip; something that we could all put on. Does such fabric exist? What thread is strong enough? We’ll know by the fit.

There is this game where 2 (or more) people say anything out loud at the same time that comes to mind. It can be any noun, any adjective, any small sentence or description. The objective is then to step closer together in the universe of possibilities by finding the middle concept between what’s been said.
——-
example 1:
Player 1 says “stampede”
Player 2 says “a butterfly landed on me”
The middle might be “meadow”.
——-
example 2:
Player 1 says “pouring rain”
Player 2 says “gilded mirror”
Might the middle not be “puddle” or lead it’s way to “reflection”?
*This is the 1st time I’ve played with myself.
——-
example 3:
Player 1 says “pontificate”
Player 2 says “well I’ll be”
This is where players will have to *at the same time* begin spouting words after 1,2,3, to meet in the middle, eventually.
One might offer “thoughts”, “pondering”, “opinion”, “sermon”.
These words will then lead to another destination that is unattached from the original word.
It’ll sometimes lead through a vacation out of the cosmos, but hang tight: you’ll get home together.
There is a metaphor in this, & like every foreign film I’ve respected for not spelling out the conclusion; I’ll leave you to interpreting your own design.

This morning was an early one. I awoke before sunrise, when the darkness molecules were all still packed tightly in the room together. Slowly watched the tree silhouette emergence- contrasting against a small grey sky, the size of a window- that would hold not a bell or whistle for the fancy sunrise show I’d hoped for.
I lay in the dark flirting with poetry.

A candle really knows what to do. How to light up a room. 1 flame! 1 flame can really remind you that fire is a relative of the sun. Every candle burning- the baby brother…
Commanding the room as we speak. Trimming the wick is akin to sunscreen. Everything requires at least a moderate amount of care to be it’s best.
I do not want to imply that it is Human intervention required for all to function best; au contraire. And still, there is an operating system far beyond our hands.

Our hands come in so many forms. Care. Desperation. Greed. Concern. Curiosity.
To touch the earth with only presence. With only love. That’s the best one.

How to get back to that middle place.

The west facing, pale yellow back room of my house is bordered with plants & keeps warm in the warm months .
The light feels doubled in there, & it’s wise to request specific positioning from whomever is looking east; use their head to block the sun. This’ll light up ears though. Rudolph adjacent.
It can be hard to take conversation there seriously.

I left home to listen & to talk to others, & met a poet I admire in a bar. She wears dresses in real life too. I searched the moment for normalcy & wound up offering a quick quip I’d picked up in a class on pathogens, about not touching wet things if you don’t know their origin story. My brain defaulting to an awkward dance I’ve been unlearning the steps of since the world took to life behind masks, uncertainty & over-tenderness.
Be careful what you say to poets- every stitch can be fodder. I was not looking to feed.

I heard an interview with a singer/songwriter who likened his writing flow to that of being a court stenographer; when he’d uncovered a vein & a song emerged- he was hard pressed to keep up. I’ve ridden that river before. I don’t visit enough to to be carried. The shore is one I’ve come to countless times. Take me, waters. I am yours.

There’s still sand & very fine particulate matter between my toes from very possibly very distant shores. To think there are swells that carry shipwrecked contents to dump all on one beach. 1,000 Hello Kitty phones for a 2 mile stretch of coastline. Plastic or shells. To think what beachcombers are privy to in the earliest parts of sunrise. To think we’re all made of star dust.

You never know how your influence may reverberate. Everything has an echo. I heard of a cat who slept in the same position as its dearly departed dog friend only after the dear dog had departed this bodied life. I can catch my phrasing coming from my friends. I’ve imprinted. Who do I parrot, unknowingly?

The sun is in repose now, in this corner of world. No need for bodily inadvertent illumination, lest you count shining a flashlight to spy on the family of raccoons climbing to their home post to settle in for the night, or to snack on high hanging fruit in our yard. They’re not quiet, but are indeed deceptively adorable looking. I love to catch their eyes flashing. They roost on my garage; sleep on one side, shit on the other. Another argument for rain. When I work in the garage I can hear the sudden drop of falling apples. The sound of seasons. The staccato percussion of slow poetry. The occasional scampering of tiny footsteps – far smaller than the 4 legged bandits.
Those plants in that pale yellow room are cozy, tucked into pots respectfully. None are root bound, all drink on Sundays to a consistent hand. Still- they know what time it is, flowering on point & shedding with their outdoor brethren, passively absorbing the good western light as the old day tucks itself away. And darkness threads together to coat the day.

Bodies. Bodies & their susceptibility to suggestion.
Bodies without brains, all on their lonesome are the most gullible things; no minds to reckon.

Disagree with me? When you’re sandwiched between dreamlike states with a level of 10% awakeness- your body will believe anything.
Having to pee is confusing.
A sweaty partner can draw reason that you’re in an inferno. There’s just no sense.

The rains
-once they begin for 2 consecutive days-
in a rainy climate;
even if the rest of the forecast shows all sun & blue skies-
our bodies take on this dumb readiness. Cravings for tea overwhelm. The drive to go out passed sundown retreats yet further. We begin to crave pants desperately.
In spite of 1 final month of summer.

Summer- how long & short of a thing. How I want you & how I fear you.
Are you my daddy?

This body- my body- is all mixed up. My brain: protecting from future thought; trying not to allow a settling in of concern. Dusting my bones at night lest worry seat itself the cracks.
Deep at night there’s always more room for such unfortunate phenomena.

To think of what goes on between so many ears, behind equal amounts of eyes- when the lights are off.
When the brains are on.
When guards are down.
Such a pity to have more woes moments that wow moments.

I took a poll today, asking how people were & gave 4 answers:
1 I feel really good
2 neutral
3 I’ve got a worried mind
4 just went through it & am on the other side.
21%, 24%, 41%, 15% respectively

Most of us, closing in on 1/2 are plagued with roving emotions.
This is great tragedy & takes toll on our body who is arguably the sidekick to the mind. Whoa.
How to be a better boss: remember this:

Our worries are very seldom the outcome.