Bird In Hand

I take the day in my hands and hold it like a little bird,
Sing baby, sing to me
Its heart beats staccato against my palm,
The sky fills with clouds at its trembling feathers
I set it free

I take my love in my hands and hold him with warm thunder,
Come closer, love me more
He expands to meet me, and his skin tears at the thin spots,
My heart comes down like a gavel
I set him free

I take my life in my hand and hold it like a filthy rag,
Leave me, i’m so tired
I see the paint, the spots worn through
My blood is umber stains on faded cloth
I tuck it back in my pocket

The world takes me in its hands and holds me like a little bird,
Hushabye, dear one, shhh
I see your pain and rage and promise, your terrible beauty
My heart explodes, my mouth opens in song
I am set free

The Very Bearable Lightness of Being

There is no perfection only life
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of BeingWell then. I’m here today, and although i’m so self-focused that i can tell you how that is in a literal way –i mean, that’s kinda what my blog IS, isn’t it– i still find it a sign and a wonder. A sign and a wonder.

Yes, i’m very aware from whence those words come. I’m doing my own thing with ’em.

**********

I was cursed from birth by my own lifegiver, but here i am, and i am not who i was supposed to be.

Her blood in my veins was a poison, her breath in me was a pall.

I cut myself open, deep, sucked out the venom, and spat it on her grave.
I dragged my slow body outside to breathe fresh air and purge her pollution.

And i stand, not who she tried to make me.

A sign and a wonder to my descendants and all who know me and want to know.
Born a slave. Made to serve.

And yet i stand, free.

I chewed through my own bonds and escaped into the desert.
I drank the heat of the sun, my mouth full of sand.

Stumbling, often crawling through the shifting lands, sometimes blinded by the stinging grit. My skin baked, then burned and blistered, then sloughed.

And i stand, no concubine nor consort.

A sign and a wonder. A new being, birthed from my own death, a servant only to myself and my sweet abortion.

Glowing flesh, blood of gold, gossamer wings, crown of light.
My own Saviour.
Sandals by Adidas.

Chubby little fists held tight by hands but a little bigger, and on.
Spanning our hand-in-hand across our intended desolation, until

HERE I STAND

Promised Land.

I release my descendants from their destiny of servitude.
By my emancipation, so too are you freed.

Look upon me, for i am a sign and a wonder.

Not a warning, but a jubilant proclamation that all might stand and be free.

Walk with me a while, if you would, for my wings aren’t quite dry.

 

A single metaphor can give birth to love.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being