Beyond these two hands, I have nothing to offer. I know not of the puddles that blear your vision, but I will learn of those clouds that bind them. I cannot mend your seared valleys, that are now subdued to tarnished rage, but I will give you the soles of my feet, although calloused, they will sheath you from the blistering ashes, because beyond these 2 hands, I have nothing to offer. On days that the night’s sky, bellows deep, where the ache of your limbs flow into your marrow, lay your heart upon my knees, and I will strum you my song- playful, and steady. I will recite in prose, and verse from soliloquies of Neruda, and Rumi, in hopes you will dream of all the ways I will adorn you, but if I was to promise you the sun, and moon, then I will swallow this Love, unworthy of your truth. I can offer you my embrace- strong, and warm. I can share with you my laughter- feral, and free. And I will show you my roughened patches, scarred by broken paths, because beyond these two hands, I have nothing to offer.
I have this mattress
that I believe you would weigh down nicely-
it invites me night,
after night, dissolving the roughened rime on my chest,
that has gathered all too quickly
my body’s scent roams unbound
filling every crevice of this bed
in pursuit of another fragrance to rub unto my skin
I wonder then of the concave arch of your belly,
the greeting of your steel navel onto mine,
your fingers drumming against the bones of my hips
pounding within my thighs
I know of your hunger,
of the lion that rumbles in the dark,
awaiting patiently to let loose of a selfless love,
and I want to let you in,
uninhibited by the touch of laden ghosts
to take your lips between my teeth…
…filling our mouths with a deeper truth,
while our sweet oils flow harder…
taking you in
s l o w l y,
with every lick… nibble… and breath…
giving the birthmark on your fist,
each nail bed,
each crimson polished toe,
the unreserved attention, and submission they deserve;
a low reverberating sigh stains my throat-
…six… more… months…
the trees fall inward,
the sky hangs heavy, and gluttonous,
ready to bleed naked
it’s six AM, and the truths of last night’s Sangria and Jameson,
squeeze unto my chest,
flummoxed by the arduous praxis of missed verbal keys,
and highlighted projected actions
I am lost in the commotion of the Long-ago,
of the little aches I know so well-
but your touch upon my knee startles my wake,
holding my gaze unto your frame,
puzzling over the taste of your lips
I wince at my vulnerability,
And pull back as the softening of my heart unravels
I am at your door,
turning the knob towards my escape, leaving the image of you,
nestled softly, between sheets and dreams
the crumpling of Forget-Me-Nots echo beneath my fleeting steps,
furthering the space between us
but in the dark, your fingers cradled mine,
the pressing of palm to palm, index to thumb, thumb to thumb
your hand sifting through the tangles, and twists of the strands of my hair-
parting a path of blue breezes, and unmapped caves
I am not a mystery shrouded by diversions, and ploys of amusement,
just a girl, drifting from the depth of a beaten daisy-field,
learning, and re-learning of her actions done, and undone,
figuring where your light fits into my shadows
And so, I ask this of You,
forgive me for the words that cannot spill onto my tongue, but rather,
filter into your sight
Dr. Maya Angelou’s words and actions have been a source of inspiration, strength, healing, and above all, joy- “to laugh as much as I cry.” May we continue to celebrate her life beyond death.
“Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.
Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin — find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that it was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.
When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we’re capable of, how…
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I allow a select few within my walls, only because I know that everyone eventually leaves.
the sort of want that does not involve the commercialization of celebrating your significant other’s worth one day out of the year; the sort of want that is more than heart-shaped balloons, and “Be Mine” posters; the sort of want that comes from your smile, and the loud beep of your 5 a.m. text messages
I want us to be human, I want to argue, I want to hear about your Petty Officer yelling at you, about how you scream your last name with pride when there are only two people in the group, about your complaints of always being cold and hungry. I want stories of how you called your Shipmate “Four-eyes” and have your Petty Officer question you with those same four-eyes, of how being homesick gets into your bones, of how you get goose bumps when you watch the Niners play, of sleep-deprived Watches and Duty Days that make you fall asleep during muster, yet going about your daily grind because this is the path you chose, of how the tone of your voice changes from excitement to protective when you reveal too much of who you are, because these seemingly colorless moments are meaningful when filtered through the eyes of someone I care about. I want more than a Valentine’s Day… breathing sustenance into otherwise humdrum instances.
More than a Valentine’s Day is this: commuting to work knowing that someone cares whether or not you got enough sleep; understanding that you can wear your big thick glasses and have that person still think you’re adorable in a nerdy sort of way; of thinking you don’t have too much in common, but your conversations can be endless. More than a Valentine’s Day is when the ache of not seeing Her grows, but refusing to see anyone else because she is the only one you want; of when weekends, and weekdays are one and the same because all you do is wait for when you can see Her again. More than a Valentine’s Day can be directionless, where conversations can be mostly of each other saying “huh? What did you say? I can’t hear you” and what drives you to carry on.
…yeah… I want more than a Valentine’s Day.