there’s a fire in your bones
and you play with the flames
and I love just to watch
you make them dance
I have never seen you happier
than when you’re in that furnace
but when you’re struggling
and your body is tired
the sparks start to fade
and I wish I could light
the fire for you again.
There’s a wolf at my back —
bristling fur, thick and black, and she
lends her power to me.
At my side, you will see a bear —
shoulders strong — fierce, dark stare.
Nearby too, see her there — she is
lioness, courageous —
my friend. She loves my mess as though
it was her own, I know.
We stand. We fight. We grow — as one.
We’ll climb until we’re done,
and stand there in the sun. We’ll dance,
unbowed by circumstance.
No foe with sword or lance – could stop
our progress to the top.
Our gaze need never drop — our pride,
found only in our stride.
In love we are allied, and strong.
To us we each belong —
our truth is now the song of pack.
luc bat – (vietnamese “six-eight”) Alternating lines of 6 and 8 syllables. The rhyme scheme renews at the end of every 8-syllable line and rhymes on the 6th syllable of both lines. No set length or subject matter.
I’d give you my world, baby if I could.
take you on a trip through my lovely wood —
but the nightingale lost her voice today,
so your tears have fallen just as they should.
I know sometimes you must go your own way.
I can’t smooth your path, take your pain away.
Though you do not climb this mountain alone,
you must face your fears; you can win the day.
I will walk with you, over every stone,
lend my voice to cheer you on, when you groan.
I’ll wipe your tears, when it’s hard and you cry —
believe you can win this fight, blood and bone.
You’ll find your own wings, I’ll run as you fly,
race along the forest floor, watch the sky —
as you chase the nightingale, be nearby,
when you reach the moon, howl your lullaby.
interlocking rubaiyat – comprised of quatrains following an aaba rhyme pattern. Each successive quatrain picks up the unrhymed line as the rhyme for that stanza. So a three-stanza rubaiyat might rhyme so: aaba/bbcb/ccdc. Sometimes the final stanza, as in Frost’s example above, rhymes all four lines. Lines are usually tetrameter and pentameter.
I am fortunate to be in a new, long-term, romantic relationship with a fearless, beautiful, loving, polyamorous woman, who calls me her Mond (the German word for Moon.) I call her my Wolf. On one of our first dates, my she-Wolf and I watched the movie, Wild, with Reese Witherspoon in the lead role. Throughout her excellent performance, I was struck by the courage of Cheryl Strayed, who set out to conquer the Pacific Crest Trail, and succeeded, then wrote her memoirs about the life-changing experience of finding herself, and the woman her mother knew she could be.
I was also touched by the several literary references, the quotes of poetry, and the quotable passages from Cheryl’s book, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. It has now found it’s home on my ‘books to-be-read’ list. Watching the movie planted a seed in me. It made me ache to push and challenge myself in a new way. By the time it was finished, I was determined to find opportunities to ‘put myself in the way of beauty’.
I have, for too many years, been the girl who let her physical limitations get the best of her. I’ve been out of shape for a long time, and haven’t chosen to do much about it. I have been convinced that I couldn’t, and shouldn’t risk it, when it came to intense physical activity, and though I know that intensity is relative, what I previously considered too risky, and a bad idea, really isn’t. I’m learning I was wrong.
The past several weeks have been both wonderful, and deeply stressful, and that is nothing new. I’ve chosen a complex, crowded, polyamorous life, with a house full of my three adult children, a son-in-law, two grandsons, my husband, three pets, multiple polyamorous lovers and metamours, and often more people than beds or chairs in which to sit– and with it comes all the agony and ecstasy one person can hold.
I wouldn’t trade my life for the entire world.
The thing you should know about my she-Wolf is that she is strong, and fierce, and physical! She’s a master welder, a hiker, a runner, a primal, dominant woman who is most at home in the woods. Our very first date, we spent sitting on a huge bolder overlooking a ravine, and we talked about everything under the sun, as it set behind the trees. Even that evening, she challenged me to face my fear of heights, and trust her to keep me safe.
Her quiet strength has been something I needed before I ever knew I would. She came along and made a place in my heart and life, just in time to offer me a very different kind of strength from any other I know, which is remarkable, because I have several amazing, rewarding, romantic relationships with incredibly strong, smart people. I spent some time on the phone this morning with my she-Wolf’s wife — an equally beautiful, strong, intelligent woman, and we both agree — we are stronger, empowered beside her. She brings out belief in ourselves, and that is an incredible thing to discover next to someone so very generous and strong.
My she-Wolf pulls strength from me; she challenges me to be better, to try harder, and to attempt new things I wouldn’t have tried six months ago. In the past few weeks, because of her, I’ve found my feet climbing over stones and boulders, stepping around sleeping snakes and poison ivy, standing on remote, rocky paths through thick underbrush and magnificent trees — chasing sunlight, chasing shadows, chasing peace.
I’ve often sat listening in the woods — where the nearest human being was well out of sight and earshot. No doubt there were birds, snakes, beavers, mice, deer, badgers and a host of other animals much nearer than any person who might be able to hear my voice. I have found, as I stood or sat in this wilderness, I am mostly listening to myself. I have been pushing myself farther down the trail, deeper into the forest, stretching my sore muscles, and I’ve kept going when before, I might have given up and turned back.
It’s an amazing feeling to step off of the well-traveled road, and onto the rocky path through the trees like Robert Frost. It feeds my spirit to see such beauty — the sinking sun setting the the trees on fire, the stillness of a creek so placid that it mirrors the sky, the rocks that look like the back of some great dragon beneath the earth, and even the leaf-strewn dirt beneath my feet. It feels incredibly satisfying to challenge and push myself this way — and it is partly inspired by the way she looks at me, the way with all her strength and beauty, she believes in me. She makes me want to be a better version of myself, to be the stronger, brighter light she sees in me. I am different, because of who she is when she’s with me, who she is with everyone I’ve had the privilege to see and know, and that is the most incredible gift.
I am changing. As I mentioned, the days of my life are filled lately with turmoil. My family is fighting for one of our own, as she battles against insidious mental illness. There are days when I feel powerful and determined. There are also days when I am not sure how much more I can take. But I usually find strength I didn’t know I had. I love fiercely, and am well aware that the love I’m given strengthens me for the days ahead. I purposely step into the woods, once or twice a week, just to replenish the well of reserve that we, as a family, so desperately need.
I put myself in the way of beauty, and I find it… in the trees, and on the path, in the eyes of my She-Wolf, and in other lovers who are amazing in my world. I count my blessings, and I draw from the gifts I hold in my open hands. My life is changed, and I hope every day that the people I love, find beauty and strength in me — as I do in them.
I carry a photo of Pluto
tucked away inside my pocket
corners creased, colors fading
it reminds me of you
on the day we met
her, hand in hand
POETIC FORM: NONET
a 9-line poem that has 9 syllables in the first line, 8 syllables in the second line, 7 syllables in the third line, and continues to count down to 1 syllable in the final (9th) line.
She’s the squall that loves the dry-line,
begs him chase her from east to west.
With her stormy hips she teases,
draws his gaze, she’s working her spell.
He’s got swagger, keeps his cool–and
she’s the squall that loves the dry-line.
Blowing kisses, tossing her cape,
she invites him to come and dance.
Shaking moisture from her skirts, she
catches his eyes, flashing lightning.
She’s the squall that loves the dry-line–
wild, unstable–still he’s tempted.
This electric charge they share is
passion, stormy and explosive.
If you hear their cries, you’ll know her–
she’s the squall that loves the dry-line.
POETIC FORM: QUATERN
16 lines broken up into 4 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas). Each line is comprised of 8 syllables. 1st line is the refrain (R). In the 2nd stanza, the refrain appears in the 2nd line; in the 3rd stanza, the 3rd line; in the 4th stanza, the 4th (and final) line. There are no rules for rhyming or iambics.
POEM A DAY APRIL 2015 – PROMPT:
“For today’s prompt, write a work poem. For some folks, writing is work (great, huh?). For others, work is teaching, engineering, or delivering pizzas. Still others, dream of having work to help them pay the bills or go to all ages shows. Some don’t want work, don’t need work, and are glad to be free of the rat race. There are people who work out, work on problems, and well, I’ll let you work out how to handle your poem today.”
She dances with dolphins.
With glee, she skips and grins under
a sky bright with wonder.
She does not fear thunder or rain.
She dances through her pain.
She knows the sun, again will shine.
The hurt cannot define
her dance. She’ll be just fine. She spins.
luc bat – (vietnamese “six-eight”) Alternating lines of 6 and 8 syllables. The rhyme scheme renews at the end of every 8-syllable line and rhymes on the 6th syllable of both lines: xxxxxA, xxxxxAxB, xxxxxB, xxxxxBxC, xxxxxC, xxxxxCxD, xxxxxD, xxxxxDxE. No set length or subject matter.
Disclaimer: This post is intimate, and somewhat graphic, discussing a new lover,
and the manner of our love-making. If that might offend you or make you
uncomfortable, skip this one. I'll never know, and I'll still love you if you do!
I am nearly fifty, and I finally love the skin I’m in, middle-aged, scarred, buxom, zaftig, curvy, delicious, sexy… this is my body. Like many humans, there are parts that amaze me, and parts that I’m not the most happy with. This body has served me well, and I’ve not always treated it nicely.
And still, these incredible parts…
I have a pretty face, thick, long hair, big green eyes, full lips, freckles, a smile that catches attention. I have full, middle-aged breasts, that are giving in to gravity. They fed children more than twenty years ago, along with the wide hips that bore them, carried them, nudged them along, the legs that gave them, a comfy lap for cuddling, and the rounded shoulders that supported their sleepy heads, and absorbed their tears. Today those hips, legs, shoulders, breasts, eyes, lips and smile can seduce a man, and drive him wild.
I also have those parts I find less sexy, feet that carry the weight of me through each day, from the moment I get out of bed in the morning, until I slip back between the sheets at night, and well, they’re feet. I have a belly, too — round and jiggly, scarred with stretch marks, it is a reminder not only of motherhood, but of many decisions to indulge, and not nearly as many to do crunches. I don’t regret those choices, all the time, but I do see the results, and I’m not sure that belly is my sexiest part.
Today though, my mind is slowly changing… I have a new lover, and he is… hungry. He is primal, yet gentle. His kisses make me weak in the knees. He calls me “baby-girl” and growls at me. He caresses and leaves bruises, and our lovemaking is breathless, intense, filled with exclamations of surprise and repeated requests to “do that again.” He makes me feel beautiful, powerful, weak and hungry too.
And he kisses me… everywhere… even those not-so-sexy-to-me parts. He moans in pleasure, whispers desire, he pulls me to him in the middle of the night just to feel my skin against his. He touches me, to satisfy his hunger and mine. He worships my toes, the balls of my feet, and he kisses my round, worn belly, over and again, like I’m some ancient fertility goddess.