Windows and walls…..

amarylis blog

I want my life to be an open window
like the Irregardless of my childhood,
an artisan eatery in my hometown that became a sort of soul tattoo
and warmed my spirit like a cold frame
until my roots could grapple into roomier ground.

Wintertime sunshine poured through tall,  rough hewn windows
lined with green and growing things spilling from cracked pots with mottled glazes;
the raw beauty of their imperfection sang me open,
a fresh and fragrant living painting that infused my hope
and marked me.

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The food was poetry…….farmer’s market marries Van Gogh
and I marveled at the vibe and variety
as if watching new colors being born.
But the glory of the place,
where the creativity angels seemed to gather,
was the bathroom.

I’d slide away from my table and my lemon tahini
and fairly skip down the narrow hallway
to let my soul marinate in the sanctuary
of that tiny room I loved,
because every morsel of wall was splashed with a mural
so bold and daring and brilliant and expressive
it seemed to sing out loud in it’s ebullience,
someone’s heart poured out on walls;
and it made the rest of the world seem dredged in flour and fried up gray.

blog waterfall
But here,  gardens blossomed and spilled,  unconstricted,
down cinderblock and mortar
and became grafted into my sense of possibility.
I wanted this.
I want it still.

And sometimes now,  when life slaps me silly and I startle,
curling up tight for control,
I can unfurl again into that herby,  loamy smelling place of freedom
that got inside me then and something wildly fearless
gently stretches where my vision’s getting pinched
until it begins to reach out again beyond lines
that seem to be closing in
and I rethink walls.

They are just walls.

angel blog

“To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.”
-Emily Dickenson

 This is a re-write,  served up fresh again with some new ingredients,
because I needed to go there again.  Hope you enjoy:)
And I’ll be sending a copy of my little zine,  Ripplesongs,  to Donna Hopkins;
thanks for all the wonderful comments I got to plop into the hat!

windows and walls…..


I want my life to be an open window
like the Irregardless of my childhood,
a Raleigh restraunt that became something of a cold frame
that warmed my spirit to sprouting
like the ones I munched on my beanburger

Winter sunshine poured in through tall rough hewn windows
lined with life in pots glazed with earthy whimsy.
To my young eyes,  it was a living painting
built by “artists and hippies”
with fresh flavors and fascinating fragrance
that seeped into every pore of my soul
and marked me.

The food was poetry …farmers market marries Van Gogh
and I marveled at every particle
as if watching a new color being born.
But the glory of the place,
where the creativity angels seemed to gather,
was the bathroom.

I’d slip away from the table and my lemon tahini
and fairly skip down the narrow hallway
to let my soul marinate
in the sanctuary.

 I loved that tiny room with the high ceiling.
Every square inch was splashed with a mural
so bold and daring and brilliant and expressive
it seemed to sing out loud
in it’s ebullience
…spirit wine freshly shaken and uncorked,
someone’s heart poured out on walls.
It made the rest of the world seem dredged in gray flour
and fried up cold and bland.

 But here, gardens blossomed and spilled
unconstricted down cinderblock and mortar
and became grafted into my sense of possibility.
I wanted this.
I want it still.

And sometimes now,
when headache and hassle and disappointment
feel like icebergs ripping into my hull,
I close my eyes and remember that herby, loamy smell of freedom
that got inside me then.

 And something wildly fearless pokes fun again
at the perfectionism dogging me,
gently stretching my vision-gone-narrow
until it begins to reach out again beyond walls
that seem to be closing in
and I rethink walls.

They are just walls.

(this is a re-write…. whisked and sauteed and served up fresh;
I send you love and bright hope
for open windows and fresh breeze.

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