Day 39

It is hard for me to focus on my 365 Day Project on Mondays; too much work.Tonight Emma called and asked me to come and visit, so, this posting will be just photos and a poem.



A Path Lit By The Moon

I draw the child’s yard.
That’s my picture,
her scenery.

She draws a picture.
She advances from scribble
to Mommy and Daddy,
the cat and me

I draw the child’s landscape
where she finds her pirate ship
becomes “mommy”

She draws the picture
giving clues to
the unseen.

She uses her magic fingers.
Collects her wits around her.
Unleashes her tensions.
Screams with delight.

Another word for God is hope
That deep desire that all
will turn out well
That the moon
china white - full
announces a peaceful night.

II
The china white moon
stands watch over
my dreams tonight.

The moon is my canopy
blessing me.
Another word for hope is God.

Bone china cups
fragile with a thin gold line
around the rims,
line my Mother’s pantry cupboards.
Another word for routine is comfort.

Bone china harvest moon
no longer full
illuminates the path
of my dreams.

A train comes through the
cafeteria. I board it
leaving my food behind
and then I cry out.
“No I don’t want to leave
the safety of my dining area.”

In my dreams, I’ve never been
To anywhere I do not know.
Yet, I do not know these buildings.
I do not know this geography.
They appear Southern to me.
I just feel the gray
illumination of the
bone china moon.
My dreams collapsing
on one another.
My dreams screaming
to be heard - to be
known by me - known by
my heart.

My heart screams
out “let go of it all.
Accept the new path.
Accept the moon’s light,
Forget the sun for awhile.”

I think I should be more afraid
I’m not. I’m nervous,
I am unsure.
Can I follow
the path in moonlight?

I draw the picture of her scenery
I didn’t draw my own.
I didn’t know what it looked like.


She draw the picture
of her Mother’s breast
It’s full nipple leading
straight up to her.
wrestling with magic.

III
Portions are too small.
They’ve been minimized.
Cut apart to the point
where they almost don’t
matter any longer.
Eroded - taken down,
particle of sand
by particle of sand.

Portions of love.
Portions of grief.
Portions of kindness,
Of sweetness,
Of you.

They’ve been beaten on
like smashing a slice of veal
They’ve trimmed away,
toned down, made tepid,
diluted.
Trained to only speak
when spoken to.
They’ve been cauterized.
Burnt to a small sealed tip,
clamped, buried,
sawed off.
Chomped on.

Portions are too small.
Nutrition removed.
Depth erased.
Hills flattened.

IV

I draw the picture
Of our safety.
The long full swing
that sways back and
forth into the pine.

You draw the picture
of our unity,
listening to the
path lit by the moon.