Author: _emilyjean

After the wound comes 
there is a closing -- 
a furious knitting together,
haphazard chaos to make new again 
tough layers of scar to never crack
only shrinking inward
curled up and turned to stone 

After the wound comes 
pain with stretch with 
unfurling the the limbs of your
body, with moving freely
invisible lines bind
and constrict

I beg of you -- 
roll the stone of your body to the shore
rest there, in the warm sand
stay awhile and let your weight
sink deeper
until, radiant, you are ready to join the water
let the creatures there say hello
allow the sunset in through
that small crack where your center once was,
hum a low note and feel it ripple outward
let the crack widen and the calloused layers fall away
let the soft waves unfurl your limbs
and open your eyes to sky as the 
water combs your hair. 
Emerge as something new. 

Published in Issue 23 of Poetry Hall

On Earth we need drums with which to
call back to the cosmos.
What comes from leaping stone to stone 
across a melting mountain flood,
the sense of suspensory electricity
before lightning strikes
(which we all sense when palms touch),
the constellations of light in each iris,
which holds its own personal mythology,
waiting to be unlocked.

What we need is a call and response
an echo of drums across the canyon
a satellite sending signals out into the universe
asking - Am I really here? 
And, from solar systems away,
Here I am. Really.
Here. 

Published in Issue 23 of Poetry Hall

Writing prompt “To live in this world you must be able to do three things...” from the poem “Blackwater Woods”by Mary Oliver from American Primitive.

To live in this world
you will swallow oceans
will ebb and flow with the tides like the saline creature you are
will cough stones from your throat
to unlock a wild song.

To live in this world
you will radiate light,
to see your path and to guide others,
will acknowledge that light may waver but will not go out.

To live in this world
you will taste richness - 
cocoa, cream, spices, lips
lick sweat from skin
and the iron of blood.

To live in this world
your body will become a pillar of flame,
dancing with no direction or reason
threatened by wind gusts.

Remember, to live in this world 
you must be able to do three things:
To alchemize grief
To take a haystack and spin it into golden thread
And when your magic is done, and you've gathered 
the holy water of salted tears,
To weave them into the great story that is ours.

To dive into the river and pull up 
something lost from among the silt,
to set it aside as something precious,
to marvel at the present.

To extend a line between
beating hearts -  a thread
between mountains and geographies,
between ancestors and descendants,
to build connection.

To watch the swallows 
fly low over the water, to breathe
with the pines to wonder at the 
mountains shrouding themselves,
to honor nature.

To slow time, to let the hammer drop
on string somewhere inside
the instrument and let the sound
reverberate
to receive inspiration.

To cough stones from throat, to
clear space for voice and 
watch something green emerge
to heal.

To honor heaviness,
the salty brine pumped
from chest like an underwater thing
to grieve.

To find fluidity - to create
identity that comes, that connects
that alters our course downstream
to slow, and someday arrive
here,
alive in awe.