Butterfly
The belly crawl urges you forward,
from the potential of what was cold and dead.
Up,
toward a new layer of atmosphere.
Up,
toward a new sense of purpose.
Let yourself dangle from what you know,
into what you don't know.
Let yourself go inside your own skin,
to find the new colors,
that haven't been seen or named
and the wings,
that will set you free,
into an endless horizon,
of new challenges.
The belly crawl urges you forward,
from the potential of what was cold and dead.
Up,
toward a new layer of atmosphere.
Up,
toward a new sense of purpose.
Let yourself dangle from what you know,
into what you don't know.
Let yourself go inside your own skin,
to find the new colors,
that haven't been seen or named
and the wings,
that will set you free,
into an endless horizon,
of new challenges.
Tourscher Homestead I-in progress
The dread of that road,
and even the one before that,
and even,
the one before that,
was felt as something that I couldn't quite swallow,
as I sat in the back of a blue wagon.
The crowd of those cars,
gathered and impossibly parked;
indicators of the chaos in the house,
that was too warm and too small,
so that nothing was contained.
It all spilled out,
like the blood of a deer,
hanging from the oldest tree.
The cousins spilled out too;
running into the corn,
into the heavy shade of the trees.
And then running back in,
weaving through each aunt and uncle,
overstimulated strangers,
looming and grabbing.
Clusters of us,
blocking the stairs,
slowing my escape into back rooms,
back rooms that slept three sisters to a bed,
and also,
where the guns were kept.
(Which one killed my cousin?)
What choice do I have now,
but to root through my father's memories,
and his ancient toys,
cupboarded up,
and kept underfoot of a grandma,
who was more coarse than kind,
from a lifetime of caretaking,
for all but herself.
Her roughness scraped me once.
My amygdala misinterpreted it all.
My fear was born from a misbelief,
It was born on the kitchen table.
It was born in the barn.
It was the start of many tales I would tell myself,
that dipped and turned like all those dreaded roads.
I've since healed from the impact,
of poorly executed,
good intentions.
The dread of that road,
and even the one before that,
and even,
the one before that,
was felt as something that I couldn't quite swallow,
as I sat in the back of a blue wagon.
The crowd of those cars,
gathered and impossibly parked;
indicators of the chaos in the house,
that was too warm and too small,
so that nothing was contained.
It all spilled out,
like the blood of a deer,
hanging from the oldest tree.
The cousins spilled out too;
running into the corn,
into the heavy shade of the trees.
And then running back in,
weaving through each aunt and uncle,
overstimulated strangers,
looming and grabbing.
Clusters of us,
blocking the stairs,
slowing my escape into back rooms,
back rooms that slept three sisters to a bed,
and also,
where the guns were kept.
(Which one killed my cousin?)
What choice do I have now,
but to root through my father's memories,
and his ancient toys,
cupboarded up,
and kept underfoot of a grandma,
who was more coarse than kind,
from a lifetime of caretaking,
for all but herself.
Her roughness scraped me once.
My amygdala misinterpreted it all.
My fear was born from a misbelief,
It was born on the kitchen table.
It was born in the barn.
It was the start of many tales I would tell myself,
that dipped and turned like all those dreaded roads.
I've since healed from the impact,
of poorly executed,
good intentions.
Tourscher Homestead II, in progress
There are layers here,
that you can't see.
They are buried here,
with some water,
that won't ever touch my tongue.
Much like the language,
that was spoken in rooms,
that I was too afraid to enter.
I was a small, scared child,
who was never taught,
how not to be scared.
I would watch the well,
that was just out the window,
and wish for it to be magic.
I am grown now,
so I can distinguish the layers;
because they rose up within me too.
The love that flows,
from a honeyed heart.
The anger that bursts from me,
as though it were laughter.
Even the fear,
that I have long since,
learned to ride the wave of,
was a layer too;
it was the first one.
I can now hold,
what was built and is building still,
quickly, in the synaptic cleft,
slowly, over the births and the deaths.
The layers are in me and I am also one layer.
But mine has some magic,
that I got from that well.
There are layers here,
that you can't see.
They are buried here,
with some water,
that won't ever touch my tongue.
Much like the language,
that was spoken in rooms,
that I was too afraid to enter.
I was a small, scared child,
who was never taught,
how not to be scared.
I would watch the well,
that was just out the window,
and wish for it to be magic.
I am grown now,
so I can distinguish the layers;
because they rose up within me too.
The love that flows,
from a honeyed heart.
The anger that bursts from me,
as though it were laughter.
Even the fear,
that I have long since,
learned to ride the wave of,
was a layer too;
it was the first one.
I can now hold,
what was built and is building still,
quickly, in the synaptic cleft,
slowly, over the births and the deaths.
The layers are in me and I am also one layer.
But mine has some magic,
that I got from that well.
Tourscher Homestead IV-in progress
I look out on the land,
but this time through my daughter's eyes.
Her fears have always been expressed
and then explained.
She can breathe in all of the beauty,
and the possibility,
because she isn't holding her breath.
She has been held more than me,
because she was never afraid,
to ask to be held.
She is familiar with containment.
She is solid within herself.
She will step out onto each stone,
towards who she is,
and towards what she wants.
I look out on the land,
but this time through my daughter's eyes.
Her fears have always been expressed
and then explained.
She can breathe in all of the beauty,
and the possibility,
because she isn't holding her breath.
She has been held more than me,
because she was never afraid,
to ask to be held.
She is familiar with containment.
She is solid within herself.
She will step out onto each stone,
towards who she is,
and towards what she wants.
Tourscher Homestead III-in progress
Untitled-in progress
Piece of Peace-in progress
Sweet Potato Sunset-in progess
Shenandoah II-in progress
Launch me, launch me far;
further than I've ever been.
Show me the meaning,
of eternal spaces.
I will ride this out.
I do not know where I need to go.
I only know that I am going.
Launch me, launch me far;
further than I've ever been.
Show me the meaning,
of eternal spaces.
I will ride this out.
I do not know where I need to go.
I only know that I am going.