Eyes that are wide open
Nose that does not turn up
Mouth that speaks her truth
Neck that holds the head high
Arms that execute good deeds
Stomach with high self-esteem
Legs that are faithful
Knees that bow in humility
Feet that travel freely, fearlessly
A mind that dares to dream
In the beginning of silence and solitude, it actually gets really loud. This is all the residual chatter and chimes pouring out, hesitantly, from your mind. This can take some time. These are nothing more than the bells and whistles of your life–the catch phrases and fillers, the advertisements and the one-liners you and your loved ones have been feeding you. Where do you go…my lovely? Where do you go?
You almost have to cover your ears, only to realize it’s all in your head…and it’s actually really very quiet out for once. You’ve picked a nice spot. So you take your hands off your ears. You are kind of surprised and aroused by the solitude.
In the beginning of silence and solitude you are THUNDERED by your thoughts. I’d forgotten about that. It had been so long. The longer it’s been, the louder it gets I suppose.
You are smiling and alone.
That rare experience of being yourself,
when knowing you are not being observed
and you really genuinely are free.
This is you
Ah, that feeling,
that knowing
that freedom
yourself!
where do you go?
my lovely
where do you go?
I want to know
Authors Evening at the Schoolhouse | Junction City, Oregon | March 5th | 7 pm
91949 Purkerson Road, Junction City, OR, 97448
Please join us for the first annual Authors Evening at the Old Schoolhouse, featuring poetry by local poet Terah Van Dusen (Love, Blues, Balance and New Moon), prose by local authors Danuta Pfeiffer (Chiseled, A Memoir of Identity, Duplicity, and Divine Wine), Jacquie “Jax” Manning (Caribbean Shadows), Kathleen Cremonesi (Love in the Elephant Tent: How Running Away with the Circus Brought Me Home) and acoustic guitar by local musician Josh Pitney.
$10 entrance covers a lovely selection of desserts made with local Camas Country grains, coffee and tea. Local Bennett Winery wines available for purchase by the glass. Proceeds go directly into the school fund to continue renovating this beautiful old schoolhouse into a community event center and home for the arts.
Space limited to 50 guests, so please call 541-357-5448 to reserve your tickets!
Home
the most irresistible
place, the only space
where I wither and bloom
and tincture myself with
crystals and sage
and ice cream
Home
where lamp chops
fry and soups wait patiently
on the stove top for no one
but us and company if we’re
lucky, if we’re not
Home
It’s where I
begin again
where I end
where I cannot hide
where I can
where he kisses me
and promises me things
big things, unimaginable things
that he would never utter elsewhere
but home
Home
it’s where I dream
it’s where I live the
dream too
Prima Materia
Providence
Nirvana
brooks and
creeks through
black bedrock,
blonde soil
the huckleberry
and tan oak are
licking caves and
netting boundaries
I’m noticing
when the sun
goes down in
the mountains
and how it happens
quicker here than
anywhere
else
I have
cold feet
hot feet
depending on the equinox
I see rain running down
the trunks of trees,
a man’s neck,
a vein
I chop wood
carry water
There are
raindrops
on the skylight
the smell of
propane and matches
an amplified drizzle
on the tin roof of my
cabin–it makes me feel
wetter than I actually am
Pacific Madrones mature outside
Those curly golden chopsticks
of irregular tang and lime
those pillars rising up and falling
out of dense coniferous forests
I was a child then
not now
–but I used
to climb them
I am on the inside
I am on the inside
with a log so good and
ready for the fire it’s
like bubble wrapping
when you put it on there
popping and cracking
and carrying on in
the cast iron stove
I am alone
yet I am not alone
–the forest,
it leans into me,
it breathes and
spits at the
windows
–the earth
not the world
keeps me company
If I could
I would tornado
around this town
You’d be better off
inside the eye of me
It would be on a Monday
and I would hold no regard
for pleasantries
for once
My answer to all the trivial
questions I am asked on a typical
Monday over and over and over again
would be answered only by
teeth-shattering wind
and the loudest
goddamned silence
you have ever heard
that would be my wish,
with all due respect
to Mondays
In a rusty-visioned chaos
I would be unable to open my
mouth for fear of shattered
teeth and cinnamon lung
A perfect storm of sand and Zen
would overcome us all
and I would
selfishly be
grateful
for it
for Monday
would be quiet
for once
and no one would
be talking about
the weather
just stunned
Fall apart, let loose into creation
Let my hair down, like a poet would do
Dance a sexy dance, for no one
Write off my obsessions and idols
Lower them until we see eye to eye
Kiss them
Open my mouth
and let love in
Get places on time
step by step, cover the basics
Clock in and clock out
with a smile
Allow myself to fall apart,
just enough behind the scenes that
I walk away with a notecard poem
safeguard–just barely–my reputation
my job title
Forgive others
as easily as I forgive myself
Let loose the reigns
and let em go wherever
the fuck they want
Seize the moment
(cross that out)
Avoid cliches
Fear blank pages
more than scribbles
For mistakes are a sign
of progress
Live in the knowledge
that things cannot be pretty
100% of the time
A concept not limited to
my face, my body
Understand that superficiality
is the sister to vanity
and to view yourself poorly
makes you just as vain as if
to view yourself pretty
all of the time
So you
do the dishes
tidy up
Everything
Everywhere
All of the time
But most of all you
fall apart
into poetry
even if it means
scribbles and
ink on the fingers
or your face
even if it means
mussying up a
blank page
a blank page
that will roll around
in your purse
in your car
in your junk drawer
mussying up your life
like children or dirty jobs
in general
Fall apart for creation
for a full and happy life
Fall apart for a full heart
and just write
I bend a spoon
back into place
and tuck it in the drawer
I set the table
light a candle
I sweep cauliflower
blossoms from the floor
and hope it counts for
something,
anything
I drag a brown wooden
stool into the kitchen
so I can crouch at the
counter and write poetry
in-between life stuff:
washing tupperware,
filling the dog’s dish,
mulling
I add half a cup of warm water
to the pot and sit and watch it simmer
scratch scratch scratching on my notepad
The radio is too loud
but I need something, anything
I turn it down a notch and
music gives way to news
the state of Connecticut
bans the death penalty
a major fire was ignited this
morning due to a lawnmower
and the operator may be responsible
for the cost
Food aromas fill the kitchen as
my womb moves and aches
I bring my hand to my belly
and wonder if it’s a warning of
menstruation or pregnancy,
granted deep down I already
know the answer…and in
a few short days
I’ll be bleeding and
wearing pads
Out of habit (half-hope) I
squeeze my breasts to see
if they’re sore, and I look
down at them
Steve walks in
he gives me a funny look
as I drop my hand to my
lap in defeat
and turn back
to the pot
These shortcuts don’t
work for me no more
I keep coming back around
to where I was before
The mind fucks me once,
fucks me twice, bends me
backwards, sends me shooting
through the sky
I get a scary high from
the things inside my mind
One foot in front of the other
is about all I can do
without my youth I can no
longer choose when and
where and who
there are no longer
options for sick days,
day-drinking, playing
power with my boobs
As I turned into a woman
–I became more substantial too
It’s more like: do what you have to
do to get you through
show up
listen up
battle else embrace the
thoughts inside your mind
whisper the things out loud–
to yourself and in private
inspect the things for faults
and stripped screws
think: Would you want
somebody to think or say
these things to you?
Talk yourself down
in a poem or in a song
Bring yourself down,
pinned to the ground
and whatever you do
DON”T THINK about
who’s going to PICK YOU UP
just lay there–squeegy wiping
the I’m so angry
I’m so hurt
I’m so lonely
so unloved–
erase all that shit
from your mind
there isn’t any time for it,
we haven’t got the time.
Stand strong in your own self
even if your shaking in your boots
even if your person is on fire and
your head is filled with tears and
you can’t seem to decipher
fact from fiction
real life from “intuition”
I’d say get real quiet, don’t
go crashing through the day to day
be honest, be real, and have
a little faith
Love is you feeling me up under my shirt like you’re a school boy and it’s our second date but really we’re a year in and it’s a Tuesday night or a Monday night and we both have stew breath.
Love is me moving into your house alittle–okaymaybeway–toosoon. Love is me making a scrapbook of photos from your recent cheesy family cruise and pasting concert stubs in there too from the Dave Rawlings Machine and Gillian Welch and that time we saw The Wolf of Wallstreet and pasting in there the notes you’ve left me like “Squash in the oven for lunch” and “Be home around five, love you” and “Had to go to farm real quick, love you.”
Love is you saying I love you even though we both wonder What is Love? and Why can’t it be more like lust? and is he gonna get me off forever and is she gonna turn me on forever and those sad little thoughts like we’re losing red and we’re losing it fast and we’re going on and on, plummeting forward as our sex becomes less and our friendship and caretaking one another grows like a tumor. We think yeah we might have a thing that could last forever–if we live really short lives–and maybe I’m just speaking for myself here but I would maybe take a really short life so I could say yeah we loved each other forever. And it was easy, because then we died.
