Now, after that rude and crude interruption, on with interesting writing. Some of us over here have been exploring life, love and loss this weekend. In my own life, I have been figuring out how to deal with huge stock losses, and the metaphysics of pulling true love out of a magician's hat like a rabbit in midlife, and holding on to it and making it work in difficult circumstances, and pondering at the same time that the second half of life is full of pain and anguish more so than the first, and wanting to seize all the intimacy and true happiness I can.
While I knock around a little desperately and sadly in a suddenly empty house, my daughter is in Idaho experiencing snow, and I miss her very much. She has never been away for so long. I am so sentimental that I sprayed her teddy bear with my perfume so that she could smell it when she missed me and evoke my spirit. When she called last night, though, she was in a hurry to talk because she had to get back to a rousing poker game with her cousins. At the same time I am happy that she is becoming independent I realize that my biological purpose on earth is complete, and I watch her bloom into a beautiful young woman while I fade at the same time, wondering what is ahead for me, and wanting more, more, more. So I am bringing this poem forward from last summer at Feelings. I am delighted to see from her words here that she will probably experience much passion and all the richness of a life spent luxuriating in sensual pleasure, the same things I will always need to create in my own to feel loved and satisfied:
. . . our little family spent last Christmas at an old Victorian inn at Garberville, in the
California redwoods. It was really beautiful sitting in front of the lobby fire and getting warm and reading and
doing puzzles and all that. Our daughter was playing with one of those magnetic poetry writer boards, and
wrote this poem, which I really enjoyed. She's way too embarrassed by the imagery to read it at school, she's
only twelve, but she gave me permission to share it here. Now I don't think she could have done it this way if
she didn't have words to choose from, but I think it's beautiful, and well, I guess the apple doesn't fall far
from the tree, either!
blue
i only whisper of one a thousand chants
lather in the raw love like death bitter and sweet
purple rain aching red crush urge together in spring
the winter shadow manipulating her
the rose would drool like weak water
storm like a knife trying to please me
honey fingering like mean luscious visions
goddess pink spray purple forest white sea blood
tell of my life always delicious blue
briana rose bartley
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