Culturally bland
a tradition-less wretch
writ(h)ing between discomfort and ecstasy
marching to beat of another's ritual drum
(heartbeat)

stately, observing
bending in the breeze
touching clouds with
thin green fingers,
whispering when i breathe
...

Unsettled

Uncertain dissatisfaction in the present moment, a questioning concern over nostalgia.
Going with the flow, and deliberate, timely planning, look, smell and taste contradictory.
But where should I go, where shall I end up, without a future centered worry?
Blue Flag should help with this, Matthew Wood said.
How do I put my thoughts into actions when there are so many thoughts from which to choose?
Will my roots continue to grow?
Sun scorched -  petals dipped in earthly batter and fried to a crisp, but not an edible one.
Draining, but not the water I so desperately need.
Exhaustion overcoming, each day at it's end, and doesn't leave at the break of morning.
The time for determined steadfastness I can not find.
Lost in a scaly sea of thorns and dust, the trees of my past I long for.
Self righteousness lost its appeal when alcohol became a legal option for winding down.
But now, now. Now I want to relax into something I haven't yet opened to.
A purpose, a poem, a moment of prayer.
Surrender to something higher than myself?
I am but a creature of this Earth, and searching, as are we all-
For blissful understanding of how to Be.

i am a flower.
my petals are  orange and stem is green.
like an earthy mossy green. not crazy crayon green.
in the early mornings i spread my arms to receive the gift of morning dew,
and wonder about my friend, the yew.
from whom i have not heard in many days.
i guess we must have parted ways,
we are both settled, rooted down,
as seeds we spoke then scattered. so on this ground
is where i decide to grow, to live, to make babies,
and on that ground my friend the yew,
she's on that ground,where she too grew,
grows, lives, and will make babies.

when our babies are seedlings scattered
they will meet on the wind,
or at some shallow seedy party not yet wet with a garden's true womanhood.
i hope they will be friends.
i hope one day they too recall
as their roots grow deep and strong,
that once their mothers needed sowing,
and so they do.

i miss my friend, the yew.

i imagine her green needles.
not crazyon green but mossy green, like the earth.
and the redness of her bark, gleaming, upon her child's birth
but not like blood.
my friend the yew,
she too loves the dew,
as it settles from the ocean breeze
upon her green and needly sleeves.

sitting pondering the fate of a society doomed to fatness and poverty and apocalypse.

this blog has a weird feeling of several states and states of mind. i don't know what to do with it.

i wanna write poetry again.
where did you go poetic girl?
or were you prose girl?
prolific girl?
promiscuous girl?
prominent girl?
profound girl?
practical girl?
precocious
melodious
moronic
messy
i sometimes miss my british friend bessie.