some other spring: a new year's retrospective

7/21/2019 some other spring: a new year's retrospective

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some other spring

.:. a new year’s retrospective .:.

~~

omi

https://books.google.com/books?id=5JY-nnrsLK8C&pg=PT254&dq=qadishtu+akkadian&hl=en&sa=X&ei=asCkVI_ZAoHCgwSR34CQBQ&ved=0CB8Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=qadishtu%20akkadian&f=false



this is freely given.

you are welcome to share,

(re)post, (re)tweet, and so on,

with proper attribution.

omi [oh-ME ]

[email protected]

~

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Original works © L.A. Murdock 2014. All rights reserved. creative commons


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“Some Other Spring”

Billie Holiday & Her Orchestra 1

Some other spring

I'll try to loveNow I still cling

To faded blossoms

Fresh from worn

Left crushed and torn

Like the love affair I mourn

Some other spring

When twilight falls

Will the night bringAnother to me?

Not your kind

But let me find

It's not true that love is blind

Sunshine's around me

But deep in my heart it's cold as ice

Love, once you've found me

But can that story unfold twice?Some other spring

Will my heart awake?

Stirring to sing

Love's magic music

Then forget the old duet

Love in some other spring…

1 http://youtu.be/BMPlKAJa6io


http://youtu.be/BMPlKAJa6io



introduction

this is the result of my april 2011 napowrimo attempt, initially published at writing from the seat of

bliss 2006-2013.2

on the eve of 2015, i am experimenting yet again. releasing the old; making way for the future.

12.31.2014

9:50pm

2 several pieces have been (minimally) edited for style and clarity.


http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fseatofbliss.blogspot.com%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNESkTRHY73LK3zIguroYTdpZvT7jQ

http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fseatofbliss.blogspot.com%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNESkTRHY73LK3zIguroYTdpZvT7jQ

http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.napowrimo.net%2Fabout%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNFwhzwBayx1ej0UzExlmvwOiI6cAQ



beginning

the opening

is difficult.

the violent but necessary splitting

pushes me into the world

i want to say, “stop…”

but cannot.

this is mother's wisdom.

it is time.

i have to let it be time...




bembe

a dream sequence

bare altars,

rivers of yellow and blue cloth

topped with elaborate soperas

stare back, beckoning.

i reach for them when no one is looking.

the sink is full of dishes

i say i intend to wash;

a sheetcake awaits decoration

i already see finished.

this will be an interesting party.

i keep falling asleep in a small room

where at least three other people

are waking up.

why did i think i was alone?

spain lilts on their tongues

but i am still myself.

who invited me here?

the last time i struggle to wake,

my eyes don't work;

i know the dream is ending.

gratitude for the message

is nearly eclipsed by my confusion.

the ever-winding path

of my ancestors

gets longer with each vision.




haikunapowrimo #3

sleeping my way through

weekends, bracing for the week.

fair exchange? not sure.




untitled / stream of consciousness

grateful for challenge,

expansion.

new eyes

guiding new handsinto

soul journeys.

feeding purpose,

gathering strength.

listening for messages

in ordinary rhythms.


http://h/



overdrawn

i go insane / crazy sometimes / tryin to keep you from losin your mind... 3

my love

has never saved you

from yourself.

i gave up the saving,

but never the loving.

open your eyes / see what's in front of your face / save me my...

save me...

just save...me.

forget about the tears.

i've already shed

an ocean's worth,

and i'm not done.

i shoulda

been bought stock in kleenex

foolin wit yo ass...

was i a fool?

will we ever

get this right,

or are we destined

to silently scream

into magic mirrors,

praying one day

we won't hear each other

...knowing

we always will?

save me my...

3 italicized text are lyrics from Maxwell's " Fistful of Tears"


http://youtu.be/KabCkV_oW48

http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fseatofbliss.blogspot.com%2F2010%2F07%2Fprimordial-revisited-continued-expanded.html&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGJApnZJR4TbxPcaORinWlDtTVWeQ





melancholy herb garden musings

watching seedlings emerge from dark soil

i wonder what their growth

will say about my own.

do my flowers lean because i'm unsure?

does the basil droop when i'm sad?

i know they need more heat, sunshine

but i can't rush a cool, reluctant spring.

even as trees bloom and daffodils wave;

it's a harder year for those

relegated to the hands of amateur, indoor gardeners.

i remain open to their teachings

as they reveal themselves to me,

praying for a patio

overflowing with expressions of care

and not the forlorn corner of misfit pots

i left at my old apartment.

i don't know why this came out sounding so forlorn. actually, most of my nascent plants are doing fairly well. just this

morning i saw a chamomile seedling starting to emerge…

original notation, 4.6.2011




spin cycle

once again i find myself

scattered to the 50-11 winds

wanting to be 5 places and

do 10 things

at once...

but, for now,

i have hours i'm relegated to work

and hours i'm not.

keeping them straight

is a(n) (arbitrary) priority.

i struggle with calendars

and other piscean torture devices,

smushing food and (real) life

somewhere in the middle.

wild ideascrash into walls

and deadlines...

even my dreams are rambling.

overwhelm

leads to blame and shame:

"you know this is what happens

when you let yourself out to play!

it's altogether too confusing, too consuming!

grow up. focus.

get yourself together, girl.

stop dreaming all the time!

where's it gonna get you?"

that nasty voice

the constant fight

between soul-work

and what needs to happen

to put food on the table.

then, oblivious to my confusion and dissonance,

a cycle shifts.

sense is made.

pieces fall into placewith a word

an image

or flash of inspiration.

and so, i begin again:

laser-focused,

until next time...


http://h/

http://h/

http://h/



the brokenhearted qadishtu4

who heals the healer when she breaks?

they say the wives envy us.

well, i envy the wives.

all this sacrifice, morphing our bodies into shrines;

enduring the glares of the so-called civilized...

for what?

we appease a spirit we never see.

well...no...i have seen Her.

once, the radiance of Her smile

saturated my dreams,

granting gifts.

but now

i'm not so sure

this isn't just an elaborate farce.

i believed...

before he came.

a beautiful man with Her sweet smile

and sad eyes

he begged for help,

weeping on the hem of my skirt.

my heart filled,

as it always did with sincere seekers.

for months, i cradled and taught him;

raised his energy, fed his soul...

all so he could plant a seed

in his wife's womb.

he spoke of her often.

(the only words of his i ignored )

i used every trick i knew—

and some i said i never would—

but his heart stayed with her

(no matter what his body said to me)

and when it was time,

he left,

shining.

i was fine in my denial,

‘til the day his woman entered the sanctuary,

resplendent with new life….

4 definition




http://h/

http://h/

http://h/

http://h/

http://h/

http://h/



daring...to… give...thanks.

i promptly destroyed my rooms,

and would have gone for the altar,

but i wasn't completely mad

...yet.

i contented myself

with demolishing the last alabaster jar.

why was my love only meant

for the intangible,

the unseen?

what is my reward?

where is my solace?

desperate,

i ran to the sea, and wept.

She pulsed,

but remained silent.

where were Her abundant arms?

in Her infinite mercy,

why didn't She swallow me?

there was

no

answer.

then my heart shattered,

magic turned against me...

i lost all my senses;

the light of Her love went out.

my prayers became empty ministrations;

blessings, vapid.

i will remain faithless

for the rest of my days.




why I write sad poemstriple tanka

in self defense, a

broken 16 year old sought

meaning in her pain;

a struggle to become whole

after the splitting apart.

later, rebelling

against misplaced love and rage,

poems became condensed

emotion; ways to speak my

soul in small, unsafe spaces.

as healing flows, the

habit remains. poems, my blue

train; slow burn jazz riffs

contrasted with life's joy. sad

poet with a blissful heart.




thieffor beni

he's convinced

i'm made of honey and

sneaks into my dreams

to grab sticky kissesand handfuls of flesh.

waking,

he snatches breath, speech

with quick hands and tongue;

the soft, sweet mouth

renders me helpless.

no need

to hurt me...

take what you want.

i'm yours.




sex

auburn topped

blackberry triangle

framing fluttery petals

tasty, textured wonder

love incarnate.




blah

fatigue and grumbling

tummies make for listless poems.

tomorrow, hope floats.




untitlednapowrimo #13

help me

wail

cry

gnash my teeth

let it out

i gotta tell somebody.

i don't give a damn about my throat

i'd rather lose my mind.

can't

breathe

helpi

i am

sliding down a wall

no man made

the floor

is far away

like you

by some twist of fate

(possibly several)

you're not mine...

centuries old conversations

assault my ears

before i know it

i'm thrashing around

shaking them off...

and all you've doneis say, “hello…”

and ask how i'm doing.




in a name

a gray fortress

by the sea,

with a garden of hollies

and a garden by the pool.

merciful waters

wind their way home.

born in honor

full of prayer

and grace.




costume change

home means

wrapping myself in a sarong;

moonstone beads hanging

between warm breasts.




hospital waiting room

bodies succumb while

the spirit remains high: a

prescription for joy.




ecosystem

if, as he said,

women are like ecosystems,

i'd be tropical:

volcanic island,black sand greeting cerulean sea;

green trees bearing greener coconuts

populated with beautiful people

and brilliantly colored birds.

everything about me

would inspire life, love,

gratitude to spirits and ancestors

for having the good graces

to be incarnated here.




pet

my only "child"

is a fussy black tomcat

full of

various and sundry meows

and huggish head butts.




artistryfor mama beah

limitless black beauty

so often shoved into

a pigeon's place

left to rotunder false representations

and sexless muumuus.

but we know better.

we understand

the luminosity

and depth

of brown.

we know the origins

of our ochre, cream and saffron highlights

can trace the lineage

of the untamed strut

carried by heads held high.

and we know you.

we know

your envy

can maim,

but it cannot kill.


http://youtu.be/SN4bM_v3HOE



untitled / incompletenapowrimo #20

trees

don't fall down

in a breeze.

i was fine

until you cried.

sap-tears run down my arms,

too sticky for kleenex.

i'll have to bathe

in the river

to wash away your sorrow.

womanlove

doesn't repair

roots

bark

or branches...




lost signalfor twin flames & linked destinies

a lovesick morning

punctuated by

cool clouds

and

we're on that

universal telephone again,

struggling to connect

across crossed stars...

i've grown tired of seeking reasons

for this lifetime's meeting;

what i need

is a balm

for your absence.




untitlednapowrimo #22

i've been

one of those women

weeping in your arms

helpless againstyour particular enchantment...

but, in the end,

your ice

cooled my core.

you could

listen,

lust after,

but not love.




sistaa tanka

mami wata hair,

knotty like tree roots. lagoon

eyes—black—reflect your

image, not color. she isproof: beauty's diversity.




mercury retrograde

retrograde shatters

illusions; we make room for

new realities.




something sweet

bathed

in lover's honey,

waiting

for warm moments

to crash over melike ocean waves.




untitled haikunapowrimo #26

inspiration's short,

but sleep is long. the struggle

continues. four days.




living deliciously

i don't know if i can explain

the many ways pleasure

has saved me.

this is not a treatiseon hedonism or naïveté;

pleasure permeates

every breath,

begging for conscious inhalation.

it is inviting the sun

to play in your skin.

it is loving

children

flowers

and music.

flavors and

scents

of food.

it is dancing

for no reason at all,

anywhere at all

...even while sitting still.

or,

simply

smiling sweetly

at myself

(or a lover)

in the morning.




spring

the earth

offers her gifts,

sending visions

of fragrant,

growinggreen things.

who am i

to refuse?




a thought

endings don't get enough credit.

they are just as deep

and wide

as beginnings,

and lead to

just as many

interesting places.

some other spring: a new year's retrospective

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