Michelle - My friend with wings

Like a smile on a string
you pull me near
with sweet reflection
and wonderous delight
making me feel seen
and heard
and understood
with friends like these
who needs angels?
or perhaps the better question is
how do they not know
that they are sporting wings?

Summer Poem

the sky’s milk white
my hands around my coffee cup
–my little hands and dirty nails,
the days are longer
and I not quite as strong
as when ice glazed my world.
I count the days in pairs of pantyhose
and I still cross the streets with care
you see, for me it’s still May.

but darling,
there is no consolation,
only ashes from my cigarette,
the stars look burned
the amethyst sunset’s nothing for me.
the world a lonely carousel,
again I’m unprepared.
all I want is stronger flesh,
instead I have a series of
serrations against the wall of myself
and what I feel
unraveling

I write these words....

I write these italicized words from the future, after it all went down, after all the events and all my weaknesses played out, plus my one strength, and after the writing of all of it.

I add these words just before this year come to an end and if I’ll be unable to say anything more to you; these are the last words I’ll write.

Someone once called writing “the spooky art” and that is very apt, for many reasons, but for me it has to do with you, the personal you. You. You are a very spooky entity to me.

You are spooky because you mean everything to me, yet I know nothing about you except that you are right now reading these words.

Do you understand the bond I feel with you, the depth of it? I am giving you a lot but you are no less returning that: I speak of your time and of your attention, the two most valuable things you have to give. Thank you for that.
You must understand something: I don’t fear that you think me a fool, nor do I fear that you don’t like me.

I only fear that you won’t care. Don’t care What Happens Next. Don’t care what I’ve written on the pages you have not yet read.

To put it another way: I have chronic tinnitus, ringing in the ear. Sometimes the ringing is so loud – like a siren going by – that I can’t believe everyone can’t hear it. I fear that this email is like that.

That’s my fear right now as I write these last words to you this year….

Soulmate

There's no such thing as the perfect soulmate.
If you meet someone and you think they perfect, you better run as fast as you can in the other direction cause your soul mate is the person that pushes all your buttons, pisses you off on a regular basis and makes you face your shit.
It's not easy having a good marriage, but you don't want easy.
Easy doesn't make you grow.
Easy doesn't make you think.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEzbkGj7EaQ&feature=related

THE INVITATION

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.