Just One Good Catch?
Is everyone, every single believer, having an intimate personal relationship with the same person Big Polygamy?
Tag: Relationships
How Do You Define A New Life?
What’s so good?
What do I do?
Here I am updating my LinkedIn profile, and back to being twelve.
I feel like my kid-self gushing to my kid sister:
Look what I can do!
See what I just did?
Her forehead wrinkles.
Her eyes drain. She cocks her brow.
Her chin turns up and her mouth turns down.
She looks away. Then turns back with a disinterest and
that tone.
Her and LinkedIn, both.
What have you been doing for the last few years?
Yes. And?
What’s so good about that?
Oh yeah?
So?
So what?
Yeah. But, what’s so good?
LinkedIn’s haughty smug questionnaires are a different kind of third degree.
Why, only that?
That doesn’t answer the question.
From when to when, and what exactly?
How does that add up?
I’m painting myself into a corner. My instinct is to back away from these intimidating forms trying to get me to trim myself down into a formula.
What are your accomplishments?
Even if I had been working at a conventional job for the past few years, I still wouldn’t up-sale my heroic accomplishments like most guys would.
I’d still be down-playing my worth and value like as many woman do.
What have you been doing for the last few years?
Do you really wanna know?
I didn’t think so.
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Chocolate Darkness
When darkness is thick
Creamy and sweet
Your tongue is alive
It climbs up your feet
All wrapped in the moment
A being of taste
Is it what you are now
From what you have faced?
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Self-Potrait
Each thing I do
Gets done in me
What I make up
It marks me up
Each choice I make
Is colored paint
My palette is my day
Skillfuly blended
Chosen colors
Artfully painted
Or just mixed up
I make me
Anyway
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This Something
It fills you full of wonderful
Even when it hurts
Sometimes it doesn’t
Then sometimes it works
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It Just Happens
The Wayward Spirit
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please
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waywardspirit 