• Dazzle of the Day {Poetry}

    Tuesday, March 14, 2017 No tags Permalink

    Enough now of the wet eyes of winter.
    Not one single tear.
    Hour by hour, green is beginning,
    the essential season, leaf by leaf,
    until, by spring’s name, we are summoned
    to take part in its joy.

    How wonderful, its eternal openness,
    clean air, the promise of flower,
    the full moon leaving
    its calling card in the foliage,
    men and women trailing from the beach
    with a wet basket of shifting silver.

    Like love, like a medal,
    I welcome it,
    I take it all in,
    from south, from north, from violins,
    from dogs,
    lemons, clay,
    from newly liberated air,
    machines smelling of mystery,
    storm-colored shopping,
    everything I need:
    orange blossoms, string,
    grapes like topazes,
    the whiff of waves.
    I gather it up
    endlessly,
    effortlessly,
    I breathe.

    I dry my shirt in the wind,
    and my opened heart.
    The sky falls
    and falls.
    From my glass,
    I drink
    pure joy.

    ~ Pablo Neruda

  • In My Sky at Twilight {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 28, 2017 No tags Permalink

    In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud

    and your form and color are the way I love them.

    You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips

    and in your life my infinite dreams live.

    The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,

    the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,

    oh reaper of my evening song,

    how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

    You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s

    wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.

    Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder

    stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

    You are taken in the net of my music, my love,

    and my nets of music are wide as the sky.

    My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.

    In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

  • Amor {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 21, 2017 Permalink

    So many days, oh so many days
    seeing you so tangible and so close,
    how do I pay, with what do I pay?

    The bloodthirsty spring
    has awakened in the woods.
    The foxes start from their earths,
    the serpents drink the dew,
    and I go with you in the leaves
    between the pines and the silence,
    asking myself how and when
    I will have to pay for my luck.

    Of everything I have seen,
    it’s you I want to go on seeing:
    of everything I’ve touched,
    it’s your flesh I want to go on touching.
    I love your orange laughter.
    I am moved by the sight of you sleeping.

    What am I to do, love, loved one?
    I don’t know how others love
    or how people loved in the past.
    I live, watching you, loving you.
    Being in love is my nature.

    You please me more each afternoon.

    Where is she? I keep on asking
    if your eyes disappear.
    How long she’s taking! I think, and I’m hurt.
    I feel poor, foolish and sad,
    and you arrive and you are lightning
    glancing off the peach trees.

    That’s why I love you and yet not why.
    There are so many reasons, and yet so few,
    for love has to be so,
    involving and general,
    particular and terrifying,
    joyful and grieving,
    flowering like the stars,
    and measureless as a kiss.

    That’s why I love you and yet not why.
    There are so many reasons, and yet so few,
    for love has to be so,
    involving and general,
    particular and terrifying,
    joyful and grieving,
    flowering like the stars,
    and measureless as a kiss.
    — Pablo Neruda

  • Give Me a Thousand Kisses

    Tuesday, February 14, 2017 No tags Permalink

    Come and let us live my Dear,
    Let us love and never fear,
    What the sourest Fathers say:
    Brightest Sol that dies today
    Lives again as blithe tomorrow,
    But if we dark sons of sorrow
    Set; o then, how long a Night
    Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
    Then let amorous kisses dwell
    On our lips, begin to tell
    A Thousand, and a Hundred, score
    An Hundred, and a Thousand more,
    Till another Thousand smother
    That, and that wipe off another.
    Thus at last when we have numb’red
    Many a Thousand, many a Hundred;
    We’ll confound the reckoning quite,
    And lose ourselves in wild delight:
    While our joys so multiply,
    As shall mock the envious eye.

    -Richard Crashaw

    Crashaw’s English translation is from the 1600s, but the original was Latin and written about 54 B.C.  I’m not usually for ancient poetry, but I read about a piece of jewelry that was engraved “Da mi basia mille” — Give me a thousand kisses, and I looked up the origin of that phrase. Simply lovely. 💗

  • Before There Was You {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 7, 2017 No tags Permalink


    When I use to look above
    all I saw was sky;
    and every song that I would sing
    I sung not knowing why.
    All I felt and all I thought
    was only just because;
    never was it ever you,
    until it was all there was.

    -Lang Leav

  • i love you much(most beautiful darling) {poetry}

    Tuesday, January 31, 2017 No tags Permalink

    i love you much(most beautiful darling)

    more than anyone on the earth and i
    like you better than everything in the sky

    -sunlight and singing welcome your coming

    although winter may be everywhere
    with such a silence and such a darkness
    no one can quite begin to guess

    (except my life)the true time of year-

    and if what calls itself a world should have
    the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such sunlight as will leap higher than high through gayer than gayest someone’s heart at your each nearness)

    everyone certainly would(my most beautiful darling)

    believe in nothing but love

    -ee cummings

  • for all of this i honor you. {a new years poem}

    Tuesday, January 3, 2017 No tags Permalink

    For you, and for the lifetimes you’ve lived in one short year:

    For the endings, and the beginnings and all the spaces in between.

    For last year’s words and this years voice and for everything that must remain unsaid.

    For boldly speaking your truth and for all that you still hold inside.

    For falling over and over and rising again and again.

    For life lessons that left you in stunned disbelief and the gentle eyes of an unexpected teacher who lifted you up and carried you from the void.

    For living the questions and for discovering the answers.

    For losing your way and finding your tribe.

    For being willing to break in order to become.

    For lust and for trust and for the long twisty journey in between the two.

    For head up and eyes wide open and for moments of faith when there is no light to be found.

    For quiet resolve and for wailing confusion.

    For eyes locked across a room for the first time and for the way your hands find each other in the middle of the night after years of sharing the same bed.

    For the courage to strike off on your own and for the comfort of knowing you can always come back home.

    For taking up arms against fears and demons and those intent on harm, and for laying down your weapons and walking away in peace.

    For claiming what is rightfully yours and for releasing what can no longer be.

    For loving what you don’t understand and questioning what you thought you knew for sure.

    For letting go and holding on tight.

    For losing it all in order to gain what matters.

    For standing tall and learning your truth and for forgetting it all in order to start all over again.

    For blind faith in something you cannot see, touch or feel and for knowing that all of life is at your fingertips.
    For the beauty in contradiction, the bitterness in the compromise and the brilliance of the mystery.

    For dancing with ache and longing, and for making peace with what you have.

    For grasping tight and for releasing to the wind.
    and the unknowing and that sliver of space where both coexist.

    For the buckets of salty tears and the kindness that dried them all.

    For pleasure and for pain and for the ability to hold both in one body.

    For simple pleasures and crazy imaginings.

    For the releasing the wild spirit within and for holding yourself in quiet dignity.

    For blazing seduction, for the wild rhythm of bodies and lips and teeth and skin and for tender reverence and holding hands and spooning in the dark.

    For the ease found in comfort zones and for the fierce reality of smashing down walls.

    For angry battles, and grudges held and for the sweet bliss of forgiveness.

    For the desolation of the desert, for the pounding of the surf and for the forever green of the forest.

    For boundaries crossed and limits held firm.

    For the dishes and the laundry and the dust bunnies. For keeping up with the Joneses and for leaving the mess to go out and play instead.

    For building a house of cards and for burning it all to the ground.

    For painstaking attention and determination and for wasting hours on beautifully impossible daydreams.

    For red wine and dark chocolate and hot sex and all the earthly pleasures that ground you here.

    For celebration and for mourning and for surrounding both in the ritual of spirit.

    For believing and for questioning and for the unsteady ground that bridges the two.

    For holding your breath till your lungs burn and for the sweet relief of the exhale.

    For head-spinning kisses and mind-numbing loneliness.

    For thinking you might never get what you want and for knowing you’ll always have what you need and for the bittersweet edge that this acceptance brings.

    For companionship and for solitude and for the spaces you can have both at once.

    For solo living room dance parties and for singing in the shower.

    For hula hoops and crayons and roller skates. For growing older in body and staying young in spirit.

    For the times you thought you couldn’t go on, and the moment you realized that nothing could stop you.

    For knowing that you are divinity personified, beautiful beyond comprehension and powerful beyond measure.

    For all of this I honor you, the year you have lived and the one you are about to begin.

    Happy New Year.

    – Jeanette LeBlanc

  • In You The Earth

    Tuesday, December 20, 2016 No tags Permalink

    L

    Little
    rose,
    roselet,
    at times,
    tiny and naked,
    it seems
    as though you would fit
    in one of my hands,
    as though I’ll clasp you like this
    and carry you to my mouth,
    but
    suddenly
    my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
    you have grown,
    your shoulders rise like two hills,
    your breasts wander over my breast,
    my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
    new-moon line of your waist:
    in love you loosened yourself like sea water:
    I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
    and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.
    -Pablo Neruda

  • Dulzura {Poetry}

    Tuesday, December 13, 2016 No tags Permalink

    image
    Make love to me in Spanish.
    Not with that other tongue.
    I want you juntito a mi,
    tender like the language
    crooned to babies.
    I want to be that
    lullabied, mi bien
    querido, that loved.

    I want you inside
    the mouth of my heart,
    inside the harp of my wrists,
    the sweet meat of the mango,
    in the gold that dangles
    from my ears and neck.

    Say my name. Say it.
    The way it’s supposed to be said.
    I want to know that I knew you
    even before I knew you.

    Sandra Cisneros

  • The Invitation

    Tuesday, November 29, 2016 No tags Permalink

    image

    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 doesnt interest me
    what planets are
    squaring your moon…
    I want to know
    if you have touched
    the centre of your own sorrow
    if 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.

    -Oriah Mountain Dreamer

  • Second Sight

    Tuesday, November 22, 2016 No tags Permalink

    image

    Sometimes, you need the ocean light,
    and colors you’ve never seen before
    painted through an evening sky.

    Sometimes you need your God
    to be a simple invitation,
    not a telling word of wisdom.

    Sometimes you need only the first shyness
    that comes from being shown things
    far beyond your understanding,

    so that you can fly and become free
    by being still and by being still here.

    And then there are times you need to be
    brought to ground by touch
    and touch alone.

    To know those arms around you
    and to make your home in the world.
    just by being wanted.

    To see those eyes looking back at you,
    as eyes should see you at last,

    seeing you, as you always wanted to be seen,
    seeing you, as you yourself
    had always wanted to see the world.

    – David Whyte
    from Pilgrim

    Continue Reading…

  • Tired {Poetry}

    Tuesday, October 11, 2016 No tags Permalink

    langston-hughes-wb

    I am so tired of waiting,
    Aren’t you,
    For the world to become good
    And beautiful and kind?
    Let us take a knife
    And cut the world in two –
    And see what worms are eating
    At the rind.

    -Langston Hughes

    This seemed particularly fitting to me with the amount of vitriol and anger simmering just under the surface of society right now.

  • No Matter What {Poetry}

    Tuesday, October 4, 2016 No tags Permalink

    fullsizerender-12

    No matter what the world claims,
    its wisdom always growing, so it’s said,
    some things don’t alter with time:
    the first kiss is a good example,
    and the flighty sweetness of rhyme.

    No matter what the world preaches
    spring unfolds in its appointed time,
    the violets open and the roses,
    snow in its hour builds its shining curves,
    there’s the laughter of children at play,
    and the wholesome sweetness of rhyme.

    No matter what the world does,
    some things don’t alter with time.
    The first kiss, the first death.
    The sorrowful sweetness of rhyme.

    -Mary Oliver

  • He Was So Beautiful {Poetry}

    Tuesday, September 27, 2016 No tags Permalink

    2699216969_292906461c_z

    He Was So Beautiful

    (After Alice Paalen)

     

    He was so beautiful
    every day
    his smooth brown face
    his hair cropped close
    silver and coal
    stolen from narrowed eyes
    from looks of scorn
    amid the cypress
    he walked next to water
    the egrets nest hidden
    

secrets are beautiful
    between four lips
    three black words
    on a crumpled white page
    in a pocket in a drawer
    so many wings
    unable to fly
    I urge you to visit Charlotte’s website and immerse yourself in more of her poetry and photography.  You won’t regret it. She is one of the many talented writers, photographers, and artists that I call a friend.  I’m hoping some of that talent will rub off via association.  😉
  • Lessons I Have Learned From My Damage {Poetry}

    Tuesday, September 20, 2016 No tags Permalink

    Damaged people love you like you are a crime scene before a crime has even been committed.

    They keep their running shoes besides their souls every night, one eye open in case things change whilst they sleep.

    Their backs are always tense as though waiting to fight a sudden storm that might engulf them.

    Because damaged people have already seen hell.

    And damaged people understand that every evil demon that exists down there was once a kind angel before it fell.

    – Nikita Gill

    hand

    When you’re damaged, you learn to take what’s given to you and be grateful for it. You learn that love is not a game, and cherish it. You learn how to appreciate the smallest things people do for you.

    Because when people have gone through wars that have left them broken, they understand how fragile life is. They understand how they must make the most of it. And most of all, they understand how important it is to always be kind.

  • XVII

    Tuesday, September 13, 2016 No tags Permalink

    image

    I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
    or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
    I love you as certain dark things are loved,
    secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
    I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
    hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
    and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
    lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
    I love you simply, without problems or pride:
    I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving

    but this, in which there is no I or you,
    so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
    so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

    -Pablo Neruda