Intertidal Pools of Sun

Barefoot amidst the movement of lapping, cold waves—a gentle soul walks onward into the ocean. Mangrove branches loop out from the water and marine alluvium soils. Tiny fish grow within the intertidal zone, protected by the plants and disrupted by her calm feet digging into the sand. Hair wild amidst the cool sun rays softly kissing each eye into a deeper caramel hue. The water against her strong ankles as low pools fill and recede into the Earth. Gusts pick up cooling a body flowing in tandem with the ocean waves as the heart connects to the soul of the ocean.


I Needed the Light

Asteroids are falling into my atmosphere, their burning traces, crystal prisms.

They dig deep into my chest, opening spaces where perhaps leaves will grow after we sow this burned soil.

Flutters of color like butterfly wings whispering pieces of song that sirens can nice upon a time would sing.

Maybe these leaves will be blown to the water when the gusts pick up as none of this matters.

Wishing for Rain

I don’t take drastic measures, they must seem that way. I only take measures to reach what I hope to achieve. Last year I learned when I should cut back the ill growth of this fragrant rose bush that I am trying to cultivate. I have already learned this year when to let go of leaves that are meant to fall. For the greater good, I make choices because there is no point in holding on to thinly dangling foliage. I have also been in the process of learning how to fertilize and in learning when it is necessary to cut back excessive growth–My roots dig in deeper into this rich soil. It is all love in this horizon; it’s just that love sometimes might hurt a little in some places. I hope I have the willpower to heed the words of the wise and the courage to stand alone as I cultivate this Golden Celebration.

What the Pressure Creates

Baby, you are a whirlwind. You are a shiny pinwheel representing youth and innocence. Did you ever imagine that you would recreate yourself again and again? Are there traces left of her and if so, in which deepest parts of you do you house her?

Now songs are no longer meant for lovers, they’re your words which hold you within their syllables. You are now a naturally molded piece of obsidian—from heat and fury you shine pitch black. Nothing has ever been more gorgeous.

Rooting Processes and Bearing Gifts

I take off my shoes so my feet will shoot out roots that will burrow into the ground and help me grow upwards while building thicker skin. The curves of my body will curve like the avocado trees or the willow tree. Perhaps I’ll twist upward like a long succulent underneath the sun blooming at every centimeter. When my petals fall I will grow new plants and flowers or trees. As I bear the buds of my flowers or fruits I will give off a sweet aroma enticing the butterflies to fly through my leaves. All the while my feet will hold me down as the act of living pushes me upward towards space and inward towards the core. I can find my nutrients in each place and I will form the middle-world. This world will be surrounded by large yellow butterflies and small blue ones against gray and cloudy skies with a dollop of sunshine. I will foster symbiotic relationships with the orchids that will grow on my trunk or that hang close to me. I could also be a sour orange tree or a blade of grass, but as I am I shall remain holding back the ground and holding up the sky. I let middle-world breathe.

Birthday Cake

Refusing to make a specialty cake a repetition of history in which negativity ran in wild designs, she mixed the ingredients. For the sweetest cake ever, she indulged in pleasant moments replete with glitter and samba and words dedicated to intrigue a fresh mind. Twenty-two scenarios in which the making of the cake would fail, some included an almost car crash due to a drunk driver–because they had to be drunk or too idiotic to run the red light–others included deadlock communications of bridges burned with little to no regret. Still, she mixed her eggs, she mixed the sugar with butter to prepare frosting that once added would perfect this culinary experiment. A little bit of ice scream would serve to cool bruises of past lovers and “family members” that refused to see how their manipulation and lack of love beat up the chef. Regardless, this birthday cake formulation was prepared in hopes of focusing on the twenty-two blessings given. The quick reflexes that evaded a crash, the certainty that follows a situation in which putting oneself first ensued. Family is not always in the blood, the two aren’t even mutually exclusive. The blessings are in the shoes that mom bought so that the cut on the back of my ankle would not be irritated because she knew that I deserved the opportunity to purchase ingredients that would synthesize the best cake in the history of Betty Crocker. The blessings are in the trust placed in the chef and the never-ending waterfalls of love that friends and family helped run through the crevices of this cake. Ultimately, the greatest blessing occurs in knowing that like this cake, within my chef soul, I am the harbinger of a masterpiece that holistically encapsulates the wonder, wisdom, and unity of each ingredient and scenario created into my soul. I can bake my cake and eat it too. 

Rest In Peace

There are times when the sun is setting and the dust is settling that we start to walk down the stairs to make-believe underground tunnels. We hope they connect to people in our lives that we have lost in the literal and figurative sense. Every evening we descend into a darkness replete with thoughts dying to light up our minds. We ask why, why, why? How could they? What brought this forth? As we allude to a different kind of darkness emanated from someone we may have once known.

I sip my tea infused with flower petals and the aroma is enough to bring me to weep as my groans can’t be contained within my raw throat anymore. I pondered loss, grief, and pain and I delved more deeply into these emotions so that I could resurface stronger. I tried to delude myself a million times into thinking they were evil or so fucked up they cared for no one but themselves. We all know whom I speak of. I know that’s not the case, it can’t be it. People are not inherently evil; people feel pain in different ways and they can’t always contain their grief. Maybe one day when they stop grieving me we can talk again. I will always love the memory even if it’s no longer reality. When that sun rises once again I will smile at the powers that be and I’ll welcome them with open arms. People grieve in different ways.

So just let the pain flow out in whichever way your body and soul see it best and with it create what you’d like to see. Know that pain happens to us all and that you are never alone. About 7.1 billion people take these sorrows and garden them so that the soil may purify these thorny seeds to grow into the smoothest and most aromatic hues ever known to humankind. Let the pools of your dreams become puddles of stars that illuminate dark skies for the next lost traveler. Let these pools take your scars off of your skin to paint a history of all the positive things that happened before these spiritual-emotional films became sour. And don’t forget that lemons have healing properties. Just know that I’m no longer angry, just very, very sad.