“and this is how i’m thankful.
For music – oh god! – for music, the heartbeat of my life.
For writers and poets and dreamers and musicians – for all those who sail the Cosmic Seas.”
and this is how i heal.
body rubbery sprung coiled loose
from jogging from kettlebells from thrusters
from moving every part of this body lent to me temporarily, pushing, pumping, exerting,
… this body that one day will no longer be mine …
until exhaustion.
body sweating from one hundred degrees of Mother Sol’s
insistent reminder that her heat
is love.
that i still live.
and i stop, drained,
sweat pouring out every pore,
pouring out of my body like the(neverendingendlessforeverandeveramen)thoughts my head pores over.
… all fading away …
toxins, please leave.
please leave my body and my brain,
please.
and i’m done so i strip off my shirt
(idontcareanymoreaboutthisbodyofminebecauseivehadthisoldmanbodyofminesinceiwastenbecauseiwasfatbutyouyoudidntcareyoulovedityoulovedmybodyandyoumademecomfortableinmyownskinyoumademeyourmanandifyoulovedmybodymybodythaniamnolongerashamedbecauseyoulovedmybody)
and i lay back,
eyes closed,
offering up my body to her, to Sol in her sky,
my body, in all its perfect imperfection, in sacrifice, in adoration,
surrendering,
earbuds in,
music playing,
breathing in the air,
breathing in the misted smoke
of the Dragon of the Green – when he comes to visit,
under the tender hushing swish
of the leaves of The Three Sisters,
surrounded by their soft calming sighs,
a cold one or two to quench this godawful thirst such heat.
and the sweat and the sun and sighs and the smoke and the songs,
clear everything away,
push everything out,
blessedly blanks my mind,
my eyes closed, my mind open,
slowly, ever so slowly, the openwoundache of loss
of my father, of the life with the woman and the family i thought i was going to have
– the life and the loves that were ripped out of me –
has been filled,
with peace,
with clarity,
with enlightenment,
with understanding,
with hope,
with forgiveness …
and this is how i’m blessed.
by the radioactive heat of Mother Sol,
burning my burden of bad thoughts away,
of memories i don’t want to remember.
her love, so hard, so forceful, so demanding, i can think of nothing else
(excepthersometimesexceptthelittlebullandcherubimhummingbirdwings).
of the sigh and swish like hurried aunts’ aprons against skirts in a kitchen like memory,
like the soft sweet singing of a mother to her frightened child suffering a fever dream,
shushing me, calming me,
sighing songs,
ancient songs telling of the doomed love of Wind and Leaf
as they forever flirt and swirl and spiral against each other,
but never conjoining,
no blessed consummation of such movements and motions, no,
just the making of musics that have been sung
lifetimes before me, that will be sung lifetimes after i’m
(dust) …
and this is how i’m thankful.
For music – oh god! – for music, the heartbeat of my life.
For writers and poets and dreamers and musicians – for all those who sail the Cosmic Seas.
For the life and the breath in my body.
For the heart that still pumps fiercely.
For the strength and the power of my muscles.
For my brain and for the love of Word and Rhyme in Time and Story.
For my mother who is fragile but capable of flights of fancy
of mind and music, and her fidgets and her sweet forgetfulness,
the true source of my ADHD, my love of the road,
and with her coloring books – my art.
For my brothers, Tom and Mario,
who gave up their lives for me
and came back to The Last Homely House,
and with their quiet calm, gentle magics, weaved a net of safety and sage
with spells and incantations and appeals for blessings from the Good and the Just,
protecting this old home from evil and the acid decay of negativity.
For young poets, old friends, and the young children i teach,
who fill my days with the silly joys of youth,
and the worries of growing up to soon in a place where one choice can mark them forever.
For my true friends who have stood by my side,
making music, making jokes,
for my fragile Guardian Angel, who’s resilient and harder than granite, but slight like bamboo.
For these angels who check up on me,
who keep me going,
who keep me writing,
who keep me writing,
who keep me writing,
and worried,
and happy …
and, happy.
and this is how i live
day by day, asking for nothing,
looking for everything,
going into doors that open,
saying yes to everyone who asks,
by giving of myself what i can, what i have left,
one eye peeled for silver lunch trucks and porcupine neckties,
while the other tries to keep myself in check,
while my angels try and keep me in check.
for friends I love who truly love me for me.
such good people, such sweet people …
… how can one broken mad old fool be so blessed …?
and this is my prayer,
that i reflect upon every night.
this is my sword and my shield.
this is my mantra,
my talisman against the Dark.
and this is how i go on …
marcwritesmoorewords 