SUNDAY POEMS

to wet your heart, get you out of your head, and dip you in soul

Because the linear thinker in all of us needs a break. We don’t need to figure it all out, explain it all, organize everything, heal, therapize…sometimes we just need to feel, to express, to open.

---

The Church of She

I long for a Sunday church where we praise the Goddess, 
where we celebrate nature, 
where we weep and grieve together, 
where we sing She She She instead of He he he…

I long for a place to dance where it is safe, 
where I can peel off my costumes of 
jeans 
and yoga pants 
and soft dress and reveal fire 
and tender 
and freckled skin 
and curved hips 
and rounded breasts

Call me old fashioned 
but I yearn for a time 
where we sang before a meal, 
we steeped naked in a hot spring together, 
we cackled by a cackling fire 

Why are so many people returning to Jesus?  
The OG saint who preached love and kindness- 
but a man one million wars were fought for?

Perhaps because there is no organized church around 
She
No donation bucket
No coffee and cookies
Or free child care

She is cold lakes
And bright moon 
And warm hugs

She is my baby’s feet pressing 
against my thighs in the night,
Just as she did when she was in my womb

She is the wave of Love
The wave of Rage
The owl who is making her Hoo hoo hoo outside my window 
Sitting in the rich arms of the oak tree 
under a black sky 
dotted with stars.

For She we make our temples 
and build them in wild deep moments,
Letting them fall before 
any hierarchy comes to make a mess.

We build them in poems
In dance moves
In rituals
In prayers 
And then send them off into the great wild heart of it all.

For the Beloved

I will roll down your hills
be sucked into your streams
pressed under you 
like a pansy petal in a picture book

To be swept into your sky
Held there

Home

Dangling in the black

An ecstatic pool of nothingness
 
Where we are one

When you come to me I feel feverish 
I feel whole 
I don't understand it all
And I needn’t 

I feel mad with a Love I have not known before.

Detail of The Embrace by Egon Schiele

New Mornings

In the pocket
in the morning
before plans are made,
Our skin whsipers to each other…
Things we cannot hear.

Melting,
melting
into your arms.

I patter soft feet on wood floor
into the room with the
windows on all sides,
Where the pink lights pools.
And darkness is still here
Though it is morning.

And without words
I fold myself into your lap.

You embrace me with
tree trunk arms
like the oak outside the window
My Spanish moss hair
tickling your nose
Grey whiskers rubbing
on freckled milky skin.

One breath
Two
We hang in the quiet
Like ghosts
Or angels
Our breaths suspended in the
silent moment
Before the baby wakes.

This moment is the
filet mignon
heart meal
I lick my lips for
You and I weaving arms
and legs so they
interlock like puzzle pieces…

Your chest my home.

Her home now too.

And the robin croons his
morning herald.

The camelias smile
their golden smile.

This is the place before the light comes in.

---

Happy Sunday.

May you remember your heart.

May your forget the shoulda coulda woulda.

May you see the miracle that is here and now.

May you lay down the lies that you are not enough,

not beautiful,

not magnificent,

and drink of this

here and now

wellspring of life.

With Much Love,

Alexandra