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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: Persephone

10 Saturday Aug 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

hyena, lion, Persephone, poem, poem?, prompt, season, seeds, sorting, the long night

She Lay Curled In An Animal’s Trench

She lay curled in an animal’s trench
Soft shed hair helped keep her warm.
She patted the ground hoping for lion
but most likely flighty hyena lay here.
She pulled in handfuls of dust and chaff,
plucked shallow weeds.
They smelled of old blood and broken loyalty.

Obsidian sky dripped malachite meteors,
low slow and long.
Chandeliers of stars once reflected in the pond
that lay east of her chin
But the water was gone
consumed by tongue and air.

Rested, she rose and twisted tufts of weed and hyena
into her hair.
She spat into the sandy earth and ground it in her palms,
painting the four points on her face.
She continued her long walk west back to the sorting place
determined to be a mirthless, disobedient beast
until the sun came back to retrieve her.

(Persephone’s Staircase)

Afraid: Sortings

24 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

afraid, dust, fear, inertia, life, Persephone, sorting

I’m afraid to let dust settle on my window valances, dramatic gold and maroon folds that suggest opera curtains when the night comes down, dusted by a ceiling fan that runs day long, accumulating dust that multiplies and makes heavy grey snow on everything it touches. I’m afraid to let dust touch my world.

I’m afraid to keep books that they might stack and be heavy bending shelves meant for generic flower vases and porcelain knick knacks that mean nothing to grandmother now.

I’m afraid to let sand and grit accumulate beneath my heel where I drive or pine needles and leaves beneath wiper blades.

I’m afraid to let anyone in the laundromat see bloodstains on my sheets, underwear too fancy, or that I will use two dryers instead of one, selfish white chick as usual.

I’m afraid to sleep on the beach because the homeless come down here to find respite, and I do not trust anyone who sleeps on the beach but me.

I’m afraid to wash dishes at 5 in the morning because it might disturb my neighbors.

I’m afraid to tell him how I really feel because it might vindicate him, or make him worry.

I’m afraid to let go of his little hand from mine, my empty hand, watching him cross the street by himself.

I’m afraid to step out of line because I know what happens when I step out of line, and I do not want to face those losses again.

I’m afraid that my voice, my IQ and capacity, my vigor, talent, creativity, instincts, and believability will always be worth less than a man’s.

And yet, I’m not afraid to stand up each morning and walk away from the moanings I left in my bed looking for the world to tell me a story.  I’m not afraid to be ebullient with my neighbors because who the hell needs another vanilla creature?

I’m not afraid to keep going, but sometimes it is real, real hard.

Strength For My Dreamer

20 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

dream, Persephone, sorting

It was a long night.

She was driving on the wrong side of the road in the parking lot which pissed off a lot of people. I suggested she move over, and we eventually found a place to park.  Why is it when I fly, or even dream of flying, it’s always “time time time?” Yes, I already know why. We were barely going to make our flight from Paris to Nigeria (which tells you right there this was a dream), and most of it was spent hustling.  We got inside, backpacks bouncing, passports tucked in jeans, now to find the line and get to the gate.  But the airport looked nothing like the kind you’ve ever seen.  It was like an underground parking lot, poorly lit. No signs anywhere.  Haphazard lines.  We dumped our packs on the shaky table, gave the uniformed people our papers which turned into, “I don’t speak English. Wait here. You’re in the wrong place, go there.” At which point she gave me someone else’s little backpack, leaving me to wonder how did mine get disappeared before my eyes?  I turned to find Ange, but she was gone.

The bulk of the dream was me running through this cavernous place looking for my gate, knowing I’d catch up with her.  The deeper I went in, the more dangerous the place became: large holes in the concrete that exposed the concrete floor below. I thought if I fell into that and broke my back I could sue, but in this country they would laugh and say, “It was your fault for not paying attention, why did you run into a hole?”  Crumbling concrete, metal conduit hanging down, giant wheeled machines rumbling back and forth heedless of scrambling passengers all looking for their gates.  There were doors down here, some like enormous industrial garage doors, but most, and there were so many, were closed metal doors, maroon and full of dents. The gate numbers were spray painted on, some had mailbox sticker numbers on them, crooked.  Some doors were atop a flight of stairs, some around corners. No matter how far in I went, how many flights up, corners I turned, no matter how many times I checked and re-checked my gate number, the door was not to be found.  I’m not sure if I should say, “happily” but I was not the only passenger in this situation, there were scant groups of people looking for their doors.  I finally found a uniformed person and before I could ask he said my name, and that my friend is on the plane waiting for me, the gate is just over there.  He pointed. I ran in the direction of his finger, relieved that she was on the plane and I hadn’t missed the flight.  And the numbers ran out again. I started opening every door and looking outside. No planes. Just a large, slanted lot filled with shipping containers, thick cables and cars going by in the distance.  Up every stair, opening every door, nothing nothing nothing.

Is she still down there? Is she still running up stairs, opening doors, not giving up knowing that it’s got to be here somewhere while I wash dishes and make lists?

Sorting Seeds

12 Saturday Mar 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

evolving, Persephone, woman

Wide awake in Allentown.  What the hell does that mean?  It means everything we believed to be strong and secure can change in a heartbeat.  Sometimes our anchor is dislodged by an outside force, but… but!  We have the power to take up our own anchor and head for new waters. It’s hope.

We are our own being. We are the creators, destroyers, and creators of our own life.  That includes our art, be it poetry, a novel, restoration of a classic automobile, pencil sketches, photography we made on a camera phone. We are the creators, destroyers, and creators of it all.  And we do not make art every day.  Most days we exhale carbon dioxide, we speak questions, look on others with hard filters, our heart beats longings, and we have no idea what the path ahead looks like.  Most days we are just one hour at a time, because it’s all we can do, and that is a noble thing, just getting through our current trajectory.  I love to listen to people speak about their current trajectory.  I have no wish to point them to some “better” way because only they know their way.  So many stories standing out there in the sand, written and unwritten by the tide, or on the bow of a ship or the fin of a dolphin. Seen, gone.  Meaningful to them and them alone.  They carry their lives on their faces, in their dented cars, dented faces, wrinkled brows,  unknown stories, and we judge them at first sight.  Their story is theirs, and my reaction to them is mine.

Today I am interested in sorting seeds. What have I written so far that is ready, what is written that needs attention, food, watering, growth?  What have I written that needs to be put away, compost for better things?  Today I am interested in truth, the ivies that follow me from a garden I planted in my past. If I could plant a seed today, what would I want it to yield?  This is what I want to know, today.  And that is all.

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