Readying the Tongue

With your kiss quickening the words in my blood, I disbelieve gone days, when my mind cared not to speak through your lips. I thought you limiting and dominating, manacled by rules and devices that shied Imagination. Then I saw the Muse twisting and gasping and spasming and howling her laughter… birthing feelings with faces I didn’t know could be.

With your kiss quickening the words out of my flesh and bone, I can’t see my days without you… giving shape to the storm and calm, dancing in the pits of my all—

under fire and ice,
hot springs cleanse and soothe the heart…
readying the tongue
to birth poems, the soul needs
stewed living and open minds

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the wee notes…
– I haven’t loved poetry for very long. If you’ve been reading me for some time, you might remember days when I shouted my hatred of poetry into the world. Now, I think of those outbursts, and I can’t believe they came out of me. Storytelling remains my first love. But poetry has claimed a chunk of my heart that is just as huge. I feel lucky, lucky, lucky…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform).


“Duality”, by Patricia Ariel

Old and Young, I Dance

When my bones were new and my soul already old, my laundromat was a river. On Saturdays, we scrubbed grime from fabric until fingers bled clean. We smacked tough stains against stones, laid our garbs to be kissed by the sun, while the river cleansed fatigue and sweat from our flesh.

When my thoughts were young and my mind still old, the river was Gaia’s milk, her tears, her blood. On the Winter Solstice, we sat on the west side of the riverbank with the dying Sun… We faced east, waiting for the Sun to be reborn. From across the river, sunlight kissed treetops and skin.

I am far away from my river, my laundromat, her milk, her tears, her blood. My bones and thoughts are nearly as old as my soul. The Sun still dies and will again be reborn. On the Winter Solstice, I stand on the west side of my terrace with the dying Sun… I face east, waiting for the Sun to be reborn. From across the street, sunlight kisses treetops and skin. Shiny eyes soak in the new warmth, breathe in the world, smile, and close—I am dancing by the riverbank… I’m young, I am old, I’m young…

in the dark,
winter births the sun
and all life

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Stories of Yamasá, 4 (for more tales of Yamasá, follow the link to my Web Serials page).
The Twiglet #3 (“from across the room”)
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Tuesday Platform
* If you are here for The Twiglet or The Garden, then you are already done. If not, read on…
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Tomorrow, the Northern Hemisphere welcomes the Winter Solstice. Yep, my Wicked Luvs, the baby Sun (a bunch of fantastic people) and I will be celebrating the shortest day of the year. Well, I’m actually celebrating that the days will get longer (but don’t you tell the dark I said that… I’ve heard Lady Darkness can hold a grudge). Anyhoo, I always welcome the reborn Sun with something yellow and yummy—usually an orange. But it’s freaking cold outside. So this year, I’m opting for soup.

Roasted Kabocha Soup

Ingredients:
– 1½ cups of roasted kabocha squash, cubed
– 1½ cups of water
– 1 teaspoon of coconut oil
– 2 tablespoons of pecans, crushed and roasted
– Ground cumin, dill, salt

Preparation (about 45 minutes/239 calories):
– Preheat oven to 375°F. Coat the kabocha with the coconut oil, place on a baking sheet (lined with parchment or foil). Bake until the squash is a bit browned and soft (about 28 minutes). Let the squash cool a bit, then remove the peel from the flesh. Set the (yummy crunchy) peel aside.

Add the water, cumin, dill and salt to saucepan. When it comes to a boil, add the squash. Simmer on low for 5 minutes or so. Let it cool for a bit, blend, and yum-yum!
Roasted Kabocha Squash Soup

While the squash cools a bit, chop the peel and mix with the pecan. It makes a delicious snack.
Kabocha Squash Peel and Pecans

Or, if you are feeling wild—I often do—add the mix to the soup.
Roasted Kabocha Soup with Pecan

Happiest Winter Solstice, my Luvs.

Spectre

There are so many choices… Some slick and smooth and glossy and prepared to show me the world after just one touch. One or three can bring me fanciful pleasure, if I only give them an arm and a leg and most of my uncommon sense. I am tempted. So tempted…

For hours, which are centuries hiding behind screen glares and keyboard comfort, I roam the realm of electronic chaos… Temptation is not enough. My frugality and I can’t choose.

A gent clad in blue says, “She won’t get too hot on your lap. And if you are a little rough, she will be able to take it. She’s made of sturdy stuff.”

I am rough. I like sturdy. But she is a tad too steep.

My Piano Man reads the struggle in my face, and reminds me, “Frugality is often steeper, in the long run.” His sage tongue-kisses my qualms, and I start tilting towards temptation…

In the long run, I’m enthralled by her name—Spectre: “a visible incorporeal spirit, specially one of a terrifying nature; ghost; phantom; apparition… some object or source of terror or dread.”

to dance with dark words,
the new Spectre has become
my charming laptop

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the wee notes…
– I had all sorts of fun writing this haibun—it marks the culmination of my computer shopping, and every word of it is true. Also, it felt nice to write something heartwarmingly creepy… especially after scaring one or three of you half to death with “We’ll Always Have Smoke Signals”.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights—Obsession continually fills or troubles the mind… (by the way, for a short while I wondered if adding this to an obsession poetry challenge would be pushing it a tad much… Then I remembered that most of us are quite obsessed with our electronics *and as always, by “we” I mean “me”). Also linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Tuesday Platform.
– And, just so you know, although it was only about a week… I freaking missed you!

gothic-womanvia
(yes, the spirit of my laptop looks rather lethal in a corset *cough*)