OK, so this is not technically a Blog page - my site only allows ONE blog page it seems - this means that the MayaBlog page and POEMS are going to interweave themselves. . . what we will do is post poems on the blog page . . . And now and then we might post a poem or two here, too!
Dream Wild, Think Wild, Sing Wild,
Be Wild; its GOOD for you! (What is 'wild' anyway? Maybe it's stuff like dancing with desert snakes, but maybe it's sitting in perfect stillness at your desk. . . whats wild to YOU?)
Poem for Living
I am fucking the world alive
Walking perimeters has no place in the life of
A Saint, nor any
I am sad like a waterfall
My own bones
Like a barrel over edges
I never knew I had.
I am breathless
Rages through my cells
At warp speed
All doubt of any form
Of Wild Gods
Death is my passionate companion
We hike the volcano walls like
Sure footed goats
Who remember these paths
From before the ice age
This is no ice age
Fire laps my body up like blood on a tigers tongue,
Drinks me like a whale does krill –
I am rushed inward
And in the belly of the beast
I am at the center
Of my own
You must Die to yourself to Live
We have misunderstood Her –
The purpose of Life is to prepare us for compassionate, expanded Death
But the purpose of Death is to remind us
My own spoon,
Bent and crumpled as it is,
That silver is not all its cracked up to be
My Vampire self
Is pleased to find that,
Whether given or born with it,
My spoon is Gold
When I dare to dive to this center
Gift myself with that wealth and, indeed,
It is a fine tool
For digging my way out
Of any cell
Yet shadow is no prison
It is gateway to passion
I choose to take it
Breath blasts through my lungs
Light pours down
Fire rages up
I am washed of belief
In any thing but my soul's and body’s promise:
Fucking the world Alive, unto Death.
The tangled tartan
Of my tortured top hat
Brains befall the beautiful bounty
Mangled moralistic meat
Makes my meal
My Mother was a tree
Though she didn’t know it
On the ground
Here is a poem-story I read for a handful of fellow actors, and its a bit intense, but I will preface it by saying its NOT all gloom, in fact, its a HOPEFUL poem, a poem about the place from which we are all, really, Whole. I am always interested in the ways we human beings find to integrate our pain into our Divinity. Cuz we are, you know, all Divine. So please feel free to share YOUR stories and poems about healing and growth with me!
Chapter Two: 3-6
SEX really hurt the first time.
But at 3 years old, I did not yet have a name for what this was.
I didn’t know
What to call it
So I shut that part of my brain
That couldn’t be free
To get up and go to nursery school
And play and laugh
Like the others
This caused two things:
One was the realization of my invisibility –
Thin as a non-existent wall, I became,
For my whole long life from three to six – invisible quite sure of it –
(for if I had been visible Daddy never would have climbed on top of me - would have noticed me there and said excuse me and moved his business elsewhere, right?)
I was so invisible I thought it best
To stay inside at recess to avoid being trampled on the
The day Mr. Rico the butcher
Looked past my mother at the counter, to the person in back of me, to say
“Hey there, and how’s a smart girl like you doing? Have a nice summer vacation?”
But when I turned, no one was there, behind me,
There I was – white supermarket lights heating up my skin, irradiating my very bones – I had arms, legs, torso and a head – he SAW me.
I was visible.
Though I could not get my mouth to open in response, this was a miracle
A joy, I thank Mr. Rico to this day for.
But it meant something terrible too:
Daddy was more unfathomably a demon than previously assessed to be; and not a man that made a forgivable mistake.. .
The second thing that happened was:
I grew up lopsided;
When the physical, linear world
Is too big to
Stuff down your throat
When logical, speakable, left-brained Truth’s experience and expression
Is so huge that the
Heavy stench of it
Could crush your small body,
Your good brain
Keeps it from you
Locked up, locked down – just not there, so I wont drown.
Dyslexia set in.
A response to the
Shut down and re-routed circuitry of the linear mind –
Causing glitches in its previously notable high functioning.
The shame I felt at each small mistake – each letter misplaced, each word reversed, each sentence tangled
The shame when I could SEE the sentence on the page
But could not to save my very life
Get it out of my mouth
- Shhhh don’t spill the wrong words –
Choked back deep within the recesses of my good bones,
(Who held the secrets of my body safely from a me
That would have crumpled, fallen,
Had she had to read the pages of her own book)
So all the nutrients that should have grown my being whole
Grew me lopsided –
What the Angels saved me from in logic they gifted me in magic – the tragic
Locked up for later – I opened to something
I got to keep my infant Angel-Vision as a gift, was not asked to return it as most are –
Free gift when purchasing certain struggles I suppose
My right brain grew like a flower, on her other half’s supper
Drank the food that was its own, as well as the Lefts, (who sat in chains in the dungeon deep below
Chanting softly, but thoroughly:
We cannot know. . .
Not just yet)
I see you.
I see you all. I may not be able to see all the parts of me just yet, but even at age three four five, I can see in all your corners.
Your shadows, your light
The colors around your body that are your truth.
The light particles that surround you, made of your thoughts and desires
And I see your Angels.
You, here, weep not, for behold
You are bathed in and betrothed to a Universe that loves you more than you can conceive of.
Look how they walk with you, each of you, and I.
There is some larger plan, no doubt
And thus, for sure, (I reasoned)
What is there to do but allow the expansion of my being,
Become all this
Trust that all unfolds in a time planned by something greater than myself and
All the stars,
Each star a Sun – there always, even when we cannot see them, out of sight out of mind like a baby – but think about it –
The Ten Thousand Suns pulsing and burning themselves out
Out of love for being – out there, night and day, we are
By a billion, billion love-fires, Always. . .
What specks we are of insignificance
And yet how cherished and shining
In the eyes of whatever you prefer to name such vastness and un-nameable wealth.
At six, I know this:
I am a sun.
All that shines in me is built on that which lies in wait beneath the dark, so
I must also love that which is dark in you.
This is the beginning of the building of my house.