I Belong

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Where does
the path begin
and where does it go?
Sometimes I feel
I’ve landed
right in the middle of
an ecosystem
with its very long history
I know nothing of,
and I fear
I’ll never catch up
or be able to
feel my way around,
that I don’t meet
the preconditions
for harmony.
I feel my senses
don’t serve me here,
do not point the way.
It is in the digging deep,
though, the excavating
of my own right
to a history,
that I will lay claim
to what must be
a simple, if profound feeling:
that I belong.
That I am here,
as you are here,
and we are each
finding our way
through the jungle of
our own ancestral histories,
reaching out
with hope and
good intentions,
with one essential,
sacred goal:
to be love.
 
– TS
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The Day that Changed the World

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Today, something a little bit different. I wanted to share with you a stream-of-consciousness poem I wrote while waiting for the US election results to come in last November. As emotions surged that I didn’t know what to do with, I turned to the page (to the computer, to be honest!) and poured everything inside of me onto the page (screen). This has not been polished or edited in any way, and it is not pretty and it was not made with an audience in mind. It was a piece of me in that moment, unfettered. That day brought a lot of fear to me; it was not by any means my first time experiencing fear, and it will not be the last, but it was a big day, and this is me, and it is my hope that sharing this messy poem can bring us together in all our our glorious ups-and-downs …

ELECTION DAY
In a grey world, we can only
See colour through a fog.
We don’t know about saturation
So much as remember it,
Hear the vague impressions
That were once shouts: Red! Blue!
Home and ground sunk below
Where gravity never took hold
So we fly down. But we can always
Go the way of flight.
It only takes a single moment,
As an object of fear concretizes
And a lifetime of peace
Sinks into apparent illusion,
As memories have always
Made of our lives.
The world is not ours to claim,
But our hearts are. Our domain.
What better time to remember now,
Or to try to understand?
What will I do next?
I’ll prepare a soup lunch
In a changed world that
Remains as abstract to me
As the former one always was.
I’d rather come together in joy,
As many times as I’ve forgotten how,
But I’ll be happy to come together
In our sadness and shock,
And create a new, blessed warmth
To fuel the world.
Madness reigns only so long
As we feed it and let it in,
As long as we see the actual
For the true.
Still, the heart pounds,
Face flushes swooshes
Through the head causing
Pain and the kind of terror
I had once when I lost
My father’s grip in the ocean
And the universe started
Sucking me in, away from
The only world I’d known.
This never felt like an invitation,
No, it was a violation of my child me.
I want to scream STOP now as then,
Knowing it cannot and that
I am not at the center of this
Chaotic revolution.
People have been screaming stop
My whole existence and
Back to the very beginning and
It never filtered in, not like this.
Here, the selfish can be transformed
Into compassion. This is
Our necessity, the new
Life’s work.
It doesn’t matter what my head knows,
It never did.
The body soldiers on, fingers shaking
Head afire, heart quivering.
The mind is back there, in the grey fog,
With the sinking homes and
Vanishing holdings-on.
We need to grow the heart
From the ground up
Through the muck and the
Night terrors to come,
And go to where it’s green
And where delusions shatter
Into the laughing sky
And our emergent laughing souls.
Where is Jack Kerouac’s America,
That invited him in through the cracks
So that he may keep all our dreams whole,
Where did I go, who fell into his
Journeys of the road, spoke to his hobos
And saluted the sacred in our ruptures?
Where will I go, as I scramble to
Piece together a version of myself
That was for so short of time?
Who will I be as I try to do more
Than just wander through new climes?
It is a sad, mad, frantic time,
Our neighbours are not our friends
We have all become the enemy
Of peace and sensibility.
This has all happened before,
Our woes leap across time
So we can turn them into a circle,
And hold hands around it,
And weep,
And carry on.
And then WHAT?
Because even though the body is not lying
The mind is not believing.
It can’t be happening (to us).
It would never happen.
History teaches us (the right) lessons.
Even more selfish:
I and we must be the exceptions,
Immune from political and natural
Cycles and diseases.
No, it’s time to stop and dive in.
Let’s look at what we’ve made
And where we find ourselves.
Let’s get dirty with the mess of it all
And wash each other clean
Until we are shining with
Brand new memories,
If that is what we continue
To look for.
And still the blue sky is blue
And the red blood is ours
And the trees and children everywhere
And the mothers and fathers
Sisters and brothers
wait for our attention.
And still the wind only sometimes
Changes where it goes.
Love never turned its back on us.
Love cannot do that
Any more than it would.
It is ours to claim.
Yes, it is ours to claim.

  • TS

The Things I Wait For on a Cold Wintry Morning.

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

The Things I Wait For on a Cold Wintry Morning

and the things i wait for are the things
that would come,
the wait isn’t long
we can hold it close
or let waiting go,
but on this cold, wintry morning,
the wait is a tickle, a snug space
it does not agitate,

and so i play with it

waiting for my ginger tea to boil
waiting for the small kerosene heater to hum
for the blast of warmth to dance with my face

waiting for either snow or spring to make itself known
waiting for a small headache to go away

waiting for wildly restless thoughts that came, to go
for ancient fears to dissipate like the scattered dust of childhood
waiting for the future I’m not sure I even knew how to dream of

waiting for the next perfect coffee mug
for the book that will draw me into its pages forever
so that i may never return,
waiting for time to slow down enough to kiss it and say thank you
waiting for love to take yet another turn

waiting for the lotus flower to unfurl me
for my journal to tell me the truth of who i am
waiting for the old photos to fade and the new ones to fall into the ether
waiting to sit by a campfire and hear other people’s stories until the end of time

waiting to hear more from all the elders
waiting to recognize my own touch
to see the face of the world-body in front of me smiling
and the angels to drop down through the top of my head

waiting for the bird who will be large and kind enough to sweep me away
and for the park bench i’ve come to know, to welcome me with a song
waiting to embody

waiting for no more waits, because i have arrived,

with you, this frosted morning,
we are here

where we have always been.