I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.
Cult
Tag: Elizabeth Weaver
poetry, writing, novel, yoga, restorative yoga, improv, near death, asthma, hope, social imbalance
Lap Pool
Wholeness
Inception
INCEPTION
She asks,
wants him
to be the first.
As if the other
were a ripened peach,
easily bruised,
they time their movements
to the ancient
pulse of
hearts
then
seas.
Sharp tears through
hidden flesh
steal her breath.
They stop,
begin again,
relentless clock counts towards curfew.
Soothed by his hot sweet breath,
she rests in his embrace—
linear time shifts to the relative distance
between innocence and experience—
she arches,
accepts whispers
fingers
lips
as he eases her through
surmountable pain.
Her chrysalis rips,
new life emerges:
the harsh sun
scent of clary sage
wings drying in a warm breeze.
Thank you to the editors of Hot Flashes: sexy little stories and poems for first publishing this poem.
Nicer If
The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love us as unconditionally as a dog.
Plant Yourself
Look where your feet are planted, and bloom where you are.
Unknown yet variations by many
Music
Because music is a language that lives in the spiritual realms, we can hear it, we can notate it and create it, but we cannot hold it in our hands.
Joy Harjo, from CRAZY BRAVE
Iris Love
Gram
DREAMING OF GRAM It was the way her eyes rolled as she flashed her pack of cigarettes while I was explaining the impact of environmental illness, as if anyone who acknowledged the body’s needs, who didn’t do what they wanted despite physical limitations, was a whiney little roach as evidenced in her smoking while sporting an oxygen tank for advanced-stage emphysema— I’d had it with the family code of fuck-your-body- till-it-drops exemplified by our matriarch so I got in her emerald eye-shadowed face framed with brilliant orange hair and said: I don’t like you and if you want me to feel anything positive about you when you die, you need to demonstrate a shred of decency now then I stepped to the other side of the bed. Perhaps she rose from where she’d crouched between bed and wall and left, but for me, she disappeared.
Thank you to the editors of riverbabble for first publishing this poem.
Trees
Years ago, my friend dreamt she was a camp counselor leading a group of children through the forest. She woke herself when she exclaimed aloud: “Trees are our friends!”
Frank Lloyd Wright, Stanley and I agree.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 