Saturday, February 21, 2015

All that you already are

for all that i am, all that i was, and all that i'm going to be.


Your little feet press
a rolling wave,
noting with one move
that inexplicable brought by night's sea.

Say hello to the universe.

Mommy has a purpose.
more than the million steps
she's walked to the sand--
intent on her breath,
awe in her guise.

What your eyes will shine.
brightness of immeasurable moons,
the reflection and tug
of tides of my being.
May too, they twinkle like daddy's
but capture the light all their own.

With one blink, our world will turn.

Mine has turned on its axis,
water merging into land;
each continent of experience
shifting and colliding
for your soul in my belly.
your golden molten of Ipseity
swirling in cradling palms
until you're ready to sip
and emerge from water.


e. chayes
(erica chayes wida)

























































This is a day for poetry

i woke, the air
yawning frost on the window,
round underbelly making ripples in red
cotton sheets. A warm orb
like neon petals and natural light,
cream awakening and kisses in flannel.

You are safe,
you are loved,
i am so magnetic already.

Your silken hands press,
we are weaving you like worms,
and we will always be your roots,
whenever you need them.

Your heart looked like a butterfly
the first day I saw you--
expanding your wings
and pumping little pulses
of magic and reality.
You are so small;
my sockets melted salty bliss.
You flutter in me and I feel you,
each and every night at 9:54.
You flap your feet,
do you like when mommy writes,
do you hear the music?
"Flutterby" means so much more.


e. chayes


Pendulum

there's light beaming from within,
where the little thumped.
but today there's fog,
a morning of black tea and bruised pears.

little kindness
where a man spits on the street
and the reaction, unusually,
tames the green light with disgust.

from what inside this feeling trembles?
weeping humid,
blanched in vinegar and sun.
the teabag gathers maternal molecules
and specs of worried dust.
the feeling is above the womb,
the chest constricts and bosoms swell,
like a wave i wanna curl into
and be carried away with.

chords are spinning into autumn,
falling before fall.
the trees are not what i need.
i don't need oxygen; i need air.
salty, salty
air.

craving the wave
and not to be saved,
i don't need saving.
it's others then and under
pressure. this hot air balloon heart.
i'm dangling from a basket of woven hair.
i'm swallowing the poison without it
even being fermented.


e. chayes