the holiest place

...is not inside a temple, a church or synagogue
it is not even fully found in the deep wood
or vast ocean

the holiest place, the sacred place, the holy of holies
is found in a relationship

we do not have to build a temple
or seek god elsewhere

our bodies are the temple
let us worship there

smc
5-21-20

this woman

i have hated this woman at times...probably more times than i've loved her.
i have fed her stories and lies about herself, told her she wasn't good enough or simply not enough.  sometimes i still do.

i've allowed others to treat her poorly, to break her and make her feel inadequate.  she has torn down walls and battled for others who failed to appreciate or stand up for her.

she has been beaten, abandoned had her spirit broken and her light dimmed, and despite this she still rises and loves deeply and believes she has light inside her.

this woman has had to be strong enough to carry on time and again while paralyzed by fear.

she has struggled to forgive herself for mistakes made as a mother, a partner, a friend.

this woman has a dirty mind, a smart mouth, scars and she keeps secrets...hers and other's.

she had done good things and bad things.
there are those who love her, those who like her and those who don't, but she's ok with that. 

this woman spends too much time in her mind and in her pajamas.
she seldom wears make-up but wears her gray hair like a crown.

she is who she is.  she won't pretend to be anyone she isn't. 

sometimes she is silly, but often she is sad. life and circumstance have made her this way, so when she smiles you can trust it's genuine.

she knows she's not perfect, in fact broken in some ways, but she has worth and she is still standing.
this woman knows she's a warrior even though some days she tires of the fight.

this woman is lover, life giver, and embodies strength and persistence.  she is a realist yet a dreamer, a wisdom seeker and a healer.  

you can love her or not love her, but if she loves you she will love all of you with her whole heart.  

this woman is a queen.  she just needs reminded sometimes.

this woman is me.

if i could

i would say i love you
but more than that
i would show you

i would tell you stories
and do silly things
just to hear you laugh


i would never be careful with my kisses.
never

i would make you soup
whenever you said
"soup sounds good."

i would paint my toes
in rainbow colors
and wear my hair up
just the way you love it

i would put on silky, lacy things
just to see your reaction
before i seduce you

i would teach you things
and you would teach me
and together we would become more
than we are separately

i would love you to sleep
with a night of passion
then love you awake
in the morning
with hot sweet coffee and kisses

when you least expect it
i would sneak up behind you
wrap my arms around you
and press myself against your back

if i could
i would weave myself into your flesh
so you would know
how loving you feels

5-17-20
for J

in these moments

the way you watch me cross my bare legs as i sit at the kitchen table

the way you look like a dream lying naked on my bed awaiting my company

you draw me close, as close as you can, face to face, my full breasts against your skin

words are not needed.  they pour forth from your eyes like honey

running my fingers through your hair, pulling you in to taste your lips, you yield to me

your hand glides across my hip making its way up my fleshy inner thigh.  i yield to you

(and i would a million times more).

my fingers wrap around your silken hardness feeling the desire swell in you.  wanting it. wanting you

pleasure building.  perpetual ecstasy in the wanting, the giving, the receiving

we fall into each others eyes as i rise and fall to your touch

there is no conclusion in this meditation.  there is no need for an ending

we are here now, aware of ourselves.

we notice and unite our bodies and spirits.  heaven and earth become one.

5-12-2020

for J

the power of the crone (the wise woman)

Author: Maya Luna

If you want to be a bad ass sexually empowered woman, embrace your inner hag.
Thats right.
The crone. The ancient old woman. The witch. The hag.
The crone archetype is an aspect of the feminine not exactly associated with sexuality.
Women groom themselves to be girls. The younger the better. 
Paint those lips red and blush those cheeks like you are wet and ripe for impregnation.
Make them believe you are in perpetual ovulation.
Make them hard. Make them desire you
Get that face lift. Suck in that belly. Bat those lashes.
Guess what.
The crone doesn't give a fuck.
And that is her power.
She embraces her spider lines and swinging, sagginesss.
After all, this is what life does to the body of a woman...eventually!
Does that make you uncomfortable? Would you rather not see?
Her secret threatens to corrupt you.
She can make you wild.
She can reveal to you your power.
Your volcanic senseless holy
Once she opens her mouth, the jig is up.
They tell you she is crazy.
Dangerous because she has broken out of that jail cell you call restrictions.
How would you have sex if you didn't give a fuck about how pretty you look?
Or how flat your stomach is?
The crone is not an object of desire.
She is free to claim her own desire.
In a world that praises women for being objects of desire.
Where the more lust you can seduce the more value you possess, the crone is laughing with that cackle that only women of power have.
She does not possess the enchanting beauty of the maiden or the fertile reproductive juices of the mother.
She no longer bleeds. She no longer bares children.
Her sex no longer waxes and wanes with the moon, gaining and draining energy with each passing tide.
She is full.
The portal to her blood has been sealed.
She is drinking in the nectar. She is bathing in its luminous darkness.
Her sex is a diamond pressed and polished by years of experience and wisdom.
She has passed through all the phases of initiation as a woman.
That heavy web of social conditions all feminine creatures are baptized into.
She is unraveling herself from these webs.
She has liberated her sex from all their stories.
She is making it to the other side.
Freeing herself.

7th week thought stream

the morning of april 24th, 2020 (approximately)


a full 8 hours of drug induced sleep.  thank you dr. george.  yet i do not feel as refreshed as i might from a summer's eve douche.

rain drips from the awning above the kitchen window.

another morning to ponder as i sip instant coffee and battle the cat for space at the kitchen table.

the last time i douched was after i compromised my integrity with a man i didn't love.  it was an act of self-care...the douche that  is.

"dear vagina, i am sorry i allowed someone who didn't value your sacredness to enter.  it hasn't happened since and i promise it won't happen again.  but you know that don't you?"

as i sit, i finally concede to the cat's persistence as she sprawls across my notebook, to indulge her and myself in a tactile experience.

outside the window the maple tree that lives next door has small green leaves beginning to fill it's previously barren branches.  a train rumbles as it passes through town several blocks away.

i am hoping the wind dies down to allow a comfortable walk this morning.

the wind chimes outside my back door sing.  i wonder if they annoy my neighbors.  i don't care, i only wonder.

yesterday on my first walk of Spring i noticed all the alleyways i could traverse, which made my walk more interesting.  one can walk down (or up, depending upon how one looks at it) a sidewalk and see how the neighborhood presents itself.  but wandering through alleys offers a glimpse of what is behind the facade.  instead of trimmed hedges and pretty flowers there are rusty gas grills, piles of rotting timber, and remnants of last years gardens.

it has been 7 weeks in isolation.

Not Dark Yet

Bob Dylan

Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't let me heal

There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there
Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain

She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin' what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well I been to London and I been to gay Paree
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes

Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still

Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

i'm trying

A Mantra for the Crazy, Lost, Wild & Free Ones

People often ask her what she’s doing.
What are her plans? What are her goals?

She answers, simply, “I’m making.”

What follows are blank stares, and the inevitable question of “making what?” is left to linger in the air.

Her reply is this:

I’m making mistakes and choices that are leading me to where I need to be.

I’m making messes and making no effort to clean them up until I have learnt from the glinting shards, dispersed all on the floor.

I’m making a living in a job that I don’t wish to pursue, to make money to open up gateways that I need a paid ticket to get through.

I’m making notes on the conversations and stories that I have been told along the way.

I’m making commitments to myself to live only for myself, and only for those that intertwine beautifully, in all of my various branches.

I’m making room for self-growth and making an effort to follow notes of songs that sing to me.

I’m making after hours in bars an acceptable place for a woman to drown her sorrows—alone, if she wants to.

I’m making passionate moments, encounters, and meetings.

I’m making love to words and etching them down in a book of poetry that no one will read until I want them to.

I’m making coffee in the morning and making a choice to have a lonely glass of red at night to keep me company.

I’m making noise out loud that was once trapped and restricted in my mind for too long.

I’m making promises to my mother to be the strongest woman I can be, in a world that can shake the bones of you.

I’m making deals with my sister to never leave her behind.

I’m making my dad quiver with my choices in men.

I’m making prayers and offerings to the sky for guidance at times when I need a helping hand to take the pressure off.

I’m making this life a piece of art in the way that I move.

I’m making history for allowing the power within me to heal myself and others that I come in contact with.

I’m making a beautiful, chaotic life seem normal.

I’m making “crazy, wild, free, lost, and woman” words to be f*cking proud of.

I’m making the best of what I’ve got and I’m making no apologies for being committed to the making of me.

~
Author: Sophie O’Sullivan

to my lover at 4 in the morning

as i sit here in the wee hours of the morning when i can't sleep my thoughts are with you.  seems to be the way it is every moment my mind is not occupied.  you're just there.  i picture you sleeping.  i imagine you getting up all sleepy headed, making coffee, getting ready for your workday or your weekend.  i wonder if you think of me upon rising, if you wished you were with me as opposed to where you are and who you're with.  some questions i'm afraid to ask.  you see, it hurts.  maybe it shouldn't, but it does.  i do not like you loving someone other than me.  i'm selfish that way.  i want us to be each other's one and only and to be the person who gives you everything you need.  i have it to give but it's not for anyone else to receive.  and i want so badly to give.

i try to avoid my thoughts but they come...they always come...the wanting and needing you in my life.  you've opened me so fully to my desire, you've shown me what real connection is and what i've been seeking all my life.  you and i are what dreams are made of.

i try to be more rational, to accept the situation for what it is.  i try to tell myself that this is probably all i'll get so savor it.  and i do savor it, but knowing it may be all i ever get makes it hard.  i know i can't make you do anything or change anything. those things are yours to decide.  that's not saying i don't want you to.  i do.  so badly i do.  i want you to take me into your life and depend on me for the love and attention you crave instead of hoping it magically shows up where you are now.  i don't want to give you an ultimatum because i'm afraid you will simply accept the loss and let me go. that thought scares me too much.  i'm afraid you wouldn't fight to keep me and that thought alone makes me question my real worth in your life.  can you live without me?  sure, you would survive, but do you want to go back to less than you know with me?

i have loved deeply in the past but never quite like this.  i have been loved, but never in a way such as you have shown me.  i miss you so.  this loving you and wanting you goes so deep that it always brings tears to my eyes.  you have become the great love of my life.  what am i supposed to do with that? 

aftermath (ode to 45)

we traveled down a weary road
not knowing what would come
would we live or would we die
when all was said and done?

the politicians stood and lied
trying to save face
so unconcerned they truly were
about the human race

so many senseless people
believing what was told
succumbed to covid-19
the young not just the old

the people gathered in the streets
to protest isolation
in ignorance spreading hate
they furthered devastation

our doctors and our nurses
battled such great odds
while the greed of politicians
controlled supplies like gods

the bailouts went to billionairs
instead of those in need
all because of backdoor deals
to satisfy men's greed

funerals could not be held
to honor all those dead
instead the bodies piled up
in semi-tractor beds

the blood of jesus didn't save
but here is how it stands
there's blood and plenty of it
on our politicians hands. 

4-23-20
(c) 2020 s.cooper