If I Should Die Tomorrow…

This is something a little different, a little dark.

Death is the only part of the life cycle that’s often spoken about in hushed tones. Mystified, revered, and feared – we sing about it, we write sonnets, but they are nearly always in the heart of the night spoken in metaphors with its essence only gleaned in the subtext.

But I don’t want hushed tones, aching, and tears at my death.
Instead sing from rooftops that I can finally find peace for my weary bones.
Shout that I lived and loved hard and died once the last ounce of passion left my body.
Tell them I used up everything.
Graffiti the walls with the words I spoke most often and may the lion’s share be the loveliest and most uplifting of things.
If I should die tomorrow, please don’t lay my body down.
Spread my ashes to the world.
Take me on one last trip.
Let me go in the wind.
Scatter me over seeds so that I may be part of the trees and it can be said that I began and ended with roots.
Place me at the center of all elements so that I may live eternity in perfect balance.
I have not lived quietly or apologetically so honor me by wearing red, dancing on a moonlit night in an open field of wildflowers, drinking good whiskey and great red wine, breathing slow in the morning, loving openly and unconditionally, and living your truth out loud every damn day.
Gather annually around a fire with good tunes – not to spend a weekend remembering me, but because I have found presence and connection to be the answer to nearly everything.
If I should die tomorrow, please don’t lay my body down.
May I still fly and swim and grow and burn,
may my words still rally,
may thoughts of me still inspire warmth,
and may my love still heal
long after the last of me is washed away to sea.

Love Always,

Photo by Carli Jean, Provided by Unsplash Writing a Valentine's Day Letter

An Open Letter To My Future Lover on Valentine’s Day

Dear Lover,
I don’t crave that Valentine Hallmark kind of love.
That complete me, save me kind of love.
I don’t pine away for grand gestures
and white table cloths and candlelight.
I’ve no need for that clinging kind of love.
That lonely together, good enough kind of love.
You won’t seduce me with hollow promises.
I need the kind of love that can’t be tied up in ribbons and pretty things.
I crave that enduring kind of love,
that mountain moving kind of love.
I long for that when the shit hits the fan,
you’re still there holding my hand kind of love.

Oh, Dear Lover,
Take my hands in yours
for I seek not to be adorned with diamonds,
only with the threading of your fingers through mine.
Seduce me with your quiet understanding of me.
Rise where I fall and I’ll do the same when you slip beneath.
Let us perfect our ebb and flow beyond what can be hidden by sheets.
Leave your sweet nothings at the door
and whisper only your secret wishes.
Lay not only your wanting hands,
but your most precious dreams on me.
And don’t worry if you can’t find the words,
our language is not limited to syllables.

Dearest Lover,
We are a long way from starry-eyed adolescents
with perfection and pedestals
tied so tightly to our expectations of true love.
No, I will love you as you are now – a warrior.
And though I crave your adoration and uplifting,
I was never built for pedestals.
Perfection is not in my nature.
All I ask is let me love you.

Never Presented A Poem On This Blog Before: Remembering

Always screaming I don’t need you – don’t need anybody. Just wrapped up and paralyzed by the inconsistencies of being wanted. No one ever told me the nature of want would change so easily, no one ever taught me how to stoke an endless passion. So I let it go and pull it back desperately like the frantic ebb and flow of a storm worn shore because I didn’t know – don’t know how to glide effortlessly through the motions of letting you want me. There was a time once upon a time when our interlaced fingers sent bolts to my heart and we stayed out all night laughing and playing pool. We made an island unto ourselves and the sound of you and breath of you soothed me like chill wind on the hottest day. We breathed in one another no differently than oxygen. I was a different person then stuck in my definitions of needing – needing to be needed and now that you want me, bare your soul to me I have forgotten who you are. We used to say if we have lived any lives other than this or ever will we would find each other in every one and through every one I remember you all over again. In this life alone we have found each other again and again and I will stand at the shore of our island always reaching, always waiting for us to remember who we were.

I love you without knowing how…

Pablo Neruda (1904–1973)

Pablo Neruda (1904–1973) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

Pablo Neruda

Today just kind of feels like a Pablo Neruda day. For some reason I am especially reverent of love this morning.