Friday, July 11, 2014

In Living color

Life is not a black and white picture show.
A little at a time my corners soften...
Rounded as I take short walks around the block in another foot's well worn shoes.
My gavel bangs less harsh,
with every mistrial and misstep
Respect coming more readily,
Even for those who aren't simply looking out the window next door, but who own a perspective a half a world away from my view.

Self imposed tower of stone loneliness crumbles
I still have my convictions,
still hold them dear to my soul.
But no longer do they sit heavy noose around my neck
Shackles on my ankles.
Solitary confinement
is a hell of a place.
I refuse to imprison
my heart, my mind
in such passages,
Narrow confines
Inspire only panic and claustrophobia

My body has softened a bit perhaps with experience.
But so has my ego, and I don't mind if I do.
And so it rolls...
In full living color,
Breathing in the variety
Spicy fragrance of life
What does that even mean? A cage for you to sing?
A bird cannot fly, my dear, with only one wing...
Sometimes life is blue,
Sometimes life is yellow
And sometimes the world is green
Because the truth is somewhere
in between.

Kalee 7-10-14

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone


Sunday, July 6, 2014

On the world.

"A Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in"
-Greek Proverb

The Fruits of Labour

I am impatient and impulsive
embracing idealism unpredictably
One foot on the threshold of the very dreams
I have manifested.
This magical space in a mundane world.
One foot on a banana peel
in the green grass of a dream even I cannot fully understand

Would it be running if I ditch the mountain I am halfway up?
Traded for the foot of a hill so high
peak lost in the clouds.
This crisis continues
 long unresolve.

So I keep planting.
Speaking in half certainties
and what-ifs
Lovingly covering over my bleeding heart.
Tucking in trees that I may one day soon abandon
to the whims, neglect, or destruction of another dweller.
Pouring my heart into stewarding the soil I may sell.

The birds and bees are happy for the season.
even if only this season.
Humming, chirping, buzzing
and sipping on the nectar of my love.


Authenticity in Unpredictability 
I started writing an ode to unrequited love.
but it became a ballad to my garden and the life it nourishes
I was pouring out my loneliness and distress at my seeming inadequacy in romance.
but it brought up my son... the joys and sorrows of raising him on my own.
Fears of failing him.
I tried to write about my spontaneous social anxiety.
My at times awkward nature.
But it was really about the wicked, wild, wounded,
wonderous world
we all inhabit.
What are the real issues?

What does it all mean.

An Other Mother's Man

 He is so sweet
with your babies.
Patiently tending
the growing life.
Quietly caring for your world.
working so hard
at building
sheltering his family from
the cold world
Complex human being
simplifying existence to carry the weight
Not wealthy,
but the shoulders of a noble man.
strength of heart.
depth of character.

A prayer for you: long may your love live.
and another for the rest:
may we all be so blessed in our mates.

Small again

Grass tickling the backs of my calves
A smiling small body bounces on and off my lap.
Chasing the dog.
Eating popcorn.
He is thirsty.
Twirling a silk cape.
Swinging glow sticks
making sweet baby cousin laugh
And now the colors and the echos
reach across the night sky.
Finally his always moving, playing, chasing,
bundle of energetic little bones
comes to rest
on my legs.
My arms are welcomed around him
My hair mussing
and face snuggled up to the
tiny nook between shoulder and ear
is not met by squirmy sillygoose-ness
we breathe
quietly for a moment.
And then
we giggle and "WOW!"
Gaze above.
And for this moment
we are the exact same age,
My son and I.


Thoughts on the view from across an ocean.

I live in luxury unearned in an unjust world.
born to a priviledge not grounded in any merit.
but the shade of my skin and the shape of my nose.
Born in a body no better or worse in reality
but born in an alternate universe of ages of oppression
anger and aggression.
where the paleness of my ancestors
entitles me to have more than I need
built on the blood and backs of black and brown.
where are those lines?
my skin is tanned intentionally.
my sister lays baking under lamps
while my brown auntie bleaches her beautiful bronze away.
both believing lies.
How did we come to this?
Sweet, shy, smart, beautifully browned children
living in love, struggling for the most basic of needs.
Spoiled children pale from the glow of technology
their confines of finery
buried in more toys, food, THINGS...
more house than they could ever need.
and yet in poverty of love.

Lap of Luxury, Lack of Love.
Lack of Luxury, Laps of Love.

Is it better to while a life away, a world away in light priviledge?
A culture full to the brim with apathy, empty as it may be
of empathy, raw emotion, well placed devotion
concentrated energy. tapas burning for anything that Matters?
or far better to be barefoot and brown as the skin of the earth herself?
smiling despite the desperation of simply existing day to day.
Despite the decay, raw sewage, strays,
rice and more rice every meal of the day.
I am overwhelmed with shame.
I have done nothing but walk along with the culture I was born to
same as you... so why my shame?
Do I help or hurt by riding in the side car of your bicycle
while you pedal away.
Serve away.
Slave away?
for the same pesos I spent on a sweet iced tea?
Do I help or hurt your people by buying
the clothes made by your hard working
mother's hands 
hour after long hour?
you claim to be glad for the work...
The strength of culture is astounding,
the strength of faith.
of triumph over heartache.
the will and determination of human spirit.
I cringe to think of the excess and waste I exist within
participate in, in my own way.

Do you look at my cute white euro nose?
my wavy Caucasian hair.
My light eyes with no hint of almond shaping?
my successful culture as something to emulate,
to aspire to, to envy?
I look back in immense admiration at your humility
humbled by a people so much stronger than they know.
deserving of all of the blessings of the universe
more integrity in your dark pinky than
in most of a nation of success.
spoiled spawn of lightness.
If hard work, strength of spirit, love for life
determined success and status in this world.
the Filipinos would inherit the earth.


Pointed Nose, Clumsy tounge

Am I the face of the oppressor?
an aggressor?
You look at me as an alien in your midst...
do you see me with fear?
Apathy, Curiousity? Or do you think
me a fool, for all of the facts of your world
that I cannot hide my ignorance of...
I cannot hide my face.
My features.
My facade.
 I do not belong, and that is clear,
despite my confusion.
My ears hear so much,
but the sounds make no sense.
I struggle to understand in this land
where all man is other than me.
My tounge clumsy as my feet.
Don't know where to place either.
Communication stutters...
sputters... Stalls.
Unfamiliar your family.
Feeling a head taller, and twice as wide
in this crowd of wide eyes and
staring faces.
Lost in another galaxy
away from all I know.
Ten Thousand Miles.
Is so much futher
than I ever thought.


Bits and Pieces yet unshared... vol 1

Decided to catch up on sharing some of my writing today.

I am Alive
Every dot and every stroke
I paint
build a bridge
span a gap
 heal a wound
open heart
open eyed
we are all one
or all none
I am
all one

Ships in the night

we were never more than happily awkward
I am flighty and naive
you are just a bit uptight
and sometimes its okay to suffer
through a too or two
and maybe time and space matter
more than I ever thought
or maybe they don't...

The butterfly crash landed after
a bumpy but beautiful ride
and in the end I realized
that our real eyes are a matter
of perspective.
There is no Answer.
There are many...
I get carried away...
thought you might want to come too.

I would have loved to hear that song
you almost sang
in the middle of that dark, alone night
and I've pulled it together...almost.
Nineteen states, six Canadian provinces
A stale and lonely house left half alive.
A couple tiny disasters
and a few massive escapes.

Is it okay to mourn something
that was but a fanciful dream of the heart?
A few sunrises... TOO few sunrises
a squeezed in moment or two as you hurried on by me.
I could induldge a hearty game of "What-Ifs" with myself
but would it hit undo or unsend?
I was never good at playing hard-to-get
with those I suspect I might like to be got by.
One more song for you...
this one sung without a tune.

Thanks for passing through.

October 2013