29.67

I spent the flight in Palestine.

.

Locking arms and legs with Ellen,

in front of a dozer and a police van,

staring into the eyes of an Israeli soldier,

falling in love with Muna and Mohammed.

.

Confused about my voice.

.

For in my thoughts, it held no volume.

The anger at injustice building in my chest,

rising through my throat and

promptly stopping behind my lips,

resting on my tongue.

Wanting to dismantle every structure of

violence and oppression

that has ever kept me silent. Taught me to be silent.

To be still and not move.

Out of fear.

My soul screamed.

.

Be a good girl. Don't rock the boat. Do what you are told.

.

And now the voice inside of me is calling me forward, calling me forth.

Leaving me confused, and scared.

Which is where the system wants me.

And again the frustration begins to swell.

I want to yell.

I want to scream and expose the ethnic cleansing of Palestine.

I want to parade the crimes of our government against the marginalized

out in front of naked eyes, watching them become aware

of the horror, of the damage, of the pain and loss suffered everyday.

I want to air our dirty laundry.

I want to wash it.

So that one day, there is a chance for it to be clean.

So that one day Muna and Mohammed

will have the chance to sleep without

fear

Won't have to hold onions and garlic to cut the stinging of tear gas.

Won't have to live the violence my cousins

only know in the video games they play for fun.

.

And you ask me if Palestine actually exists,

or if the land I am speaking of is actually Israel.

You puncutate it, IS-RA-EL, like I don't know what you mean.

All I can do is think of Ellen and her story.

Her words.

Her experience.

Her heart.

Her family.

Her arm being shot from 15 feet away

by a bullet that the United States paid for.

And though those images are ingrained on my mind,

they are not mine and never will be.

But slowly, those images loosen my tongue.

The images in my mind are slowly forming into words

and quietly I begin to speak.

29.66

My grandfather, Waldo Tuttle Peterson, passed away yesterday night after three long months of struggle. I wrote this poem on November 1. May his memory, and the memory of all our ancestors, be a blessing.

A Life on Fire

.

The cold night air enters my lungs and embraces my body.
Days shorten almost without notice.
The winter constellations of my childhoon
walk back across the sky
to the homes they inhabited
the night we first met.
I walked up the street,
an eight year old child on a cold Colorado night
with my star map in hand and
my father walking behind me, freezing.
The stars walk their yearly path, as I walk through every year.
They accompany me through the cycle of the seasons,
the cycle of the moon, the cycle of life.

.

I walk every year through fallen leaves

dead on the ground. Dead on the trees,

dead but beautiful. Beautifully dead.

Burning orange, yellow and red.

Something is alive in their death.

Something lives in their change.

In their transformation, something is on fire.

For them, it is the end, but life continues.

The source of their life, the tree,

continues to feed,

continues to feel,

continues to fuel.

Continues.

And the energy of the dead leaves,

already transforming,

readying new life for growth,

does not cease.

.

As I walk through these leaves a thought lingers on.

My grandfather's body remains, though his voice is now gone.

His brain continues to think, but verbal communication has ceased.

Lying in his bed, he waits to fall from our tree.

.

You and I, we do not speak.

Our thoughts walk past one another as all words fail.

But our energy still courses.

We are still on fire.

Like a phoenix, we burn.

.

And I pray, like a phoenix, we will return.

We will be reborn, our energy renewed

to feed and to fuel a life,

to watch the colors change,

to wind down our days walking through fallen leaves.

.

The coursing energy continues to cycle

as a new old man, holds on to sight,

holds on to breath, holds on to life.

And the energy courses and continues to cycle

as a new eight year old child

becomes aware of the stars and of the leaves,

of this life and of the tree.

29.45

5 am raining
pitter patter drip drip drop
raindrops do not sleep

29.63

Dara's Birthday Song

Can't you hear creating sing,

with all that life is offering?

Hey, come on.

Can you feel it? It's moving deep.

Something says get up on your feet.

Hey, come on.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly.

I am your daughter. I am your son.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Hey, come on.

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

The traffic in the streets,

the waves from the ocean deep,

will help us keep the beat.

Brother deer and sister tree,

sunshine and starlight be,

our sweet melody.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly.

I am the moon. I am the sun.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Hey, come on.

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

And as the earth goes round the sun,

dancing makes this life more fun!

Hey, come on.

And in the moments, when it's still,

I pray that your soul be filled

with joy and love.

Open up your arms to the skies.

Embrace this life and let your spirit fly!

I am your friend. I am your love.

Don't you know we are the ones?!

Take my hand. Come be free.

Won't you dance with me?

29.61

The world is on fire with light.

Burning endlessly,

waiting to be noticed.

If only we stop moving for a moment.

If only we stood still.

We would see.

In awe,

the fire would become us.

Creating light of us.

29.60

My body collapsed.

My head to the floor.

I breathe out.

Your name hanging on every breath.

The connection between us grows stronger.

I relax into your arms,

feeling as though I am hugging the world.

Feeling as though roots grow out

from my arms and legs and head

down into the floor and across all of creation,

cementing our connection.

And in every step I take through my day,

those same roots reattach and keep me grounded.

On the surface, not six feet high,

I continue to walk.

So, I will continue to collapse.

I will continue to connect.

In this way, I continue.