 The tree was big. The tree was huge. The tree was constant. The tree saw everything. The tree did not change. The people changed. The people suffered. The people ran. The people hid. The people moved away. The people returned. The people cried. The people laughed. The people shut down. The tree remained. The people cried. The people fought. The people sought escape. The tree remained. The people suffered. The people soothed. The tree was there for everything. Photograph by Jamie Marich
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 Manigusto (n.): The resolve to enjoy life more; a combination of “manifesto,” a mission statement that comes from the same Latin root where we get both “a ship’s manifest, or list of inventory,” and “gusto,” now an English word with multiple meanings (also the same root as “a gust of wind”). In many Romance languages derived from Latin, “gusto” means “pleasure.”
Deep dives in the ocean of life with People I love and cherish In this life I’ve been entrusted to Care for the ocean To help save it and to Rescue the people drowning in it Yet what is the sense in accepting This life vocation if I do not Take ample time to Swim in it myself To dance in the waves at sunset And to listen to them as the sun rises Eating food that excites me Climbing mountains and Enjoying the massages afterwards Savoring experiences while Still collecting a few things along the way Making time to read All of the books on my shelf And write the ones that are Locked inside of me Telling stories in all of the mediums Exploring what my heart desires To enjoy in the world And then resting into the journey home Snuggled up with myself, And with the ones I love On the couch, content Talking about everything And nothing at all Enjoying this life to the fullest And never fearing the next.  I wanted to write you a think piece
A cogent reflection on an issue of Great social import-- What it’s like to be raised in the Culture of conspiracy Yet my brain is still a bit too scrambled To weave coherent sentences together Probably because phrases like “Deep state” and “high cabal” Were a regular part of my childhood diet Long before YouTube was even a thing But just as toxic voices coming Through the radio flooded my tender heart Sometime before my brain broke Beyond repair I wanted to write you a think piece But my brain can no longer think straight Not like anything about me was Built to be straight- Perhaps it’s that I am so damn tired My mind is exhausted The heart hurts like my heart has the virus And my soul can only muster the strength To plop down on my couch and cry The last four years wearied my soul On top of the forty years I’ve spent running from ghosts Slaying monsters, dancing with demons Or figuring out a way to live with them Most days it all feels the same I wanted to write you a think piece Something that might catch the attention of Rachel Maddow or NPR A queer daughter shares her lived experience Of surviving a conservative existence Q-Anon pings on our modern radar, yet A-thru-P were quite the torture too The father who exposed me had such a Questionable relationship with the truth, With consistency, with decency, and yes Even with the Mighty God he claimed to serve Yet when you’re a spirited little girl You believe in him And that his goodness will prevail Not his delusions I wanted to write you a think piece Full of big words to help you understand And yet I only have big feelings That still make an accomplished person Unsure of who she can really trust Uncertain of what is fantasy and what is real Unclear if the avoidant lovers who are a Staple in her life truly mean what they say About my love, my body, my light Or if they are just like him Afraid of my light Too afraid to let it work Her transformative powers My light works that magic for so many So why do I still feel so cold in my own bed? I wanted to write you a think piece About how the fire in my belly Led me to the Capitol to make sure That the King of my father’s own image Was indeed knocked off his throne I got to tell one of his disciples That he sounded like an abuser And that I could no longer communicate With such a person for whom the Truth Clearly means something so different Their vision of a great America is no America in which I want to live So how am I supposed to live with them? How can our demons ever possibly dance Together on the same floor? I wanted to write you a think piece Full of solutions for unity Based on my knowledge and life’s work Yet this puzzle is not one that Thinking will ever solve And our feelings may burn down Each other's houses I am curled up, crying on my couch With the young women that still Live inside Just wanting their father to love them As they are, as she is A very blue soul Who loves America and everything in it With a fiercely bleeding heart Darkness and Light: Poetry Composed in Community by 2020 "Between the Holidays" Retreatants12/18/2020  Artwork credit: Debra Sowald “We need to be in dark soil to grow. There is no spotlight in the womb. Darkness is incubation.”
Not separate Darkness and light is whole in its contrast but also one in its wholeness of the same… Darkness and light are a continuum All is required for life and growth Transformation from one to the other Both And The swirling, the deepening, the opening reconciled within The sun, the storm, the journey, the challenge Brought us together today Seeds push up through the black soil Evolving ever onward Entangled You have to embrace darkness to give light a rebirth. And find wholeness that is my birthright New life contracts from darkness to light Love and Growth and Fear and Protect all that is within Held in a sacred womb Both are gifts that merge I can “be” Both  Do you spit or do you swallow?
What! How dare you ask me that! The question is relevant Do you spit or do you swallow… The shame. Some women seem to have a natural gift To spit it out, to reject it Or they simply refused to be dicked around In the first place I am in awe of these women because for years I swallowed and Swallowed and Swallowed “Taking it like a woman” to Keep the connection To secure the attachment To be a good girl For the men I wanted to love me To praise me To adore me To let me play on their field Even though I was more talented More resilient More flexible and A hell of a lot stronger By swallowing the shame Internalizing the misogyny Being the version of a lady They wanted me to be And even treating other women Poorly in reaction Denying them their rights, Their process I swallowed Believing it would keep the man happy When he could care less what I did As long as he got off first How would he react now if I spit it Right back in his face? Would that make me an unlady? Will they take my good girl card away? Better yet, what if I don’t show up for the game? Make him take care of himself Hell has no fury like a privileged man Losing his power While compassion has long been our power I must no longer let the man use that against me I almost died in both body and spirit Caring too much When we step back into the power we deserve The world comes back into balance Yes, the fight ahead is a long one They will come after us Violently Or worse yet They may even deny us the Connection and love we desire May the fire burning in our bellies Lit from the kindling of that Good Girl card they revoked Light the way Surround yourself with the good men, women, and people Who will never make you be anything than who you are Who will celebrate your spirit to the fullest Who will never ask you—spit or swallow?
Dear Friends
Do not fall back asleep Although the days are short And the night is long. Do not fall back asleep If your heart still beats for humanity I beg you. Go find your kindling Reignite the flame within your heart. Do not fall back asleep Remember 401 years of terror for Black Lives. Reaffirm your commitment to justice Do not fall back asleep Remember we still can’t breathe - even though we find a way to keep smiling, laughing, drumming, crying, working, marching Do not fall back asleep For me and mine there is no option We can not step out of our Black skin and take a day off. There is no day off. Our ancestral melanated garment calls us to action everyday. Do not fall back asleep My dear Ally There can be no peace in our land if the blood of Black people continues to flow through the streets. Stay awake Do not fall back asleep. Poetry and photography by Dr. Kellie Kirksey  What do you see?
What is the story of your projection? Do you see my color? or is my hue invisible to you? How does this unfolding story strike your heart? Where does the word racism resonate within your body? Why were your eyes closed for 401 years? Did you not hear my screams? Did you not see the hanging tree? Did you not feel my anguish? Did you not notice my red blood running through the streets? Was I not just as human when they killed us again and again and again? I am perplexed. So. Do you really see my reality now? Can you taste the fear that has been my life? Is this all real or simply a gaslight hallucination? Real talk... My fear is you will fall asleep once more and i will recess into the blackground of your mind like yesterdays old yellow newspaper. I know one of you has cried muffled tears of saddness for this 4 century long tragedy. Step boldly forward and work for systemic change. Please come out of the shadows. Let your tears water the soul and soil of justice. ....she is exhausted. and yet she begs you. Do not slumber. Please do not fall back asleep. Stay awake for freedom... and raise your voice to action as we toil for a system that is just, together....and truly equal. May the souls of the Ancestors rejoice in this earthly transformation and find peaceful eternal rest. By Dr. Kellie Kirksey June 30th, 2020 1:26am  If you can’t handle me in three or more dimensions You don’t get to have me in two You one dimensional fool If you can’t digest my substance and my messiness Seeing only the perfect image you behold You won’t get any of me, not anymore If you can’t treat me with the respect You would want any man to show your most sensitive daughter I withdraw any respect I ever held for you If you keep putting me on hold when you were Once so eager for me to answer the phone This fantasy of ours will cease to be reality Poetry by Jamie Marich
Mixed Media by Jamie Marich based on a photograph by Michael Gargano  Fear overwhelms me.
Sucking me dry Leaving me So many wounds A shell of a human Not human Left to die Without the virus My reality Disabled Imperfect, unworthy of care  You know it’s over when they let you enter without first scrubbing your hands.
This ends one of two ways. Only one means coming home with the one you love. Safety precautions are no easier in intensive care, just clearer. The ventilator, translucent skin, the unsteady beat of the monitors--all scream vulnerability and so, of course, of course you wash and gown and mask. That’s obvious. The dying parent. The tiny babies. Every cell in your body wants to shield them from danger, even – especially – the invisible danger clinging to you from outside, hitching a ride closer to them. Looking for a way in; their vulnerability an invitation. They can’t protect themselves. Protecting them is obvious even when it’s not easy. You respect the barriers marking the threshold between the menace outside and the relative (hoped for, prayed for) safety here, inside. When you can see blue blood rushing beneath translucent skin, it’s not hard to wash your hands. The line used to be hard and sharp. Maybe it was imaginary, but it seemed straightforward. Safety is here: danger is there. Now, the ink has smeared until that line becomes earth, becomes air encircling each of you and what does it mean to be safe now? Ah, but you know what it means to keep a distance, so that you can protect. You remember. It’s planted in the marrow of your bones. How do you love through panes of glass? With a heart beating so hard you’re certain your tiny babies must hear it, too. When you touch them with a gloved hand, is it warm? Do they know it’s you? Only your voice can touch without danger. The soft lullaby you sing into the incubators when you have to leave them. And the way his heart speeds up when he hears you coming into his hospital room. On that final morning, they let you in without scrubbing. You touch your father’s hand with yours, unwashed and ungloved, because that line doesn’t matter anymore. It’s how you know it’s over. All those years before, you got to take your babies home, drawing a new line around them, hard and strong for as long as you possibly could until you cracked it open to take them out. Out there. Unwashed hands and air travel leave them with bronchitis, but they’re stronger now and recover. You gave them time to grow and for their lungs to heal. And you know it isn’t over. It’s planted in the marrow of your bones. And now? Now you will stay away for as long as you must if it means they will be safe. You will love them again through a pane of glass (or a computer screen) when they are six-thousand miles away instead of in your kitchen, cooking and bickering, where you wish they were (where they’re supposed to be) instead. You will send your voice through the telephone and hug over a video link and listen through a window for the music you know is out there because the line defining dangerous and safe has shattered, and you will protect them with the distance that you keep because this is what you do when you love. - Visual Media and Poem by Dr. Mara Tesler Stein |
Dr. Jamie MarichCurator of the Dancing Mindfulness expressive arts blog: a celebration of mindfully-inspired, multi-modal creativity Archives
September 2022
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