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Monthly Archives: April 2010

Costume

We are the People of Costume:

Fuchsia pants and chartreuse shirts,

feathers, faux fur, fezzes and fedoras.

Pink tutus, santa suits,

spandex, leather, cowboy boots.

Stripes with polka dots?

Ballet shoes?

Of course! Of course!

Where DID you get that shirt?

No need to hide now,

No one will point their finger.

A thousand peacocks

Will silence the jeers.

All that we once imagined

we can now become.

The world’s our stage,

the dress rehearsal endless.

Transforming our lives

by changing our clothes.

© Brigit Zent, April 2010

Last night I dreamt of dying.

I lay down beneath a redwood tree

And let my life slip away

Without regret, without remorse;

As gently as a sigh.

All that I was is passing away

It slides from my open hands

Onto the earth below

Let it crumble into dust

Let it dissolve and be no more.

I will light a pyre for all that I was

And throw on my yesterdays

When the ashes have cooled

They will nourish the soil

In which I raise my tomorrows.

Last night I dreamt of dying.

— Brigit, 2007

Over my head

Willingly I kneel beneath

I cast the dice

Uncertainty my watchword

Hope my mantra

All for the promise of your love, your love.

Precarious,

I feel its shadow above me

My heart your captive

I have handed you the key

Willingly I remain,

All for the promise of your love, your love.

If it falls

I am split in two

My spirit cut asunder

I study stillness

And calm the beating of my heart

All for the promise of your love, your love.

Hanging by a thread

I will not fear it

Willingly my heart is open

My face upturned

To conquer that which frightens me

All for the promise of your love, your love.
Brigit, 2006

Submission’s Song

While I kneel at your feet

Nothing can harm me

While I kneel at your feet

I know my power

While I kneel at your feet

All is as it should be.

When I wear your collar

I am enthralled by love

When I wear your collar

I am bound to your desire

When I wear your collar

My heart is at peace.

The blows that you give me

Bring me release

The blows that you give me

Strip away my pain

The blows that you give me

Ignite my passion.

Dark love,

You bring me light

Dark love

You bring me wisdom

Dark love,

You bring me freedom.

Brigit, 2007

Whirling dervish

Arms raised, right palm up, left palm down

Energy flows through you to me

Divine wisdom erupts

As you dance upon my soul

Hurricane

In whose Eye I linger

The storm rages and blows

Tossing aside the unprepared

We dwell in the calm within
Wheels-within-wheels,
gyroscopic.
Cartwheeling across the desert
Spinning fire, spitting flames
Surrealistic vision
Seen by many, understood by few.

Merry-go-round, dust devil,
Pirouette, whirlpool.
Endless revolution.

You spin me in circles like a child;

Weightless, dizzy,

I feel like I’m flying

While safe in your hands

—-Brigit Jan, 2008

Chartreuse dreams,

Vernal eruptions;

Frenzied, natal celebrations.

The hills are emerald.

Streams chatter like giddy teenagers.

An embarrassment of wildflowers clothe the meadows;

At any moment the very stones may burst forth with singing.

Such abandon! Such intemperance! I am intoxicated by the earth’s exuberance.

The world is a wanton in Spring and I a willing paramour, smitten by her voluptuousness.

I nestle my face in the bosom of her green hills, a crown of flowers in my hair,

The symphony of ten thousand songbirds on my lips.

—Brigit ,March, 2008

Walking through redwoods in rain

A cathedral drenched in water.

Each branch bowing to earth

Holding its rosary of droplets

The incense of bay lingers as I pass

Pungent in my nostrils, sacred and holy

The forest sings a watery litany

A canticle of drips and splashes

Deer step gingerly through sodden ferns

Silent monks on their way to prayer

The trees repent of dead branches and needles

In this annual baptism

Confessions of the seasons past

Litter the path before me

I would carry this holiness with me

Possess it for another time

I stretch forth my hand in supplication

But receive only a handful of rain.

–Brigit, 2008

Ghosts
 
This room is full of ghosts.
Ex lovers, abandoned spouses,
former friends.
They stand around our bed, arms crossed,
Disapproving.
They whisper in our ears;
bring us memories unbidden,
remind us of our wounds, our failures,
our insecurities,
unfulfilled promises, smashed hopes.
 
"Your feet are too large."
“If only you could have children.”
“You should lose some weight.”
"HE loves me for who I am."
“Don’t leave me.”
“You don’t listen to me.”
“You’re too old.”
"You talk too much."
"Your breasts are small.”
"I have feelings for her."
 
Let me look in your eyes.
There is a doorway there,
Painted blue.
Behind it is
this moment,
today,
tomorrow, and
all the years to come.
 
When you open it and
hold me in your arms,
we light the holy white sage
and watch the spirits flee.
 
--Brigit

Rain

Let this rain come
Let it pour down upon my head
Down my neck, shoulders, arms
Drip off my fingertips
Onto the earth below

Let this rain come,
wash away my sins,
my sadness, regret and grief.
Wash away my yesterdays.
Let the ground drink it in
Drink my sorrows with it.

Let this rain come,

drench the dry, hard soil

my spirit has become

Awaken the life that slumbers within

Roots of happiness awaiting the flood.

Let this rain come
The seeds of joy eagerly await.

Let it rain. Let it rain.

Brigit–April, 2009

Women talk in kitchens at tables littered with children’s homework,
neglected cups of coffee and half boxes of cereal, uneaten toast and bits of paper
scrawled on in discussional graffiti. Women talk.

Women talk in living rooms with legs propped on coffee tables
or ottomans, arms draped over couch backs, hands picking absently
at worn fabric or waving the air as if to clear invisible cobwebs. Women talk.

Women talk in bedrooms swaddled in blankets or outstretched on top,
while searching through forgotten boxes or in fathomless closets,
digging through drawers or leaning on nightstands. Women talk.

Women talk in houses and cafes, on sidewalks and trails, in schoolrooms
and boardrooms, in strawberry fields and on assembly lines, hanging the wash
or scrubbing the floor, while carrying children or tottering elders. Women talk.

Women talk while the earth spins in endless orbit around a sun that
looks down upon them each day as they define the world in a torrent
of words that promote and protect, enlarge and encourage, describe and dissect.

Women talk.

Brigit, Jan. 2009