the honest blonde
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“The secret of it all, is to write in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment – to put things down without deliberation – without worrying about their style – without waiting for a fit time or place. By writing at the instant the very heartbeat of life is caught.”
— walt whitman

Distillation of a Yogi: A poem

Distillation of a Yogi

 

I am the rings around Plutos girth

the stardust in space

and the edges of time.

I am traces of footprints,

like the progress of the half moon,

I follow the tide.

I am the heat from our solar spectrum,

soaked in starlight and baked in saltwater,

I am crustacean’s cracks and splintered ships.

 

I am hot stones on bare backs

smooth as white china,

with wings like the doves,

I smell of honeydew and infant violets.

 

I am the dusty eyelashes on Cleopatra,

the golden sphinx

and the paupers soles.

I am part woman, part man,

part oxygen and all fire

I am wet and dry, and full

and naked all the time.

 

I am ripples in the bathtub on thighs and breasts,

from my palms to my soles

and inside the warmth of my breath.

I am frustration and anger,

then I am hibernation. 

 

I am the fetus and the corpse,

full bodied flesh with a starving soul.

 

I am the arch and spins on toes,

the ballerina point and sitar playing chords

wet dirt and desert dust,

smoke and lips and diamond throats.

Fresh breath with a pained exhale, 

sobbing alone and laughing in sync.

 

I am the trust you are seeking and the love you are yearning.

I am the windy hum under fresh grown wings,

self doubt in tear ducts and the release from a head sweat.

I am face down like the dolphin

fearless like the Crow

taking flight like the Visvamitrasana                                  

then solid in my utkatasana,

eyes to the sky while warrior lifts my chin.

 

I am snowflake impurities

and angels lace

hexagon irises and sonic vibrations.

I am a full glass of wine

I am empty barrels and bottles and pitchers

but yes, I am full most of the time.

No matter the space, I fill it up completely,

for I am the absence of material and the experience of happy.

 

I am you and you are the space in between

and the stuff in the drawers and the dresser and on the bookshelves,

the teeth and the tears and all of the thoughts,

you are the spirit and sanity and shavasanas on mats.

You are the toes and the cracks in backs and the twists and the squats.

 

You are god and the ultimate vulnerability.

How can you be both? You ask...

 

Bend over and touch the toes of your own,

flat back then chair and you’ll see what I mean.

You are power and surrender in all ways at the same time,

building your strength

while beckoning to limbs that can only take you so far,

it’s the willingness to fall and be felt.

You will be greeted with serenity if you meet yourself with vulnerability.

 

You are thick limbs twisted from the earth

rooted in honesty and patience.

Sprout from your trust and extend with 10 toes, 10 fingers and be whole.

Kiss the earth when you leap from plank,

squat through the tight calves, and bend at the hips,

limp neck and dead arms, let gravity do the work.

 

Open to the guilt and the struggle and the mess,        

wide awake in the middle of the stress.

If you soften enough, you lose the pain,

at least the pressure from expectation.

 

Hello, old soul, nice to meet you again,

the heat of two palms, Namaste, Shanti, Ohm.

 

Photo of Emily Linderman