Deb
Reader, Thinker, Writer, Lover.
Poetry
July 29, 2015

White Hot

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thistle

Zenith. 

Everything is full to bursting.

The trees cannot hold one more leaf

and the air is so thick

I swim through it

like molasses.

Stillness.  Heat.  Swelter.

Life is slow and ripe,

the grass is high and the corn is higher.

Everything tender or fragile

long ago disappeared;

now stands the heartier thistle

and sage 

and goat weed.

To get even a small breath of cool air,

I rise at dawn and sit in the morning,

the leaves rustling in the cottonwood

with a slight breeze.

But even the earliest eastern rays are strong,

they portend scorching hours ahead.

I try to remember February, when I couldn’t imagine

ever feeling warm again.

Now, at the peak of summer,

I can’t remember what cold felt like.

And my thoughts are bulbous

and heavy and ripe,

like summer squash which

feels a lot heavier than it looks…

yet I can’t hold these ideas;

the shimmering white hot sun

makes them dissolve, 

running like water through my fingers

before I can make sense of them.

So I find some shade

and take a bite

and let them ease down my throat 

like bitterroot 

like honey.

July 7, 2015

Be the Joy

Written by Posted in Blog Posts, Poetry Comments 1
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Dear Woman,

Even a weed knows to turn its face towards the sun. The dandelion looks east and the Lamb’s Quarter opens its dark green leaves to allow the light to touch every spot. The wild sage fills the air with the music of its scent when warm. They instinctively look for brightness, seeking warmth on their faces, and they turn it into air.

And so why do you seek out the dark? Dwell on the sadness? Why do you stand in the shadows of trouble while it blocks out the light?

Tomorrow worries about itself. Never fear that. People will still shoot each other and say horrible things about each other and there are plenty of people to gleefully report this on a 24 hour news cycle.

Tomorrow doesn’t need you to worry and fret and be squashed by its ugliness; and neither does today, for that matter.

Today needs you to find the nearest flower or weed, observe it, and orient your face in the same direction. It needs you to pay attention to the lovely, the miraculous, the tiny bits of art in the quiet places.

It needs you to sing like the robin and float above the chaos like the clouds, cooling what is overheated and sprinkling cool rain drops on what is parched and making shapes at which children will laugh and exclaim.

The dust and dirt kick up and choke those around you. But you, dear woman, are a crisp drink of water, infused with lemon and honeysuckle and apricot, cleansing the palates of the thirsty.

Do not be a stone, sinking into the sand, being dragged down by the gravity of the universe.

Be the bubbles rising joyfully in the glass of vintage prosecco, tickling the tongues of those who dare to take a taste of you.

Seek joy. Allow joy. It’s ok.

June 25, 2015

I Must Rise

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When I wake, I must rise.

Quickly, urgently, quietly –

rubbing my eyes

and shaking the sleep out of my brain.

Sometimes in winter, at 4:30 am –

when the world is still and dark and frozen;

no ray of sunlight has broken through the deep quiet;

I rise, quietly lighting candles and

flicking on lamps. Read more…

June 16, 2015

Morning.

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You tease me.

Each time I glance up

You have changed,

gliding across the deep blue sky…

in your wake,

the heavens.

So mercurial – you’re close,

then far away, Read more…

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What does the mirror show me today?

Fat or thin?

Curvy or lean?

Statuesque?

Rubenesque?

Grotesque?

Who is it I see;

do I love her? Read more…

May 5, 2015

Elevate

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two feet, two lungs, one heart

lifting me

high above the noise

of the city…

of my heart.

Steps, breath, beating,

I rise

higher and here

I can hear the locust,

my ear attuned to the bluebird -

I can hear myself.

Two feet, each aching step

a victory.

Two lungs, each breath

a symphony.

One heart, each beat

a miracle.

High above the noise

of life,

I hear LIFE.

~Deborah Linne

April 4, 2015

We Were Rich

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We were rich.

Billionaires.

With his feet

he drove across the country,

semi loaded for delivery.

With her hands

she sewed dresses

baked bread

roasted caramel popcorn.

We were rich.

With his hands

he built a house –

cinder block and wood paneling,

rooms for all.

With her hands

she warmed our clothes on the wood-burning stove.

I went to school smelling of wood.

And love.

We were rich.

With his hands

he harvested grain

and raised animals…

anything to feed us.

With her brain,

she made little

feel like much.

Indeed, she fed a multitude

with less than five loaves and two fish.

We were rich.

With his courage,

he removed us from all we had known

and moved us to all

we could not know.

With her heart

she cradled our fear

while she must have known her own.

We were rich.

We did not know excess, or that excess even existed.

We didn’t know new clothes; we shared and passed down.

We did not know truffles or caviar or wine,

but we knew full bellies.

We knew love.

And boundaries.

And affection.

We knew we held the universe in their hearts.

We knew they lived for us.

We were rich.

March 31, 2015

Nuevo Mexico

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Something about you

whispers to my gypsy heart.

Hard scrabble sagebrush-

roots reaching down

in search of water

that is not coming from the sky.

Dust storms swirl above mesas -

flat with erosion

and ancient stories.

Abandoned cars under bridges -

stories of lives they’ve taken…lost to history.

I can feel the hoof beats of the vaquero’s horse

galloping across the dry plains,

my ancestor.

Did he look to the west

and see thunderheads?

Hoping as I do?

Did wagon wheels get stuck in the red clay?

Did hearts reach for the big sky of New Mexico

as mine does?

Voices echo off the canyon walls,

calling home my nomad’s heart…

begging me to stay and return

to the caliche dust

with my forefathers.

March 20, 2015

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ice

Throughout the shortened days and frigid nights of winter, my soul treads along un-walked trails. Every step, every sound, magnified in the snow and so, I step lighter, making my way through the dark, becoming one with the ice.

My heart stills as the days grow colder. It hides away behind a wall of crystal stones, its own fire, its only warmth.

Separated

Protected

Sound and life muted by heavy snow.

It seems winter has come and made its home with me. Read more…

March 16, 2015

That Good Ol’ Girl

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Some days are weighted with all of the trying to figure it out. Bricks from belly to brain, heavy. All day long, I strive. And as night falls, there are no answers; still, only questions. I find myself wandering; and then, of course, with the herd. In the darkness, I can scarcely make out the white blazes on foreheads and feet. They’re curious what brings me out so late.

After accosting my pockets and finding no treats, they begin to move away, back to their dinner.

Except one.

I sit on the red gate and she follows me, standing as close as she can manage without stepping on my feet with her dinner plate hooves. She noses in my belly, looks at me as if to say, “Why bricks?” Then she breathes her hot breath into my chest. I lay my hands on her as if I’m a healer, but the healing is flowing into me. She leans closer – one eye gently focused on my face, waiting. Read more…