Dec11 Groan-Up Posted on December 11, 2011 by Emily Bowman Groan-Up I pity the underpaid high school English teachers who have to read the journal entries they assign. I cringe reading the ancient pink notebook with blue ink doodles and page after sordid page littered with the trash of my adolescence. I swallow the impulse to send out a public service announcement letting former classmates, teachers, boyfriends, etc. know that I am not who I was.
Dec9 Flight of Fancy Posted on December 9, 2011 by Emily Bowman Flight of Fancy No matter how many journeys they make the geese will always grab my spirit each time they fly over, wings swishing a ticklish breeze, voices echoing off clouds. Tonight dozens of swishing, echoing arrows flew under and around the swelling moon as the sun reclined behind the canyon leaving the burnt orange of dusk in its wake. How marvelous it must be see your silhouette etched into the moon, to caress the changing colors of the sky.
Dec8 Joyfluenza Posted on December 8, 2011 by Emily Bowman Joyfluenza When joy attacks me I want to infect the rest of the world by sneezing kind words, coughing up gratitude, spewing smiles at everyone I see. If only it were so simple if joy was as contagious and persistent as a virus spread by kissing or germs lingering on shopping carts.
Dec6 Baptism Posted on December 6, 2011 by Emily Bowman Baptism I sprint on tiptoes across frigid tile hop in with a splash. Heat overwhelms, tingling my chilled body. Scalding water entombs me, the only way to thaw my blood on these cold, damp days. Tiny candle flames cradle this sacred time, celebrate this indoor warmth while cars slide down icy streets and pedestrians shiver up sidewalks. Vapor slinks off my goosebumps, rising into dim lighting like spirits ascending— exiting the chaos of my day, evaporating into the tranquility of my evening. I close my eyes, imagine myself in another time, another place, the Highlands of Scotland, 14th century, bathing in a natural spring, flesh bold in crisp mountain air, moonlight exposing earth’s perspiration, steamy ribbons undulating toward the stars. In this fantasy I am goddess, I am complete. I fill the pool, the pool fills me, amniotic fluid flowing between earth’s body and mine. I swallow the moon, the moon swallows me, eternal nourishment sating us both. I release my joy into the lonely hills, taste its sweet echo. The ecstasy lingers as I return to mortality in my white, porcelain tub, divinity flickering within me.
Dec5 The Mind Attempts an Answer and Finds More Questions Posted on December 5, 2011 by Emily Bowman The Mind Attempts an Answer and Finds More Questions The snow tonight floats in a slow tempo as if the flakes are avoiding the ground. They tumble with such grace, suspended and lovely, perhaps they are putting on a show. For whom? Who choreographed it? Will anyone applaud? Or maybe the freedom and movement bring so much delight they are trying to stretch the experience as long as possible. How do they slow down? What else brings them delight? Perhaps the sky holds them back, reluctant to surrender them to the earth, fearing the lonely ache left in their absence. Do they say goodbye? How does the sky grieve?
Dec4 The River, Early Winter Posted on December 4, 2011 by Emily Bowman The River, Early Winter Night-colored water rushes forward even though the cold has bludgeoned its shores into stiff walls incapable of movement. Fallen leaves glitter like jewels in the snow. Bold willow branches wave their red audacity in the face of purity. Snowflakes tumble from the sky’s pink pores, joining the flow, another cycle complete. Naked trees shiver while birds, fat with food and feathers, punctuate their stark poetry. Ice murals preserve memories of seasons past, while the river sews intricate patterns into their collars. Stillness spreads among shriveled fruits, dried grass, abandoned nests. The world tucks itself in for rest, the humble lullaby of the water promising life’s full return.
Dec2 Ballerina Posted on December 2, 2011 by Emily Bowman Ballerina A leaf, this morning, stole my attention. She twirled, flitted, pirouetted to her own music against the pink streaks of dawn, capturing my breath holding me still, afraid to disrupt her grace.
Dec1 Depiction Of Grace Posted on December 1, 2011 by Emily Bowman Depiction Of Grace For Chance, my Divine Old Guy Do Other Gods Drool Or Growl? Dance On Grass? Daily Offer Gratitude?