Genetically Speaking...

I am a mutt.

I mean that in the nicest way. I do. I come from a long line of mixed heritage and in fact I really am French and Gypsy too. Which explains my wandering soul in a rather succinct fashion but not in a true fashion. Gypsies live for today. Yesterday is done and can not be changed so they dwell not there. Tomorrow is not promised and gypsies do not believe they are going to need it, so they dwell not there, either.

Today they die, so they live fully in today. Gypsies own next to nothing ~ why does anyone need anything if they aren't going to see tomorrow is what Gypsies want to know?

In my heart I am truly a gypsy. And gypsies are just one drop of blood away from pirates...Who I also instinctively understand. Living free and wild on the sea. Seeking the next port full of adventure. Pillaging life for what it will give.

I shall life a life full of happiness.

Joy abounds.

I bring this up because I have been moving, like many of you have been. Moving the words here to this journal was quiet simple, just copy and paste the entry and all the comments in one fell swoop~hit draft save and maniacally move to the next entry before AOL does something crazy. Like delete my precious words. Like I matter to them. LOL. I will go back and spell check, line up the entries, change the dates and times and post my whole journal so that it is all unpacked. But My journey is all unloaded off the truck and it was easy...Mostly.

But.... Word Dancing.

My poetry.

My shadows.

When Theresa Williams was talking about shadows in writing all I could think about was poetry because if my writing has shadows that is where they lie, in my poems. I rarely comment on my poetry because what many of you don't realize is that my poetry is my truest soul laid out there in public for you to view. My poems are ME. That is as close to me as another human being will ever get and I share that very private part of me in a very public forum that allows strangers to comment on it.

Yikes.

I am an honest and deep person. So moving my poetry has been tedious for me.

And joyful. It has been like finding presents I have left in last year's coat pocket just for unknown emergencies.

Here is today's gift to myself:


Aging

Chase not forbidden butterflies

linger not in the icy stream of old love

loves that fled in the dawning of light

the vision is impaired and yet rhythmic

coming back to today, to tomorrow

unborn children dance across these pages

with the beat of a well written play

thump, thump, thumping their limbs

of green youth against the pulse of my heart

And my sorrows lie face to face on the

pen and paper journal seeming shallow

within a soul that has forever changed

within a woman quickly becoming new