She, Valkyrie cradles tattered remnants a slaughtered spirit, in her intrepid care. Goddess vision greets wounded gaze and I beseech her, to choose life, for an oft wounded, heart. To Valhalla for mead, and her. Salve for the psyche, soul and flesh, of gods mythical, and mortal, and their concubines. ~Marcela: beautifully lost, in a real-time myth, of my own creation. February 18, 2017 Image: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valkyrie
Limerick I have crushed on a sailor named Zeke His ‘Salty’ some havoc did wreak On pink oh-so-tender Defenses useless he rendered With nary a peek or a tweak
Haiku On a tranquil sea A salt and pepper Sailor Quells this raging squall
Cinquain Let’s sail said the sailor my vessel’s safely moored in the haven of (y)our harbour moon’n stars
Yours, fairly unfettered: Myla
February 12, 2017
Poetry and Photographs: All Rights Reserved.
“Stop,” she said to herself! “Do refrain from accusing the accusers, from negating the Nellies negative, from despising the Debbies downer! And focus, on the freedom that comes with designing, with owning, your feelings, your thoughts, your life and your choices”!
“Know,” she said to herself, “that as long as you are breathing, life will bitch slap you, over and over again! Feel the fury, agonize in the pain, and then stand up to her like the fucking Warrior Woman you are.”
“Love,” she said to herself, “self above all, for it is not an act of ego, rather the only real survival skill you will ever need.”
~Marcela: Moving, at the speed of a woman Too Much!
January 02, 2017
Photograph: My personal collection. All rights reserved.
It is not that I was in need of repair because you broke me, for I was never broken
It is that my voice was lost in the roar of the tsunami that was your disdain for me
And as a new blanket of white refreshes the grime of salt and snowplows
So renewed faith in self cleanses my heart of the detritus you left behind
It is not that I was the dung you believed to simply wipe off your sullied soles
It is the vehemence with which you shoveled your manure onto my person
And as the streetlight on the far shore casts a long glowing ripple across the lake
So another crack opens in my heart to allow the light back in
It is not that you succeeded in extinguishing it with relentless revile
It is that I erected shelter for my very core
And as I turn the plans for this, my most recent incarnation into fruitful reality
So I recognize your singular, constructive contribution to my life:
I choose not to forgive you for the myth of forgiveness as salvation is not my creed
I will, however, put you behind me with nary a thought to our dalliance, beyond these words:
I win. Not despite your efforts to destroy me, but because of them.
And I feel nothing for you.
~Marcela: Newer than this year.
January 01, 2017
Photograph: My personal collection. All Rights Reserved.
And as the lake reflects nature’s finery back onto herself So I reflect on the solitude I have come to crave It is not that I wish to isolate from humanity, or reject the risk of a new paramour, It is that I revel in alone-ness with the passion of a new love for my own cosmos. And as the stillness of the quiet-season brings peace to my beloved Bay So the pain of my most recent faux pas is diminished in its tranquility It is not loving one who cannot love that I regret It is that I am wistful about having snatched up your well-baited hook of love-lies And as the snow-laden branches dump their white weight, and spring to a more contented position So the Warrior Woman I am exhales to release you and I find myself here: I stand well-grounded and know that what you did, only served to create this: More big, more bold, more strong, more beautiful, more wise more too much for some, but most especially, much more too much, for you. ~Marcela: As is. Only more. December 27, 2016 Photograph: My personal collection. All Rights Reserved.
So I sat there making daisy-chains
while you played with the hand grenade
that detonated in my heart
their yellow-white all innocence
belying your true impotence
and the rage of disappointment
a wildflower in captivity
held in the thinly veiled depravity
of the ancient ruse called love
but this here flow’ring maiden
less lackadais(y)cal than brazen
weathers this next storm
~Marcela: standing ground, because it’s not all sunshine’n daisies in here…
invasive, unrelenting bully,
on Chamomile’s quiet crusade
to propagate and grow,
where no Broom
has dared vomit,
its noxious seed.
Call me Chamomile,
and oh so inconveniently,
right in the middle of the damn road!
~Marcela: Unapologetically inconveniencing, you?
June 22, 2016
A cancerian side-step
on the mountain like Otep
Shamaya, that is…
crevasses and gorges
lava lines on a face
botox not to erase
triumphant tall tales
as well the fails
of proportions epic, that is…
noisy this silence
obscuring the violence
mind gone wild
trapped in banalities
of one’s own choosing, that is…
no chutzpah to flee
this bird-cage un-gilded
wings flapping bewildered
red smear on a white page
reading lines on a stage
one so prudently set
best not forget
designer and choreograph
of this story’s epitaph
she/herself and yours truly
ever most duly
contrary in diction
this life of non-fiction, mine, that is…
dance of cancerian side-steps
while ludicrous forceps
tear out the part
once resembled a heart
and that bitch called love
bleeds on the floor
resembles the whore
that I am…
~Marcela: unapologetically yours.
June 10, 2016
hamster wheel for a brain,
drives my treasonous
that run-amok freight train.
Incessant, the thoughts
constant and circular
fuse lit by vernacular.
Disillusioned, with Life
and other L words,
is flying high for the birds?
Wakeful, I fret
over this, about that,
engaging with gnats.
the yearnings and flames,
all stealth and sneak
stakes a new claim.
implore a but smouldering fire,
(re)torch that heart
get back up on your pyre!
~MyLa: unfettered and spinning, yarns…
… t’was a most fitful night… brain ran in circles, how fitting the photo I snapped accidentally on my beloved trail yesterday… and as I coined another fretful ditty, this thought slapped me upside the head: the point is, nothing in my life, ever, has occurred in any sort of logical order, but particularly not in any sort of expected, culturally appropriate, or accepted order or manner. So how could I possibly write about any of it that way? And KaPow, with a random meme about the next 365 days, and a most productive night of wakefulness, the Year of Fly, and the next great thing, is born in the never ending purgastory, that is my 24-7 brain. Stick around and help me feed this baby, give this dragon, (unicorn?) wings. Or don’t. The next level of Unfiltered is coming, either way.