Sundays in Autumn

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art and poetry by Carmen H Gray

Sundays in Autumn

Sundays in Autumn are alive

In and amongst the decay

The burnished rust revealing

That even an exquisite crown

Moves from its gilded beginnings

To evidence of archaic vulnerable venerability

All this I see with a deep inhale and an exhilarating sigh

That great oak, grande dame, standing

Gazing back at me

Telling me these truths

That’s what Sundays in Autumn are for

Thou Art This

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art and poem by Carmen H Gray

 

Tenderly she rivers the night sky

With petals in place of feathers

She moves in body and soul

All strings and stars expanding

Impermeable and eternal

Creation cradled to heart

Beating softly in the enveloped song of Humanity

They are vast as the sky together

Wider than infinite time

Encompassing the yet to be

 

Sun in Midwinter

Sun in Midwinter

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The diseases, the chemotherapy, the fluctuating hormones of the middle years, the exigent need to be female, when born with male parts (or vice versa), the perfect cup of Persian tea sitting in front of me-they are all chemicals and energy transforming. The child in my class who needs extra reminders because all norepinephrine molecules are not created equally. Or the one who is howling in distress because an excess of cortisol due to previous trauma has been re-triggered. The flicker of passion that reverberates between two beings. The animals that bond and the ones that repel one another.

We are but chemistry, made up of cell particles that have existed for millions of years. We are the stuff of stars, they say. The oxygen atoms created from burning stars. The trace heavy elements residing within us, despite their tiny contribution, are a result of the profound energy of exploding stars.

When you begin to understand this, everything is clearer. That look of consternation on a co-worker’s face. The person honking their horn at you in traffic. Your teenager scowling at you. The highs, too. The states of calm that you have within your power to create to lower stress hormones and inflammatory proteins. The release of oxytocin when a mother breastfeeds or when you stare deeply into another person’s eyes.

We are but chemistry. It’s really simple. And yet we forget. We are the stuff of stars; being born, brilliantly shining in the middle ages like our sun or dying and thus creating heavy metals needed in minuscule amounts to create life yet again.

 

 

11.20.14

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by Carmen H Gray 

the waves lapped at the shore

industrial waste in a place

where freshwater meets saltwater

the bright sky viewing a town that feels like a story I’ve written

like time stopped here, somewhere in the 1970’s of my childhood

and it may as well be a repeat of those chaotic times these days

except here I am, a woman now

with a daughter who can celebrate

a date that has past

and here we are

souls brined

hearts preserved

bodies intact

and this is better than any man made holy day to me

 

 

 

 

 

Love In The Time of Everything

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Love In The Time of Everything

by Carmen H Gray

When I was little

I wrote about a heroine

In one of my silly chapter books

Writing and writing

My favorite escape

She had auburn hair

And striking green eyes

I didn’t know

She would materialize

That one day she would

Come to be

And how this little sprite

Would change me so

I did not know

It was not all sugar and spice

It was laughter

But also tears

And tumors and fears

Inward reflection

Rejecting affection

I knew

Love

In the time of the highs

That’s the easy part

But my heroine

Showed me how to find

Love

In the time of the lows

And how the cracks

Are certain signs

Of wholeness

Being born

The Climb

The Climb

by Carmen H Gray

 

I went there again

That cliff with the rocks jutting out

And others were still there

Perched on the rocks

As I pulled myself up

Saying to me, “Keep Going”

When I wanted to give up

But this time, a hooded woman

Smiled at me as she guided me to the top

I surveyed the world below

And she pushed me

Into mid-air

What kind of woman does that?

I felt the quickening of wings on my back

As I looked back

She turned around and her face

Had the familiar gentle curve

Of my own