Poetry/Writing

Work-at-home-nomad

Work-at-home nomad

I’ve become
a work-at-home nomad.


No longer
desk sitting
(at least not exclusively)


traveling
to the places
where I feel
the land calling


places where
my body’s presence
pulls me to
wild communion


body leading -
mind and heart
passengers,
scribes illuminating
muscled semaphore


making wordscapes
from a wordless
commingling
of Place and
Presence.

© 2013/2019 Tracie Nichols

Sometimes

sometimes
riding life's
currents requires
a wider stance

a lower center
of gravity

spacious
fluid
joints

sometimes
rubbing along
life's twists is as
comfortable as
tender new skin
abruptly meeting
sharp, shifting
gravel shards

sometimes life's
molten, shaking growth
spurts ask us to be
something we've never been

that's OK

every mountain
and river and valley
was once a flat and
easy walk

think how glorious
they are now...

sometimes - © 2018 Tracie Nichols

Poet's Rebellion

Despite having blogged fairly prolifically over the past decade, lately I haven't wanted to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys) in that way. I mean, the aversion has been almost visceral. I haven't even wanted to journal. And though I've never been wildly consistent about journaling, it's always felt like home.

Trusting my voice, my internal guidance system, has been an unfolding and daily practice throughout my life. So, it took a bit for me to realize that I wasn't just being lazy or crazy, or avoiding writing. My body wisdom was adjusting how I move through my days to meet my emerging, changing creative rhythms as a crone. I didn't want to write the way I had been writing because my writing needs to take on a different cultural role.

An oh-so-wise pre-crone friend reminded me that, as crones, we've moved outside the confines of patriarchal attention and expectation. We've been dismissed, therefore we're off the radar. Which is bullshit, yes. Their loss, definitely. And...it also offers us maneuvering room those still being tracked don't have. We're in a position to be uniquely subversive.

When I finally wrote again this morning, what flowed from my heart to my fingers was a poem I've called Poet's Rebellion. Because confining my words to well-regulated structures? Yeah. Not happening.

constraining my
wet-from-the-muse-womb
words to structures
breaks me a little
each time

to confine them in boxes created
by a culture gone mad
with categorizing and naming and
keywording and tagging

I
simply
cannot

each word
each breath-infused
syllable
is a tiny fragment
of livingness

and yes life,
she has rhythms and
patterns and
life-giving structures
that teach unfolding
generations how to
create life anew

but - oh my aching heart -
they are life-giving structures
not the stranglehold of
stagnating expectations found
in so many corners
down so many virtual alleys
in this conform or
be shunned culture
in this conform
and die slowly
society

to type letters
and coalesce them into
wordscapes meant to free
is both smile-inducing gift
and shoulder-bowing responsibility
to give them life
then shackle them to
the weight of “musts” and
tangle them in the bindweed
of “isms”

I
simply
cannot.

Poet’s Rebellion © 2019 Tracie Nichols