Native Language

peggyHow many shared memories were skimmed from us in the years in between the knowing each other?

Each our own Jesus, the missing years, while we wandered in our own deserts, collecting flowering cactus.

In the genesis of us I recall, climbing in your crib with you to play pirate ship. Shared Christmas eves in anticipation of Santa and the coming mornings of presented stockings, filled with maternal love. It was the one time of the year we shared her love.

We lost the man who hinged us all together.  Our time together with his wisdom, play, and laughter. He was our truest connection. I think he still is…Papa our native language.

So many years later, each of us returning from our individual tours and wars, each of us asking in our own ways …

Who are you?

               Who have you become?

                                            May I know you?

What never was, may never be regained. Time does not allow for such realizations.

But the Now!

I am grateful the tides have brought passage back to shared waters. The return of sisterhood, redefined by us and us alone.

Remembering to speak in our native tongue again… laughter, wisdom, and play.

Together, rebuilding the feeling of home.

~Amy Kate Frazier

March 21, 2017

Love you Peggy

Broken Toys

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Broken Toys

Like a child presenting her broken toy, I wanted to tell you how he broke my heart and have you understand my pain, responding with a story of your own sorrow.

I wanted to share my days and my disclosures and be met with an understanding, maybe an acknowledgement of my strength.

You retorting with stories on the long line of where my strength was inherited. Judgement left on the porch and not offered a place at the table.

I wanted to be your little girl who has grown into a woman, who could still always find arms of protection and not disconnect.

I wanted to stop chasing, to stand ground, gain ground, and finally be seen. To have a light shone on the umbilical cord of my loyalty and my strangulation by it to cease.

No longer keeping the love choked in my throat, unable to escape.

Sometimes wanting turns into wisdom. The truth settles in…

We, to each other, will never be known.

I will always be left to accept the solitude in mending my broken toys.

 

~Amy Kate Frazier

March 19,2017

 

Laced Boots and Taking Leave

boots

The similarities catch me off guard and I become drawn into the visual of each ritual.

Lacing boots when the leaving comes.

Babe spoken with the Knowing… I cannot speak your name… betrayal trickles out in the language of the calling.

Each with different rhythms, yet each calling me to movement in freedom just the same.

The dance of one in the stages of learning the steps, and the other set in so much history, no music is even needed to keep beat. Regardless, I dance and the movement breathes artificial life into me.

My heart feeding from one and my spirit from another. Starvation and fulfillment avoided at all costs.

My own power recognized …each giving reverence for the language my physical body can speak. My knowing how the feeling of being wanted keeps you coming back for more.

Validation in each touch. All offered for the taking.

One taken on because gravity is a law…. A force pulling with such force it scorched my heart during its return to the atmosphere, the other taken on to cool the burn.

Laced boots always signaling the similarity of the taking leave.

Amy Kate Frazier

~RB Squared

The Pulling

I can feel you pulling at me.gh3

Like a black panther kneading its cub… Tender pulls with an occasional claw snag. Stinging yet, drawing no blood.

You always pull when I squirm because curiosity has gathered my attention. You wrap me in lukewarm words and caution me from my desire to always dance with wildfires.

This time I have ventured off for ghost dancing. You pull suspiciously because the rhythm of my dance is to music you have never heard me hum. You seem worried with the steadfastness of my conviction to dance with sovereignty around the fire.

My foot movements to the drumbeat, pounding each step to take me back to the brokenness of my past. Pieces you have kept sentinel over and refused to let scatter during my storms.

I see you holding your breath as I dress in feathered secrets and dance to a rhythm of a tribal cry, distorted in their calling from passing time.

My movement is necessary. With confusion as my compass, I choice to become lost in the rhythm of the drums, calling for the ghosts to join me… to dance with me. Asking for the her who was once me, to return with them.

I feel you pulling…

Attempting to pull me from the fire I dance around with no concern for my own well-being.

I feel you pulling and I revere you for your willingness to let me singe, but never burn.

~Amy Kate Frazier

March 4, 2017

For RB

Christmas Reading

christmas-tree-2

Not desiring holiday music, I selected Jazz for listening and laid down with the calling of a book.

Nestled far into the second chapter, bellicose thoughts started to keep company with me on the couch. Something nudging me for a piece of my peace with each turning of the page. A lost Christmas memory surviving to be unwrapped.

Letting my book rest upon my chest, I allowed the memory a seat. It was you. How long had it been since I had thought of you or entertained your residue in the folds of my mind?

Struggling a moment with the math, I finally came up with twenty-eight years of Christmas past.

There was a snow fall that morning, though I don’t remember the roads. Long before my fear of driving in the snow.

My need to leave the newness of the family I was part of, craving what was known. Excusing myself for a few hours and I drove.

Knocking with a gift in hand.  I cannot recall all these years later what gift I brought and I now wonder? Your voice answering my knock, you unwilling to leave your bed. Two rooms deep into the apartment, I found you, laid out with a book, alone on Christmas Morning.

I remember your face and the joy it gave, welcoming me!  All of our arms grasping for home.

I replaced your book and I recall we talked and slept for hours, and somewhere in the in between, unwrapping each other because it was all we had ever known and both of us just wanting to go home.

I slipped away from you, long after I had promised to be back to the shell, I then called home. Leaving you alone with your book.

I remember you told me a few years after, I had saved you that Christmas morning. I remember you said, you were in a darkness, disheartened and alone and I came like Clearance the Angel to your door… calling you home.

Now twenty-eight years later I find my own self in solitude reading, and lulled by jazz, burrowed in what I have built for my home.

You came calling, a Christmas ghost and I welcomed you briefly. I sat with you, and the memory of those long ago moments, decorated by us on a Christmas day, when we needed to go home.

Myself now knowing there is a difference in being left and in choosing to be alone.

The memory of a Christmas Day Twenty-eight years later, a presented gift, an awakening to the understating that I may have finally learned to refuse to be anywhere which does not feel like home.

Christmas reading… a book the prompt to a Christmas memory which reminded me… I am home.

~Amy Kate Frazier

Christmas 2016

The House that Ginger Built

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I would imagine most stroll through their own nostalgia this time of year, when the trees twinkle and the masses become crazed with purchased tokens of love. Folks busy wrapping gifts with more care than is given to the actual recipient for the other 364 days of the year.

My own holiday tree telling my story, adorned and shining with my ghosts of Christmas’ past. If I listen carefully past the voice of Sinatra encouraging to me to have a Merry little Christmas, I can hear the chorus of my ornaments singing their own nostalgic song.

My heart keeps beat while my mind strolls through my years.

Traditions past no longer present.

                          Children’s laughter on Christmas morning

                           Hedgehog cookies and failed Roast of lamb.

                            Over Stuffed Stockings filled with love and great care

All which is no longer present, yet I am still left with the gift of presence.

Determined to build new traditions to keep my spirit safe from becoming shattered.

Friends invited to build a gingerbread house, a commencement to the new.

Engagement in fun, my sister tribe unaware… during the laughter they were not just building a candied and sugarcoated house made from ginger, but they were helping in the rebuilding of me.

Allowing myself to move forward with the house that ginger and sisterhood built.

~Amy Kate Frazier

December 11, 2016

Snowfields of Kyla

field

The winter skies will soon release the snow. Blanket of protection for mother earth during her sleep, until she reawakens in the spring.

You arrived with the snow.

It is soon to be the marker of twenty- five rotations around the sun since your explosion into our world.
A small star shining so bright and hot.
Scorching souls since, with the permanent affection for your love, charisma  and beauty.

You arrived with the snow.

It has been twenty-five rotations around the sun since I walked alone with you, full in my belly, through a snow covered field, only hours from your declaration,  “I am”, with your first cries to the world.

Every snow covered field since that day has been a reminder of you. For years a visual reminder which filled me with longing and grief for a piece which was missing from me.

For years the view of a barren snow covered field was a reflection and a reminder to me of all which was left unknown, all of what I let go, and a love without harvest in the cold.  Always provoking a silent prayer for you to be whole.

So many years later…You returned with the snow.

No longer a small scorching star, but an entire galaxy of shine! Your love having the strength to return my intrinsic universe to its axial. You Shine True North.

Since your return, the snow covered fields still call to me. Still a reminder of you and I can hear their callings of all my sadness past. Only now as I cast vision out, I also look up and the stars shine and they sing for you.

They sing for the snow, they sing for the fields and they sing with my soul in joyous chorus for the return of you.

Amy Kate Frazier ~December 2016

Happy Birthday! I Love You Mini Me.

And always carry your heart in my heart!

Swindler’s Nest

raven

When you found her she was injured and fractured. Betrayal had pushed her from the nest during a storm.

A wounded bird with broken wings for a heart and molted feelings weaved into her plumage. Her feathers discolored.

Her voice no longer able to recall her heart’s song.

You took her in and healed her. You taught her to sing again and placed her back in a nest that you built so close to the ground.

Now years later she realizes you were not a salvation but a swindler.

Only disguised as a healer, setting her wings with crooked stability, so to heal, but never fly. Building a nest for comfort so close to the ground… Knowing she could not fly or run and could always be found.

Leaving her brokenness mended with brokenness…

~Amy Kate Frazier – 2016

RB

Climax Avalanche

avalanche

I think I always wondered what would be the final push on the slope.

 

What small action, or lack thereof, would be the stone to start the climax avalanche, which would leave us buried at the foot of the mountain we have spent years climbing.

 

I always understood it would be a tiny stone of contention, rolling itself into the seam of our cracks, breaking away the niche holding the weight of us.

 

History breaking free to roll downward with unspeakable momentum, gathering all of the pieces of us along the path of its descent.

 

Our first and last snowball fight in free-fall.

All of the last times, we never knew were the last times, becoming layers upon layers.

A growing moving, all-consuming force, feeding off our certainties.

 

Collecting up each last time.

Yet in the moment of their conception you never know they are the last time.

The last cup of coffee shared in silence.

The last shared laugh

The last sleepless night

The last argument

The last touch

The last spoken words.

 

Our last voice spoken words… exchanged I love you’s.

Would we have said something more had we known? Something less?

 

The lasts are never known until they are just that…

When a small stone rolls and capitalizes on the bulk of brokenness.

Letting loose the climax of an avalanche…

Leaving years of history buried beneath an unmelting snow.

 

~Amy Kate Frazier

September 9, 2016

*climax avalanche – an avalanche which occurs at the culmination of slow load buildup during several storms and/or results from metamorphism in the snow cover. Generally, this avalanche involves snow layers from more than one storm.

Just Needed to Hear Your Voice

voice

Yes, any day above ground is a good day, but that doesn’t shift the actualities on how some days are just more of a brawl.

On those days, everything is thicker. The air fills my lungs with a different weight and the sun seems dull, hidden behind difficult sentiments.

I can’t fault those days for their existence. How else would I know the joy of my skin tasting the sun if it were not for the burn. Understanding inevitable shifts and how clouds can roll and gather, bringing me to my knees during a storm.

Still when all becomes thick and the world tastes of salt. Those days when my own mind betrays me with lies of isolation. When my compass is confused and thinks all destruction is true north.

Yes, those days… Of all the possibilities which might bring me back to center… It is always your voice.

On those days, your voice, its treble and tones… fluid gravity.

Pulling me back, to remember what I already know.

~Amy Kate Frazier

September 7,2016

For RB