Plenty

Enough.

I am.

Worthy.

Even when I fall short,

I am enough for me.

The question is,

am I enough for you?

~ Mk Michaels

Earthbound Heartache

Even though it seems it should get easier, 
and it does, 
my heart still breaks every time I leave you.

This is the third year in a row
I have left you behind and yet
it is really you who is leaving.
You are leaving childhood behind.
In this, you are leaving me. 

I smile and express my awe
at the woman you are becoming
(have already become.)
I praise your choices, your successes,
and your independence,
all the while biting the inside of 
my mouth, raw from suppressing
the tears of a mother who is
more willing to let go
than to cling tightly, holding you close, and
hobbling you in the process. 

You were meant to fly
far higher than I ever could have imagined
that day seemingly so long ago
(but only yesterday in my heart)
when I brought home the pink and white bundle
of newborn baby daughter
that was you.
I couldn't stop staring at you,
memorizing your face, and
having little idea of all that was to come.

The joys, fumbles, recoveries, devastations,
and strong connection, 
growing stronger each day
in spite of the fact that
you are leaving me
and have been for years.

You should.
Leave me, that is.
To let you leave was part of
the sacred contract made in
giving over my body
for the sake of yours
so you could grow strong,
leaving my belly
to begin your journey,
making your unique mark on the world.

You have.
Left a mark, that is,
and it will expand over time
as your wingspan widens
and you gain altitude,
soaring over your childhood home,
dipping a wing to let me know
that although you have left me
you have not forgotten.

~ Mk Michaels

Moving In and On

As we unpacked the last of your boxes in your off campus apartment;

books, clothes, bedding, pots and pans,

I was struck with the vividly clear thought that you are never coming home again. 

Sure, you'll visit, passing through for a day, a week, maybe several once in a blue moon or come home temporarily for life's events, but

more and more, the bedroom you made your own, the one in which you grew into yourself, the one that is vacant for longer and longer stretches of time

...has become redundant. 

As the mother who has worked diligently to never hold you back and be the support team in the background, I see your gait gaining momentum, your wings stretching farther, and your reach stretching farther than I could have possibly dreamed.  As to your bedroom at home, I leave it intact so in time it can draw its own conclusions.  

~ Mk Michaels

Defending Your Life

Sadness and grief,
the cutting cousins
sever my center,
a spectrum of wounds
which heal,
but only almost
before the next member of
the eviscerating family
comes visiting.

Some days,
those days I am too sliced up,
bleeding from a dozen wounds,
without the stamina to persevere,
I long for a 14" Bowie knife,
to defend the enemy,
to fight back,
or simply finish the job the cutting cousins started
so my suffering can end. 

~ Mk Michaels

A Little Chaos

My father taught me gardening. He encouraged me to see beauty and re-create it, not as an exercise, more as an act of faith. He told me that God put us first into a garden, and when we lost Eden, we were fated to search and reinvent it again. ~ Le Notre, A Little  Chaos

My garden, my haven, has been evolving for more than a decade now. New beds inspired by love or loss, existing beds enhanced by new plants or stripped bare to begin anew, and the recent addition of large lichen and moss adorned rocks comprise my personal heaven. 

Long ago I learned gardening was a metaphor for life and perhaps I toil tirelessly in an attempt to make up for the past by creating a more beautiful future.  Perhaps I work to the point of utter fatigue so I may sleep a dreamless sleep.  Either way, I know I find positive changes of the heart in creating the wild and unruly beauty that is my garden and, in this, I find my own peace. ~ Mk Michaels

Haiku ~ Jumbled

My thoughts, a clutter
of unrequited high hopes,
cast shadows this dawn.

~ Mk Michaels

Fragments

Who am I missing anyway? 

Bit of her, pieces of she,
parts of all.
Like a painfully selected mosaic,
exquisite agony.

The composition would be spectacular, 
but the whole of the parts
was lacking.

~ Mk Michaels

Bling

You used to say you loved my hands;

   the way I kept my nails manicured and polished
   the silver rings I wore wrapped around my fingers
   the way I talk with my hands as much as my mouth

Even now, I imagine you'd still like my hands,
but for the single platinum ring I now wear on my left hand's ring finger.

~ Mk Michaels

Big Harry Hippo Arm Hugs

I suddenly remember being very little and being embraced by my father. I would try to put my arms around my father's waist, hug him back. I could never reach the whole way around the equator of his body; he was that much larger than life. Then one day, I could do it. I held him, instead of him holding me, and all I wanted at that moment was to have it back the other way. ~ Jodi Picoult

My Dad gave the best hugs and I miss knowing he is there to hug me with his ‘Big Harry Hippo’ arms, as my sister and I called them when we were little.  His arms were so big in comparison to his young, then dark haired, blue eyed daughters.  He took the Harry Hippo label in stride, grinning and hugging us a bit more tightly.

Earlier today, quite unexpectedly, I burst into tears over something relatively trivial in the whole scheme of things.  You see, today is Dad’s birthday and that the occasion came but Dad is not here was an undercurrent that had the whole day askew.  Although I was aware of the date, I didn’t actually see the tidal wave coming, but come it did.  When it hit this afternoon, I put my head in my hands and wept.  Shortly after the dam broke, though I felt two slender arms wrap around my shoulders; I recognized them immediately. They belonged to my son.  My son favors his Granddad in many ways.  He has my Dad’s thick hair, which will, no doubt, grey prematurely, and my Dad’s hands with capable, square fingertips.  As my son hugged me and surprisingly lingered a moment, I realized something wonderful.  My Dad actually gave the second best hugs. ~ Mk Michaels

My Necrosis

 

There is a necrosis in me,

of body and spirit.

To cut away the rotting parts

would be to lose that which was hard won

decades ago at the price of great pain.

 

I mourn the perceived loss of this limb

and hope for a sign that something remains;

a phantom limb, greening, life.

I check the edges for the slightest

hint of raw, pink flesh around the edges

of the blackness that has taken up residence

in my once vibrant being.

 

I’d bandage my blackened limb

if I thought it would help,

but having lost and re-grown flesh before,

I know time is the only treatment.

 

…speaking frankly, though,

I am fucking sick and tired of keeping vigil

while waiting for healing to occur.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2016

Permanence

 

 

Like the wind-warped cypress,

firmly rooted in the rocky soil

above the violent beauty

of the Pacific coast,

I stand resolute.

 

Many of my sisters have fallen,

but I remain and bear witness

to the cerulean water below,

lifting first to the heavens,

then crashing earthward

against the seemingly immovable rocks just offshore.

 

The rocks, blissfully ignorant,

do not know the water,

in its patience and persistence

will win, but I,

I see their future.

 

The water,

swirling, crashing, eroding

will reduce the rocks to sand.

In time.

For water always finds its way

no matter how impenetrable

the obstacle before it.

 

As I have bent with the winds of change,

so too does the undulating water before me.

In this I realize

I am more like water

than the cypress

for although I may bend

and occasionally break,

I will always find a way through.

 

~ Mk Michaels, 2016

Art Show Review – Athlone Clarke, Inspirational Overflow

 

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. ~ Banksy

A pop-up art show, seemingly simple and nearly frivolous in name, and yet anything but in reality, particularly given the show's name, Inspirational Overflow.  Such was the experience of the showing hosted by Athlone Clarke and his beloved family on Saturday night at the ambient + studio on Wells Street in southwest Atlanta.

Jamaican born Athlone Clarke is an artist, poet, and living art in his demeanor.  Currently an Atlanta resident, he has created and shaken the hearts and minds of his followers for decades.  His work, paintings, mixed media, and sculptures, range from provocative and disconcerting to the warmly familiar akin to that evoked by honeyed tea offered in the kitchen of a loved one.  Supported by his family, Athlone shared work from his private collection, pieces previously unseen by the public. “This was not my first major solo show in Atlanta, but it is the first one where I had full and total curatorial control. I wanted my show to coincide with Jean-Michel Basquiat’s show at the High Museum, and to commemorate its record breaking attendance. I wanted to highlight my own work, but to also welcome his spirit to the Atlanta, which some consider the New York of the South.”  Whether experienced as provocative or evocative, art show beneficiaries returned to their homes not only with new art for their collections but also contemplations, sensations, and memories reminiscent of a night’s passion spent tangled in fervently rumpled sheets.  It is virtually impossible to experience Athlone’s art without looking deep inside oneself for previously unearthed truths.

Sometimes the things we are drawn to are just what we need for our healing

Music complementing his body of work rounded out an entirely sensorial experience not soon forgotten.  The body of work ranged from ‘Sometimes the things we are drawn to are just what we need for our healing’, a collection of vessels, found objects, and messages speaking to the process of healing our past as we come through the fires of life to Bad Ass Royalty highlighting Jean-Michel Basquiat which honored the artist and echoed the juxtapositions of ‘suggested dichotomies” for which he is known.‘



"Ring De Abeng. Visual Neo-linguist." Athlone and Fleetwood collaboration

In speaking of his family, Athlone affirms, “My family is always willing to go on very scary rides with me. They are my unabashed co-conspirators. We are a bond of unconditional love, and eccentricities.”  And so it is, for in attendance were Athlone’s wife, Alyce, and his children, Summer, Ocean, and Forest.  Each had a part in hosting and supporting the event.
 

Homecoming. The Maroon in all of us. 

Ever humble, the artist was appreciative of those who came to support his vision of an uncensored show from his private collection.  In response to those who embraced his work, Athlone declared “Once again, it validates for me the fact that I have chosen the right path. I am honored and humbled. Sending you all much gratitude and love.”  On the right path you are, Athlone, and so many of those who attended are grateful that their path crossed yours!

As Athlone often says, "One Love!"

~ Mk Michaels