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The Numbers

I don’t have paper in my hands or my pockets but these people… they let me have whatever I want because I have imaginary numbers.

I put my piece of plastic and magnets in their plastic magnet machine and it says,

“Yes. She is worthy of the thing. Give it to her now.”

They hand me the thing. It’s mine now.

The plastic metal viewing machine says that I have 4,563 numbers left before I run out of numbers and then they won’t let me have the thing anymore.

They gave me the numbers when I filled out the form. I told them the name for my face was Charlotte and they said, “You are 6,000 numbers.”

Sometimes I do things and people give me more numbers.

Sometimes they get mad at me because they don’t have as many numbers as I ask for.

I wonder how many numbers I’m worth if I just stay put, do nothing and rest.

My daughter wonders how I put numbers in the bank and how paper turns to plastic and plastic to symbols on a screen and then into the cookie I promised her if she didn’t touch anything while we were grocery shopping.

My daughter wonders why sometimes Mama doesn’t have enough numbers to get the cookie… or the groceries.

I tell her she exists between one and zero and that the numbers there don’t come apart. I tell her about infinity and how she springs again and again from the well of information that is stillness in her heart.

I tell her that by the time her age reaches the number of mine, that no one will count numbers for cookies. That her heart will be enough. That her heart is enough.

I tell her to plan for the fall of Capitalism, that imaginary numbers won’t last. I tell her that I don’t know who gives us all the numbers but that we are taking them back. That we are between one and zero. That we are the space between the numbers and that there is no space between the numbers and she asks…

for the cookie in my hand.

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Chasing sun

Finding beauty is like chasing sun.

You’ll never catch it

but you can feel it in your blood.

Even when you’re in caves.

I chased the sun a long time.

Made many trips around the earth.

The moon said, “I caught his beauty on my skin.”

I said, “I want to own it.”

I saw it rise and set again…

And when I finally sat to rest I realized that it didn’t end.

I’m where the sun begins.

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Some things considered

Considering how long it must have taken for the one of them to embrace the other,

for the one to choose to fall into those strong pine arms,

for the pine to accept the white bark of the birch as closest to its own,

considering how long their roots were in communion before their branches ever touched,

considering the seasons and the rise and fall of moon and sun,

considering the crows that call them “home” with no distinction between the white and brown skin, needles and leaves,

considering the decision was made long before the act of touching was finally reality,

I suppose I can be more patient.

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Science

Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
Our bodies are extremely complex. Not machines but rather living mirrors of a larger cosmos.
We are energy intertwined with other energy.
Systems within systems.
Science proves this. Science has shown time and time again how the rivers carry the blood of our mother and how the wetlands are her lymphatic system.
Science has shown the torus pattern as being a fundamental pattern of creation, existence and evolution.
Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
Science itself is evolving.
If all of the information was known now, we wouldn’t need science: science as a process of discovery and coming to understand our world.
We don’t have gears and oil but rather patterns within patterns. Order. An organization that extends far beyond the current reach of science.
Science as a method.
Science as a mindset.
We have fractal DNA that is able to express genes based on our environmental factors.
We have energy in flesh and in sound and in light. All within our environment.
We have emotion and thought all within our environment.
We have memory all within our DNA.
We have so much information within our DNA.
We have more information within our DNA than we have scientific studies ever conducted within the history of humanity. We have more information within our DNA than we have points of data ever collected.
We have reason to believe that we may not have all of the information available to us, at present, through the process of science.
Science which crawls compared to the speed that our needs progress.
Science which is always playing “catch up” to the miracle of our empirical discovery.
Science which lags behind our questions.
We have so much more than science.
Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
And be open to the fact, that on some level, you do.
“Is it safe?” They ask. About this and that but particularly that one thing (you know the one I mean).
And then the ones stand up who say, “There’s science.”
And the ones stand up who say, “I’ve put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Tell me, does the one who has the science sense the subtle energy?
Does the one who put it in their environment know what it feels like to edit the code?
Or are they looking for the big things? The things no one could miss.
If we were all aware of the subtle energies we would thank science instead of praying to it.
The new age atheism of a people is the disease of science.
A disease we can see, we can hear it and feel it and know it as we watch our mother’s veins drain and her lymphatic tissue dry up.
Food that has had the life processed out of it, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Water that has been polluted, molecules malformed, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Oil that has been ripped from the belly of our mother, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Micro-plastics, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Thoughts that devour our passion and reduce us to the belief that we are mearly gears and oil, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Is it safe?
No. It is not safe.
But there is science. Yes. There is.
Someday, the science will meet the moment you’re presently in and you won’t be here to stand on it.
For now, be careful who or what you pray to, especially if you claim not to.
And be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.

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The Yellow Door

I love myself.
It’s hard to believe that was once so hard to say.
It didn’t feel like a truth then. Just an affirmation.
Something light, weightless, floating.
An outline of a possibility.
Now, it’s as true as my own hand before my face.
It holds both water and weight.
It feels like a strong, solid voice that resonates in my belly.
I love myself.
It doesn’t feel like a trick or a sin to say. It doesn’t feel like a lie or a dirty mirror.
I love myself.
And I am sincerely amazed that some collection of terrible and beautiful days has become this declaration of me that I prayed through tears for. For so long.
Isn’t it a gift that we’re never lost?
Always within reach if we just pull back the layers and find our sweet selves waiting.
My inner child loves frolicking. I don’t walk. I jump and spin and fall and laugh and get up again and pick flowers with my toes.
I’m ready for anything.
Holding more light than a year ago like the voice told me I would.
I do hear voices but they’re not the kind to worry about.
Although some take their worry and stretch it out for me like a courtesy or a hobbie, it’s not necessary.
My voices speak sweetness.
They remind me to look deeper.
They say, “what if it is true? What if it isn’t? Does your past really change you?”
And I wonder, can it? Something done? Can it change who I am to become?
No, I think my identity has crumbled a thousand times and no memory can keep me captive anymore.
I might just open the yellow door.

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My Daughter Needs

My daughter needs a hike in the woods more than she needs a “morning meeting”. 

She needs to learn that time moves in a spiral more than she needs to memorize a calendar.

She needs to learn each letter as we write together “EVERYTHING IS ENERGY” carefully tracing our way through conversation and dotted lines.

She needs to know which berries are safe to eat.

She needs to hear her mother speak nothing but kindness over her body and her spirit.

She needs to know that the chores don’t get done without her because she is a vital part of why our household functions. That She matters. She is a part of a community. A team. A family.

She needs to know her mother can see her purity and that no word or deed can tarnish that vision.

She needs to know her mother will hold that vision and nurture it, gently calling her back to it if ever she loses it.

She needs a hug every time she asks for one.

She needs “be aware” more than “be careful”.

And “what did you dream of last night” more than “hurry up and get ready.”

She needs to know her art is a valuable contribution to the world now, not “when you grow up to be an artist.”

She needs me.

Me, the one who she says makes her feel strong and like she can fly.

She tells me that the bubble of energetic protection we practiced placing around her in meditation last night wasn’t cuttin it. She said I am her bubble. She said I make her feel safe.

She needs me, the one who she says “knows EVERYTHING” to say, “I don’t know” sometimes. To say, “let’s figure it out together.”

She needs compassion more than she needs to “learn a lesson.”

She needs my time, my touch, my attention, my priority, my love.

She needs me to keep what Covid has taught me and never take on too much again. 

To keep this pace that honors her being and doesn’t rush.

To Never get lost in the guise of capitalism’s definition of success or education.

Those ideals were never mine and I gave them back.

My babies have me now, more than they ever did before and more than I ever knew I could give them.

Last February a voice told me, “A year from now you will hold twice as much light”, and I couldn’t imagine how. Now I’m starting to see it.

And feel it.

My babies deserve the world but not the one I grew up in.

So I give them EVERYTHING I am so they can create a new one.

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Run it under cold

Run it under cold water
Run it under hot
I wrote it as a child, “I refuse to be forgot.”
Say it rather simply or tie it up in knots
Count all of your quarters… what’s it cost to be the boss?
Numbers climbing… numbers lost.
Spending numbers counting thoughts.
Thoughts unwinding, telling lies, wind them up another time.
Like long braids… like ancestral karma and childhood pain
manifesting in ways you have to look at to claim.
To clean.
Water fiend.
Run it under cold, run it under hot,
a burn’s a burn but a remedy is not
so straight forward to a child who’s learning rules from elders
I want bouquets of flowers. I want what money’s not.
I wrote it as a child, “I refuse to be forgot.”

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Baby

She takes a balloon from the living room

Gives it a name

Calls it baby

Brings it to the table.

The vent blows it, it rocks and tumbles and doesn’t stay still despite her will to keep her baby “in place”

I remember yesterday, or maybe it was last year… or…

Was it two?

Three?

Four?

I used to have babies

That would dart across this floor that I sit on now to eat because the table only holds two and sometimes a balloon.

The window leaks, it’s January

But we’ve been through heat

And many afternoons of sweaty arms rolling into wrists and fumbling fingers

And many occasions with many balloons

But this ones name is baby

And it’s still round

And it still wiggles in the warm.

Memories work like that, finding the mundane and putting life there.

Building stories into frames

Time into form.

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Sometimes I can only speak in poetry

Sometimes I can only speak in poetry. 

I don’t try to rhyme, I don’t try to pull it out in threads of metaphor and miracle and add sparkle to my words like sun glistening on a pond. I don’t.

And sometimes I can’t speak at all. But my fingers know the keys like they are a part of me and when they meet, the words make magic as they flood the page with thoughts I’ve kept entrapped. 

I don’t have to ask for words. They live inside of me. They breathe for me when my lungs forget the motion. When I feel stepped on and alone they come to rescue me, they say, “This is real”. 

When I feel joy, so momentary the elation of experiences that come to stay for just a while, they say, “Enjoy, we’ll write later”. 

I never asked to be a poet but it’s a path that’s carried me along it as I’ve moved from one day to another. I can’t imagine how I’ve arrived here… it’s so odd. That every event, every smile and laugh and tear and bruise and person left behind has brought me here exactly to this moment in time. 

With no idea where I’m going the poetry fuels me. It says, “you may not have a mission but you have a way. You have a way to express. You have a gift. You have been created and it’s your job to keep creating. You are a poet and a poet you shall be. Memories will come and go but words, you can keep.” 

And see a poet never sleeps. For, when I sleep I dream. I live another life and the whole landscape is poetry. The walls are metaphors, the people are ideas, the movement is creativity. I am grateful to remember the details that help me live in this world with just a bit more clarity and direction. 

I don’t know where I’m going or even really who I am or what I’m building but I know that I’m a poet because no matter what I do when I feel strong emotion, words and art and images come through and song enlightens my being and it’s really just my truth that I cannot be in this world without creating as I move. 

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Less

Sometimes I worry that I’m only here to break things,

leave you with less.

Less between you and the words you want to say

Less stagnant, less heavy, less fear.

But I want to build too, I want to live to see what comes to life from the rubble.

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Me For Me

My fingertips are wrinkled from dishes, I want them numb from guitar

I can feel everything. We used to call them prune hands but I have adapted the phrase to a fruit they know better

And as I’m raisin’ mine on nights that they are away and clasping them in gratitude with wet eyes on nights that we all sleep easy, I remember the joke you made

And something is still missing. Empathy, you said as we laughed that night without them.

And now I spend so many nights without them and without you and I’m aware now of why I was so tired for so long but

I’m still tired now. And nothing is slower. And no matter how tightly I press my hands together…

They are empty.

my prayers must go somewhere. I assume someone has found them. Washed ashore, as pristine as I spoke them, I hope. Every tear in tact.
All the sweetness and joy and ease and abundance that has lost course en route to me.

I miss you. I miss you but I’m happy now. I’m happy but I’m tired. I’m tired but I’m moving and although there is no machine to meet my needs in quite the right way:

:Wrinkled fingers from the waters that I take on each day.

:From the waterways that release between my own palms.

From the beginning I’ve been unbound – with wrists that know the difference between right and left but you…

Are your hands wet? Or does she still do them for you?

I remember the night I told you.

And why did it take an avalanche of crystals, water reflecting pain and pain and pain for you to realize how I needed you?

For so long there was a flood and you, you sat alone while I gathered two of this and two of that and when it came time to board I found

Another.

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Collective Energy Reading 10/18 and beyond

In this collective energy reading I offer psychic/intuitive insight into the energies that we are collectively experiencing at this time.

Use this information as guidance and ssupport as you step forward into your future.

For a personal Psychic Reading view my services and reach out to me to book!

NOTE: This begins with singing and a short tour of my space, feel free to skip into the reading if you like.

<3 Mama Rose

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