we have come to be danced

~here is a poem by Jewel (08/2003)

We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hand and feet dance.
We have come to be danced
not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance.
We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, tow dance like you
one, two, three dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance.
We have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self-conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance.
We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity; the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take ten giant leaps dance
the ollie ollie oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance.
We have come to be danced
where the kingdoms collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in the skin sanctuary
we have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME

Blossoming Between Our Hands

Libraries are forests: chirping with words, freckled with the light of ideas, full of the spicy smell of leaves, seeded with streams of voice and teeming with paths where bones finger forth like tree roots – here the dead artists live on. Libraries are a natural niche for books, blooming between our hands, and are part of the beginning of reading.

I remember trips with my mother to the library when I was little, but big enough to read: the wonder of being surrounded by pictures and words that I could touch, open, listen to and then close; signing my name on my first library card that allowed me to take home almost anything there that I wanted to go into again and again. I remember sneaking into the sex section and being confronted by the human body, naked of clothes and skin, I remember looking up information, finding it and then reaching for it on the shelf, and I remember first seeing poetry. The library and this library card were perhaps my first real sense of responsibility – I promised to return what I had taken (and in the same condition) so that other people could enjoy the materials as well.

Libraries are still a free space, an open space, where all people can come to warm their mind or heal their heart. As a writer, the library is my refuge. Inside the library I can come together with people and chew on thoughts. Inside the library I can wander between rows of trees, sit in their shade and listen to that same story told in so many voices – I can hear my own.

~this is a story i submitted for a contest that i thought i would post here. let me know what you think, or, what your story about the library might be...