To The One I Cannot Be With At This Time

To the One I Cannot be with at This Time.

No matter how I try, I cannot get to you. And believe me, I have tried.

I have sought every possible way of crossing closed borders without getting caught.

I have stood empty handed in every airport hoping for a flight that was never called.

I have calculated how long it would take me to walk to you (approximately 55 days and 7 hours) and imagined your face as I arrive on your doorstep. How it would light up with your smile that melts me every time. How you would pick me up in your arms. How you would never set me down again.

I have cried rivers hoping they would become oceans that would somehow close this land between us.

I have yelled and screamed and argued and bargained and still, I am found defeated and it kills me that I cannot be with you at this time but this, my darling, is how I will love you in the distance…

For the long distance lovers held apart by distance at this time, I wrote this for you, full article over at Elephant Journal, link below x

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2020/04/the-meaning-of-distance-in-times-of-isolation/

Day Two #coronapoetry – Flow

Day Two

Ebb: To move away from the land
Flow: To move back towards it

The grapevine releases its leaves: this too shall pass.

Tell me of the ways grief will release from this body.
How it will collect wherever the leaves go in winter.

How the rains will come and wash this sorrow away
the same way floods came but not before the country

first burned. Dead wood piled upon dead wood.
Trauma upon trauma. Cleaning the wounds while

reopening the scars. Tell me of the ways a river
surrenders to the ebb and flow of the ocean.

How I too will learn to stop running and move back
towards this land that is mine.

Day One #coronapoetry – Distance

distance
[ˈdɪst(ə)ns]

1. Something no longer measured in length, but time.

(it has been 53 days since I last pressed my lips against your neck and breathed in the warmth of you)

(it has been 53 days since I last breathed)

 2. The space required between one another to keep safe.

(open highways give way to closed borders and your skin is cold to the touch behind this glass screen)

3. A word used to describe feelings of loneliness during times of indefinite isolation.

(I no longer know how to define my life other than with you or not with you)

4. A degree of separation unable to be overcome at this time.

(and still the planes are grounded and I am alone at an airport with nothing but a handful of credits and you are not here, you are not here, you are not here)

~ Kathy Parker

Happy World Poetry Day ❤️

I have found truth lies in the spaces between the words, the cracks in the pavements we tiptoe over as if we are afraid of seven years bad luck, afraid to break our mother’s back

afraid of what honesty will do, or undo, in the lives we have so carefully swathed

with our own language so fluent in things of the weather.

Unspoken words get caught in our throat; we choke on their sharp edges

and spit them back onto our plates and instead satiate our fear of the silence with words

soaked in honey that are swallowed with ease; malnourishing ourselves

with empty calories and all the while wondering why we never feel complete.

I wonder if this is why some of us like to chew on metaphors; here we can taste truth

without saying truth, here we can walk on the cracks without falling through and I think

that’s the only way some of us will ever feel safe. Maybe that’s all our lives really are anyway; a metaphor, an analogy, a parable.

Maybe none of this is real, maybe we are all just the same stories spoken to new generations. Maybe we are nothing more than a social experiment, Big Brother,

watched and scored and already lost to government control and maybe freedom

is nothing more than illusion and the last person standing, wins.

Maybe you no longer love me.

Maybe we have come too unstuck to hold together anymore.

I look at you and want to speak these things out loud, I want to tell you

how I think I’m sinking into the deepest part of myself and can’t find the way out.

But your eyes are fixed on the afternoon sun as it comes through the window

that faces west towards the ocean so I watch fallen leaves scatter at the kiss of the wind

and hear the sound of the currawong calling in the distance. You note the shifting light; perhaps the change of season is close, you wonder, and I reply, perhaps it is.

#worldpoetryday <3

My Love, You Deserve It All

HeavensMirror

You are worthy to be here.

You are worthy to occupy this space.

You know this.

You know it deep in your core where the fire quietly burns. You know it in the stillness of the night when you dare to whisper your dreams to the night sky. You know this is your moment to claim, this space to call yours. Be not afraid to reach out and take hold of it. Do not fear your greatness. Do not fear your worthiness. Do not believe the scars of your heart; the ones that tell you that you don’t deserve this.

My love, you deserve it all.

You deserve the joy and the success, the moments of wonder, this love you never expected. You deserve the unfolding of all you have worked toward, of every breath you have held with timid anticipation, daring not to hope. All the universe has given is yours to take. This space was yours from the start; waiting for you to hold it close and call it yours. It has always been yours to fill, written into the script of your life.

It belongs to you. It is only you who needs to believe it. Who needs to own it without fear, without explanation, without apology, without justification.

You are worthy.

You are deserving.

Everything you have ever hoped for is waiting for you to take hold of and call yours.

Be not afraid.

The world is waiting for you.

Let Them Throw Stones

Then there are the ones that like to hold you to the mistakes of your past.

Who will try and drag you back through your own shame and make you believe you don’t deserve the dream you have fought so hard to achieve.

Their words will be calculated – targeted missiles they will aim at the places they know will be the weakest; the places they know have been wounded before.

This is what they will tell you:

That the person you once were is who you will always be.

That the person you were at your worst is the most you will ever amount to.

That you will never be anything more than the mistakes you once made.

That you are worthless, hopeless, useless.

Don’t listen to them.

Because here’s the thing:

Nobody has the right to judge you.

Nobody has the right to hold you prisoner to your mistakes when they don’t know a damn thing about the choices you had to choose from and how hard you fought just to survive.

Nobody has the right to shame you for your humanity.

To deny you the right to be human.

To deny you the grace of the human condition that sees us all fuck up at times and learn from that and do better.

Nobody has the right to take away your redemption.

To take every drop of blood poured for your healing, your growth, your change, your becoming, and make it worth nothing.

We are not held captive to our yesterday’s, to the person we once were when we knew no better.

We are not bound by our mistakes, to the ways we hurt others when our hearts were hurting so much inside our broken chests.

We are not defined by our rock bottom, when nobody knows what it has taken us to claw our way out to become the person we are today.

We are not our past.

We are not our shame.

Nobody has the right to judge the heart they do not see.

Your heart is beautiful; made new with each day you have woken and determined to do better.

You are worthy. You are deserving. You are everything they will never be.

Forgiveness, grace, second chances:

These are the things we offer other humans when we understand the frailty of our own humanity.

When we understand that mercy always triumphs over judgement, and that is how we bring healing and offer love.

There will always be those who throw stones.

Let them.

For their feet will forever be bound by the shore, destined to watch as you, my darling, become the ocean.

Art Matters.

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It’s hard to write today.

It’s hard to not feel like my work is pointless. That anything I write at this time is futile. That I have nothing significant or relevant to add to the already overcrowded media sphere.

I am struggling to find meaning in what I write; instead I sit here finding ways to both avoid and appease my inadequacy.

Not wanting to read headlines yet not being able to look away.

With all that is transpiring in the world I feel heavy and burdened; and anxious. It is hard to focus, to find creativity and any kind of joy or satisfaction in my work.

It’s hard to believe it matters.

But it does.

And I think this is what we need to remember in the midst of such volatile and unsettling times. The best art comes from authentic truth-telling. People who can create from the depths of turmoil; who can both preserve the moment and make us see the beauty that still exists within in.

More than ever during these hard times, creatives need to create. We need to bear witness to the human spirit which radiates through these seemingly impossible times. It’s often difficult; we are the empaths who carry the suffering of the world too close to our hearts. We find it hard to confront such suffering; to not be affected to such a degree we can no longer function ourselves.

But if we can find a way to hold these moments; to feel them, to carry them, to create beauty from destruction, then we leave not just a memory, but a legacy that generations who follow will hold even closer.

It matters.

How Flattering Things Appear Under Soft Light

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We always meet beneath street lamps
how flattering things appear under soft light
you tell me I am beautiful under soft light
here, where the edges of my knife blade skin
are dulled beneath yellow hue
the way the city skyline reflects
in the cool steel of my limbs; lights
twinkling, dancing,
we are always dancing
around things we do not say
how flattering things appear under
soft light that veils the sharpness of my teeth
the bear claw trap inside my mouth
always set and ready to protect myself at the first rustle
of footsteps inside the forest of my healing and
you tell me I should be flattered
with this back-alley late-night soft-light love affair
do you remember when you said you preferred
my hair long; the way it fell like a sepia watercolour
around my face, disguised the hard edge of my jaw
the upward tilt of my chin; unyielding
how flattering I am to you when I am soft
beneath these blurred lights, blurred lines
bloodlines before me who traded the
full meal of their strength for a pill of submission
so they would become easier to swallow
and these lights appear so flattering when you do not
have to squint against the truth of who I am;
soft lights, often-lies we continue to tell ourselves
this appears so flattering until we are laid bare by the dawn
my eyes slowly adjusting to the illusion of how flattering
you first appeared to be under soft light.

© Kathy Parker 2019

First, The Breaking. Then The Becoming.

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“Transformation isn’t sweet and bright. It’s a dark and murky, painful pushing. An unravelling of the untruths you’ve carried in your body. A practice in facing your own demons. A complete uprooting, before becoming.” ~ Victoria Erickson

Here’s the thing about breaking.

You never heal the same.

You can never go back to the person you used to be, nor fit in the spaces you once thought you belonged. There will always be resistance. A defiance in your spirit. A sense of being out of place. A pulling back to your true north.

The breaking can be a lonely time; the healing, even more so. Islands of isolation and seclusion during times you feel too vulnerable to face the world. Feeling lost and homesick; no longer the person you once were, yet not knowing which road will lead you to the person you’re still becoming.

But this I have come to know:

I would rather the loneliness than living a life I no longer align with. I would rather move forward on my own than force myself to fit into places that have become too small for me. I would rather exist as an island living true to my authentic self than compromise who I am becoming just so another can hold me in the spaces they desire me to stay inside of.

The path back to ourselves is not an easy one. It is an unlearning of the people we have been taught to be. A falling away of the lives we have sought to live. It is a letting go. A surrender. A grieving. It is the breaking apart of all we once thought to be true, and real.

But with the breaking comes the healing; eventually the transformation.

And then, the becoming.