Archive for the ‘Connection’ category

Lady Death

April 25, 2015

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Asleep is he, the mortal man,
bloodless with endless breath.
Buried in those steep demands
of the loveless Lady Death.

Cold to touch. Erasing pain.
Ever mortified by heat.
Endless aches for hardened souls
for death one cannot beat.

Wasting away, her tired bones,
inanimate and weak.
Gone for now like fireflies by
day, vanishing the unique.

Burning up. She’s Lady Death.
Consumed by deadly things.
Non-extant and turned to dust,
dark angel never got her wings.

Asleep is he, the mortal man,
loveless and out of breath.
Buried by simple demands
of the immortal Lady Death.

by Felicia Lujan
4.24.2015

Breathless

April 22, 2015

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You know the air is
thick with this…
leaves us breathless
once again.
A crushing gasp for
stars and haze,
our back draft always
seems to win.

You know my breath
as I know yours…
it’s called
carcinogenic lust.
Secure my mask,
first kiss my lips,
then take me under
if you must.

You know it well…
this fiery dance
for smoke quickly
fills our dream.
Running your
tongue across my
chest to wipe
away the steam.

You know we’re
breathless…out of air.
It’s a toxically
alluring fantasy.
Remove my mask
and feel the heat.
Consume the
sexiness of we.

by Felicia Lujan
4.22.2015

Lemme Help You

April 17, 2015
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••Meme by Felicia••

Stormy

April 15, 2015
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•Stormy Sky~ Santa Fe, New Mexico • Photo by Felicia•

Wind blew out the
warmth of light.
This storm rushing
to break free.
Sorrow and one
icy breath before
the first drop
broke for me.
A cold, dark storm
and gusty glares
with rain sent to
perish on dry land.
Silence in electric
clouds… way more
than just one heart
can stand.

by Felicia Lujan
4.15.15

Self-mastery of Words

April 14, 2015
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•My son and I at the Santa Fe Public Library (Southside) on 4.12.2015•

Becoming anything you want is easy in a library. Libraries are mystical places. Stories spur our imaginations. Words can transport us into a galaxy unknown… into a sea of love or a world of pain… through a temporary rainbow so we can breathe the colors and into another body or mind with ease. For a reader, this can be achieved if the magic and words are right. It is a harmony of poetic description. For a writer, this type of out of body/mind experience is a must. Disconnection from what is becomes essential to the creative process.

I have been writing poetry since I was a child. No instruction. No degrees. No literary tools. No clue. Just feelings and words. (Read the first poem I wrote at 8yrs old in My Love Affair with Writing) My heart was meant to leave remnants of emotion. Those remnants are sparkly and dark, beautiful and ugly. They are erotically unbound words. My writing defines my soul. My poetry is filled with my words. The words have been etched into me with an acid that only metallic hearts will understand. Only creative machines can be permanently marked by words.

On Sunday I spent the afternoon with my son in the library. It felt so good to see light in his eyes for so long. Taking time to foster a love of words in our children is of the utmost importance. How can I teach him the power of letters and words? Maybe I should read him my poetry? Looking back decades ago, this appreciation came to me in a flood of emotions time and time again. It is feelings not creativity, which first prompt meaningful writing. Good and bad experiences draw out our feelings. We are then inspired and creativity is born.

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•A sign I love in the Santa Fe Public Library (Southside)•

I am sitting in the wind right now. I’m writing. I’m thinking. I’m feeling. My heart is low. I hear a crow in the distance. Children are laughing. The trees are casting shadows on me. People are walking fast. Cars are passing slow. I am feeling this very moment. My best poetry always comes from this place. It is the place of complete surrender to a moment. The ability to feel a moment and then recreate the moment with words is the most important tool a writer has.

Becoming anything I want is easy. There is actually a mystical library within me. This Sunday I realized that. All of my books are there. They have always been there. Everyday I add new books or develop new chapters. Sometimes I read my old books again. These stories spur my imagination and transport me to other places. My harmony of poetic description and creative process is in constant motion. I have become an expert when it comes to harnessing moments and emotions that fill my books with words.

I don’t know that I will ever be a poet laureate? I don’t know that I’ll ever win a Pulitzer Prize or a Congressional gold medal for poetry like Robert Frost? I’m actually more than alright with that. Money and fame mean nothing to me. The ability to freely express myself is my prize. I am a real winner if I can get my son to love words as much as I do. If I never publish any books, I know that I have self-mastered the art of my words.

In the end, the audience of one who feels, the audience of one who listens, the audience of one who really matters is me.

Tangled Hair and Gritty Teeth

April 13, 2015

I love the smell of fresh dirt. The wind whips through my long ponytail. My blonde, tangled locks seem misplaced against the vibrant New Mexican sky. Blue sky, red Earth, the great wide open, barren plateaus, dancing Cholla, and stories of those who came before, give me reasons to adore this place. This is the place that I call my own. I was born and raised in a place which embodies the beauty of dirt.

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•Diablo Canyon in Santa Fe, New Mexico•

If you didn’t know, 4-wheeling in not the Land of Enchantment, but this enchanted land is special. Those wheels afford you an unsoiled, yet soiled glimpse through natures looking glass. The ghosts of Diablo Canyon cast hazy red shadows when the sun sets. Then there are the stories. Today the canyon is used by thrill seekers to evoke hellish feelings. The jump is far. The climb is steep. These thrills aren’t for the weak.

Our ride on Sunday through Caja del Rio, past Diablo Canyon, to the Rio Grande River was beautiful. How quickly we forget the childhood feelings tied to our land and nature. When I was a young girl, I spent all my time on a 3-wheeler. My brother, sister and I explored together. Looking back, we learned together. While my brother and I sat along the bank of the Rio Grande on Sunday, we talked about those priceless days. (Read: Eat My Dust)

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•Rio Grande River off Old Buckman Road in Santa Fe, New Mexico•

There is nothing like the smell of fresh dirt. I would never replace the feel of grit in teeth. The simplest of things can confirm you are home. I don’t mind when the New Mexico wind whips through my hair. It makes me feel alive. I was born and raised in a place which embodies the beauty of dirty skin and sacred land. It is here where I shall remain.

Cake

April 10, 2015

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Close your eyes and
make a wish when you
blow my candles out.
Frosting is sweet. Warm
on your lips. A tasty treat
without a doubt.

There are no gifts to
take the place of a
sensual embrace.
Another year. Another
day. Wish for another
time and place.

Close your eyes and
feel the flames which
beg to take your breath.
Body. Mind. Soul. The
trinity of we… important
’till the death.

Presents fade and
parties end, but your
cake will always be.
The essence of your
candied silk and a
little taste of me.

Close your eyes and
make a wish when you
blow my candles out.
Every wish blown from
your lips… set to come
true without a doubt.

by Felicia Lujan
4.10.2015


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