poetry form: gleeful frivolity or sacred importance?

on a road trip with Florence & Darlene, sweat pools in the nape of my neck, the first abundance of moisture on my skin since his mouth left town.

In a haze of searching for giddy joy as balm to grief, I'd decided one of my legacies would be creating a poetry form. Life is much too complicated and challenging to not do exactly what it is that lights our souls. Initially, I thought this experience as gleeful frivolity; I miss the frantic haze of spilling over with poetic inspiration, and figured that creating a form would give me a formula to focus on, however, the sermon I witnessed today reaffirmed why creating a poetry form is of sacred importance - so long as evangelism & other Christian bodies remain players in patriarchal ignorance to the sanctity of the creation cycles of our earthbody & all related powers of femininity, art continues to be a vessel through which we participate in reverent justice & awareness.

I ache for gnosis & mysticism to become the influencing energy in Christianity. I'm not certain that Jesus would love modern church and while I exist in this wondering, my spiritual home will continue to be in service of the most vulnerable, in honoring the feminine aspects of God - mountain ranges, bodies of water, forests, moon cycles, trampled wildflowers in hopeful meadows, in knowing that to be human is to be fully mortal and fully Divine, and in engaging my poetic tendencies as a vehicle of expression to increase self-knowing and work out the complexities of experience.

As such, the ‘eastann’ is a syllabic poem, giving transcendent voice to the complexities of Humanity, Environment, and that which is Sacred.

Let’s write poems!

If you do engage your poetic musings through this form, share in the comments or tag @exhalationsbyea on instagram & threads so I can read your creations!

Here is where my heart & poetic mind have been lately:

On A Road Trip With Florence & Darlene, sweat pools in the nape of my neck, the first abundance of moisture on my skin since his mouth left town:

(i) somewhere on my phone, there is a photo of his hand (masculine to my feminine) covered in wounds from a battle with a glass jar (kinetic consequences of parental chaos). if I could, I'd kiss each of his fingers; make him a home, if only I knew how, if only he'd let me. I moved his post-it love-note out of sight, threw away the puzzle I bought on our first date, sliced our energetic connection.

(ii) the puzzle we bought on our first date found a new home in the trash, with our union. in their absence, and as a ritual of reclamation, I decorated the periphery of my bedroom with flowers so I am held in wild beauty grounded in the Sacred Mother. even still, I wonder if he thinks of me; how my curves spread open to welcome him, how my touch brought him back into his body.

(iii) I have a theory that our souls must take form in nature somehow, at some point. while the moon rises I wonder if I’ll ever find myself. sacred anger & heartsong of hope; a holy reclaiming. I plead with Sacred Mother to allow just one sunflower to bloom. frothy hot cocoa soothes except not really. too ramped up to remember I am a wise aspen, reincarnated.

(iv) my toxic trait is conjuring daydreams that set expectations. asinine; my imagination- desperate, obsessive, repetitive loops. I plead with God(dess) to make it stop. to give me peace from the frantic attachment I’ve inherited, to soothe my raging rainwaters. is it so wrong to want sorrow settled by the arms of a lover, a friend for this life, flesh for my flesh; a Beloved.

…

A prayer: May we all add to collective wholeheartedness by seeking justice, processing our experiences, and expressing our truths through art. Blessed writing to you.

employing grief as a vehicle of creation,

E