Barn Girl.

She watches the ladies
ride. For hours,
she watches.

Keeping

time.

The adults come in the morning.
Breeches and
tall,
leather
boots.

The kids roll in
some
afternoons.
Jeans and half-chaps.
She knows that

together,

what she sees --
what they wear --
is worth
thousands.

Today the high is fifty-two.
Tomorrow looks
similar.
The chestnut mare and Orion, the black,
may
need
sheets.

One grey, dirty, barn cat
loves her.
She pushes the
thing away.

Nine stalls left.
And then the shavings.

She pretends
that the bay one is

hers.

She cleans her
paddock boots. For no reason,
she polishes the toe

until it

shines.

Ryan shakes her hand,
and she goes

home.

C.A. MacConnell

Follow the Inner Voice

At times, my heart and gut have told me things such as this: hey, don't do this; something is definitely weird here. Not dangerous, but weird nonetheless. Yes, this feeling even gets specific. A few years ago, repeatedly, on the inside, I heard, He's lying. Not sure about what, but he's lying. And my gut has told me this: that's not his real name, so don't call him. Or yes, sometimes it's positive -- don't wait another second. Do this! No question about it. Still other times, it's in between -- this will be all right, but it's not what you're looking for. In each case, this deep-down feeling has always been right on target.

The heart-voice has never failed me, but even still, I don't always pay attention to this important, curious, little feeling inside. Most of the time, it hits me smack in the center of the chest. Other times, more toward the belly, the head, or even the throat. Why don't I pay attention? Perhaps I worry about what others will think. Or I don't listen to myself because of what someone says, such as, "Oh, no, I think it's all right. It's fine, really." Against my better judgment, I'll let another person's words sway me. As I get older, I pay more and more attention to this "inner voice," as I like to call it or "god consciousness" as others call it, but I'm not perfect at it yet.

The trees, the ducks, the koi fish -- they are perfect at it. How about the clouds, the sun, the moon, each and every star? The planets, the air? Ah, the water. In this universe, all of nature lives and feels and trusts completely. Think about it. Infinitely, they believe. With humans, doubt rolls in, but there is one time when we are perfect at it as well. When we love. When we love, truly love, we are perfect at the connection with our inner voice; that is, when the love is the kind where one being solely focuses on how to give.

Then, like that mother nursing a child, like that man helping his girlfriend with a broken right leg make her way up a ramp, like that boy holding his girlfriend's skateboard on his back, like those two hawks who will reappear in the fall in the same tree until the day they die, there is a stream of god consciousness, absolute trust, and the ultimate essence of the inner voice.

Today's truth: The focus is on how to give.

C.A. MacConnell

Raw.

Singer, you gave me
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.

C.A. MacConnell

Higher Brow.

 Heya. How are you this morning? I'm regrouping. Here's a little poem about one of those moments when love wins. Enjoy...this one definitely has a piece of me inside it. Sometimes when I write, even when it's first person, I maintain a gaping distance. But not so much with this one. When it comes down to it, I sincerely believe it's the little things that matter...<3, C.A.

Higher Brow

We were ready to face them.

How casual we were – leaning back in heated seats,
listening to the radio's low hum, riding in the strange
car. You were driving carefully – not too fast,

not too slow, taking the turns lightly, teaching me
how to settle and sink, to welcome the ache of calm.
We were making it. On the way to the most crucial

event, lit up with talent fire, I looked out the window,
and I had a vision of what the packed party might be like –
pretty lights, round, clean, white tables, the rich, organic

smells, and a thousand flutes – glasses upon glasses
shining at flashes, and when they touched, they hit,
screaming with cheer. Everywhere, flawless smiles,

sharp shadows, quick hands gripping microphones,
dresses reaching ankles or knees, tailored pants, fitted
jackets, and the difficult height of heels. We were ready

to face them. For weeks, we had planned the perfect
timing, the shifting flame of our long-awaited arrival.
Then, suddenly, still on the road, you looked at me

once, twice, three times, then shrugged and said,
You know, we don't have to go, and I nodded, smiling,
staring straight ahead, then looking back at you,

studying your cheek, loving your fine, cut jaw,
loving the way the higher brow hugged your right
eye, loving the way that some days, the lid seemed

purple, and we both laughed, and we couldn't stop,
and again, the road, the life, the laughter, the costumes,
the sky lights, and the newly burning stars, were ours.

We were ready to face them.

C.A. MacConnell