pondering the origin of our hopes

Image by Eglantine Shala-Udry from Pixabay

sugar stained palm,

you holder of stillness,

you trembler of

wind.

scrape at the bottom of the coffee mug,

searching for

sins —

the answers to the questions to your

suffering

(a stifled wisdom gleans naked in the sunlight).

all the time unfurling behind you

is negated

in the now.

spoon your cocoa with a fork —

you can never catch the brown dust

that slips through the cracks of silver

metal.

all your dreams are crumbs scattered desolate

under the kitchen table.

in your destitution, there’s a freedom,

the mirrored liberty

of the empty street barren out your window.


future and past, as present as now

with the dawn of dreams -

i remembered, i remembered, and i toasted, toasted —

to those days where i frolicked with fear

in the fields of future —

Image by Genty from Pixabay

in that magic country that lay cradled in the palms of mountains

that held an ancient acquaintance with the secrets of sky.

that held the sacred of sun in the lines of their snow-dusted faces.

i pray for a piece of peace that can be planted and watered — planted and watered — planted and watered —

like the wellsprings from which we came from.


mid-night stories spun with rain

Image by Markus Spiske from Pixabay

I wish

that I can undress my mind of its stories,

like slipping off a dinner party dress before bed.

to feel fully

this midnight moment.

a flickering candle,

a cooling cup of tea.

past 3 am, a fresh autumn rainstorm, the patter of water ruthless on the porch roof.

I am barefoot and coat-wrapped.

my bones are heavy, my eyes burning slightly.

there is a lot of “I” to this moment — silent in its noise and how I’ve always loved the smell and sounds and feel of rain.

I wish I can strip off the “ I” too…


knowing the unknown

everything’s too much and not enough

everything’s burning, ascending like fire, and overflowing, spilling over into all the corners like water —

everything’s alive and open —

(still, everything’s afraid)

Image by kien virak from Pixabay

too much much-ness and just enough space still, to hold it

everything’s contained but slipping, slipping through —

spilling…

unfurling like sweet spring blossom

(curling within to reacquaint with the internal like winter leaves)

everything’s dying, dying, dying and be-coming, coming and leaving, rebirth and unbirth, a cycle that’s a spiral that’s unspooling like a taut spool of thread —

every thing, every being, every human and leaf and goat…


stream of consciousness

is a lazy river,

is an ocean of chaos,

is a tired brook dense with silt and old rocks, grey from all the time spent out in the sun.

Photo by Suhel Nadaf on Unsplash

stream of consciousness

is a gash of Life in a parched desert,

is the spill of soul when you’re telling the saddest story you know under the stars,

is a sudden downpour in the silver streets of midtown Manhattan on a muggy Mondy afternoon.

stream of consciousness

is the secret lull of the bloodstream under your skin, pumping sure and loyal, all through the hardest days,

it’s the…


Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

This article was birthed on a dejectedly sunny day. The kind of day where the sidewalks shimmer silver, where there’s a graciousness to everyone’s mouths at the supermarket — the kind of day that, if you don’t feel like “I’ve made it,” you don’t appreciate at all.

I’m a sucker for beautiful days, honest. Even if they are heralded by waking up late and gulping down a slightly bitter coffee that burns the edges of my tongue.

Even if I’m running out of hours at a freelance editing job and career options are shrouded in mystery. Even if the occasional…


why I struggle with storytelling

You meet them once in a while.

The ones with a fierce gaze of confidence and slow cadenced voice. The ones who hold the attention of the entire table, almost lazily. The ones who can start off their story quiet, a smattering of inconsequential details leading up to an almost anti-climactic ending, and still, you feel it in the room.

That mesmerized silence, the subtle anticipation. There’s a magic to it every time. You come to realize — it’s never about the drama or the dark details. It’s about the lull, the confident clasping of your audience’s attention in your…


picking up the pieces

in my dreams
I was a bird
flying through a storm of ash

over a city laid bare with its longing
for ‘normal’
(a bear in a bush
roaring with the tide)

the hours are sure to undress you.

it starts out calm-
a hush of whisper over a glassy sea.

Image by Karen Smits from Pixabay

but days don’t stop going.
even when the peace
stops.
and the able-ness of our ability
withers away.

there’s a shame to the peace of this cage.
our hunger is still of a softened kind.
(you can never be prepared)

the soft discomfort in our bellies
soothed still…


map the meaning

Image by scartmyart from Pixabay

There’s just not enough hand,

To hold all this sky,

Not enough dusted land,

To hold the weight of your sigh.

There’s just not enough lip,

To form all the words,

So that they can gracefully slip,

Cry the truth like wild birds.

There’s just not enough skin,

To blanket the bones,

Of every sin and loss and win,

stacked by the side like an old structure of stones.

And all this lack, all this too-muchness

Is housed in a soul-crack, for such is

the way of space —

It cannot abide, by all our Insides.

It sees no place

Golda Fukesman

Copywriter, explorer, aspiring doula. Seeking the wild and the true🍃🌾

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