Friday, September 30, 2011
Too tired to read rules…
too tired to go to bed;
jaw clicks a larger yawn.
Worn from mental complications…
trying too hard to figure it out -
it – what was holding back
art production and creativity.
Exhibits lined up, inspiration
departed, casket mind is empty.
Battling her delinquent motivation,
she sat mechanically watching
a rugby match too tired to read rules.
Our greatest battles are with our own minds ~Jameson Frank
She wished to switch off the empty switch.
Even the cat hopped off the PC desk just when
she needed a fuzzy cat cuddle. That empty
feeling came out of nowhere; an invisible slap
in the face, her eyes stung but a blink or two
cleared away the mist while the emptiness
clung, biting her heart, tormenting her loveless
state with no affairs or even a sexless companion.
Sighing, sighing, inhaling breath to dispel the cold
dullness… sitting too long, a cup of tea was needed
to thaw this temporary desecration of peace.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
green moss remnants
once tucked in by leaf quilts
after scattered by carnivores.
Who were you?
Native or explorer?
Fallen among the ferns
in this wild place,
did anyone honor you?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
A hand full of breeze in your hair -
you run on mud flats at low tide.
Small legs churn splashing in and out
of reflections in low tide puddles.
Setting sun reflects off chestnut curls -
Granddad follows close behind
your darting form heading toward
a flock of Terns and reeling Sea Gulls.
Shadows stretch toward sandy shore
coated with evening sky’s glowing tint.
A spring ten years later nearly stopped all your
forward movement; thought your granddad would
die watching the paramedics pull you back.
Cane in hand, your small legs carry you forward
with a rocking gate - paralytic muscles fail to develop.
There was no portent of the future in the photograph
taken when you were two racing birds on the horizon;
you will always be my runner…
Monday, September 26, 2011
Fighting late afternoon desire to sleep,
she wasted time surfing the Internet:
Face Book, email, her shops.
Restless, avoiding art deadlines...
maybe it’s the first heavy storm settling in:
torrential rains, dripping leaves, wind littering
the ground, roads, sidewalks with broken pieces.
Feeling broken, having reached an end,
an undeclared end to creative illustration.
This stoppage wasn’t due to lack of ideas;
a screeching halt was due to motivation.
There must be a switch but it’s too dark
to find it; sighing, she looked up quotes:
"Everything that irritates us about others
can lead us to an understanding of ourselves"
What if it was yourself that was irritating
yourself? Then what?
"Everything that irritates us about others can
lead us to an understanding of ourselves"
~ Carl Jung
Reflects battened down
Suppressed beneath fat layers
Weight prevents escape
Prevents damage to kin or friends
Clasped fist in pocket
Torqued mental version
Hidden beneath loving demeanor
Silent roaring voice
Slashing nails dull
Over and over and over…
Dreams fill spaces
Where time leaves off
Ragged nightgown form
In narrow twin bed
Shoved against the wall
Far from window’s intrusion
Restraint staring lidless
To a day’s opportunity
Dogs are pacing…
shut inside all day while I was away.
Rain and wind whooshed sending leaves sailing.
Lucky to come back to power with scattered trees
down heavy with rain and punished by gusts…
time to clean the gutters, pick up broken branches,
pile up the pine cones hurled in hissy fit squalls.
So different from storms back East, at least fading
memories tell me that it was so different.
Dogs quit pacing, brown eyes stare, sighing,
patiently waiting for me before the next shower…
Saturday, September 24, 2011
But it led me astray
Like you lead me astray
Left me to wander
With two kids in tow
Thought directions were clear
Fall in love
Checking my compass
Your iron will faked true north
Magnetic force pulled me
Wrapped in charisma that soured
Lost in abysmal chaos
The Reverend got lost
My parents were afraid to speak up
Google wasn’t around back then
Would that have made a difference?
Lost in “love”
Friday, September 23, 2011
Another run to Portland to see my daughter…
two hours at high speed straight down I-5
brings me to her temporary quarters.
Staying with friends, we'll meet there, greet, wander the city
celebrating my 64th year on this level of existence.
The first visit was celebrating her move from Oakland to Oregon;
the first drive was fraught with heading the wrong way.
Worst driving directions I’ve ever downloaded sent me
away from Portland… intuition or innate sense of direction
took over – this seriously haphazard approach was successful
regretfully laced with some curses.
This second visit, I’m checking several map options…
I may even bring a paper map folded to the correct section.
Looking forward to establishing the proper route
without increasing blood pressure and cursing levels
as I navigate my trusty Subaru straight down I-5 at high speed...
In the short time it took this woman
to get out of her car, perfume chokingly
sweet on the humid air seeped into my car.
Instantaneous reaction causes eyes to water,
throat to seize, nose to run, head to ache.
Why do people bathe in that stuff?
My car will reek for a while until open windows
plus speed clear the trapped fumes.
I can only conclude that she’s damaged her
scent discrimination from years of over spritzing
perfume throughout the day to freshen up…
Two boxes of canning tomatoes,
eight pounds of Italian Prunes,
ten pounds of cucumbers,
dish washer full of jars,
what was she thinking?
She relished a profound taste
of summer during bleak winter.
Store canned tomatoes, plum jam,
bread & butter pickles were no
comparison to home canned versions.
Thankful for her home training
so long ago; hot summer nights,
steamer kettle going, jar lids pinging.
How often she thought of childhood
as she turned crone and passed on
canning lessons to her daughter.
cat and dog tendencies
kept them together and apart.
She could hear grandmother's Irish brogue:
can't live with them; can’t live without them.
Times have changed and yet not at all...
she felt incomplete no matter what her
accomplishments brought her; the curse
of being a woman longing for a partner
to feel correct, to feel whole, to feel...
she hated that aspect of herself.
She hated wanting a man…
what could "he" provide that she
didn't already gain by self-determination.
That stupid true love - what a crock...
she wondered if her grandmother
would approve of her throwing him out...
Looking over her checkbooks,
calculating when the next paycheck
would arrive her eyes stung.
Failure patted her back - good job!
You could only earn less if you were dead...
not going there tossed to the air.
Determination stuck its tongue out at failure.
Huffing in disgust, failure turned its back.
I'm going mental... imagining failure
and determination brattling like preschoolers.
Settling emotions, repeating begin again...
she had to trust the Universe to provide,
stop fighting the current, go with the flow.
All the practical but at times redundant
positive statements to lift one out of muck.
Library shelves of self-help indicated others
were making money from how-to-succeed.
Somewhere her common sense dictated
guidelines - if she would stop to listen.
Passing self-help, she headed to poetry.
Connecting to other's visions helped
her to better understand life as she saw it.
Emotions were held in check...
occasional stinging eyes marked distress.
Most often a smile hung on her face.
A sincere but dubious attempt to keep
a positive outlook, not bring others down,
listening patiently while others woe-ed the air.
Underpaid, under staffed, there was plenty to woe...
it was routine to commiserate spreading a thick
jell of despair from one to another.
They hated her smile;
they thought she mocked them.
She was the odd person out whose glass was mostly
full; the pack turned on her simplistic positivity.
Memos circulated, indiscriminate notes
accrued in her file, they became bolder.
Stunned, amazed at their response to her attitude,
she turned to Criagslist job posts.
Sometimes it was a given to walk away...
life stopped being fun…
too much distortion of ways and means.
poverty was not chic.
although "things" weren't important,
her want list didn't include the latest,
newest, most expensive this or that.
she just wanted to be comfortable,
be able to stop worrying about modest bills.
she disliked extravagance –
standing in the food bank line
it enhanced failure mode of thinking.
she never asked – “why me?”
looking back over choices,
they were what they were...
the good, the bad and the ugly.
Her bedroom smelled stale;
stale old lady scent hung in the air.
Dead skin, flaking from her body
rubbed off on sheets as worn as she was.
Sheets soft with age, sloshed in the washer.
The linens spun dry as she tried to remember
the last time she bathed – waste of water
especially when her gardens needed it.
Puttering in early morning, she avoided the
heat of the day; she avoided her retired
neighbors who were sleeping in.
Contemplating washing her hair, she opted
for conserving natural resources by cramming
a sweat stained baseball cap onto her head…
tucking the wispy straggles under it.
Resembling a rotund Santa, she delivered
excess vegetables on neighbor’s doorsteps
without a jolly Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas…
Desperate lingering emptiness
a seizure of emotions
with nowhere to go.
Dreading looking in the mirror,
she let the dust coat them,
draped the bathroom mirror with a towel…
she wasn’t frozen in time.
She knew she was aging;
she wasn’t that image
in the high school yearbook…
not that she liked that either.
Everyone ages, wrinkles, droops.
Passé on the daily news too, she felt
powerless; her voice declined to a rasp.
Sleep, sleep is a dream, a utopia,
and also miss out on life but she didn’t care….
Dormir, dormir, c'est un rêve, une utopie, et , aussi, passer à côté de la vie
Thursday, September 22, 2011
First day of fall – my birthday…
I made it through another year
but am I any wiser?
Habits are habits…
long ago someone told me,
It would take a miracle to change.
I’d have to agree; for now so much older,
the same shyness and mini fears remain.
When I think I’m improving, old habits prevail.
The good thing is I realize that…
I realize who I am; I’m not hiding anything –
as an eternal optimist, I am who I am…
Music on while painting is great;
a good tune will carry right on through
to the end of the brush but I have no music.
Nothing inspires my brush to move…
not even the purring of my cat who
is draped across the studio table filling
a large warmed spot of window sunlight.
The birds are feeling the turn to fall; their
songs filtered through the window opening
seem hurried as they flit in and out of the
Japanese maple, fir tree and lilac bush.
The fall usually reenergizes me…
spring and summer were so spotty; the gray
drabness clung to the landscape only brightening
to cloudless blue skies a couple weeks. Teaching
art filled my time keeping me exhausted.
Rested now, recovered from hours of their giggles,
I sit without song, without giving my own vision
a physical voice - my idle brush ignores a page…
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
there’s small change.
The kind that jingles in a pocket,
weighs a purse down,
hides under couch cushions,
falls to the car floor…
collected when wallet gets lighter.
Fall Equinox draws nearer with its
shorter days, cooler temps, and a desire
for coffee gets stronger; I’m in love
with this crisp fall air! Makes me want
pumpkin everything but pessimist winter
rains are coming too. Time to dust off the
light box, pick up some Bailey’s Irish Cream
for hot chocolate, stack up books to read
once the yard chores are done…
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
to office chair
to knees in the flower garden
to porch swing
to office chair
parking body’s bottom
on various seats
far too frequently.
Paper check list -
dogs need no
racing across our individual experiences;
finding the common ground over tea cups
realizing how often our individual events
overlapped in content and intent.
Heart to heart
without excess emotion…
stating how we arrived here.
What, when and why plus wisdom of time
encapsulated past incidents into a rough unity.
Time will tell if afternoon’s interesting exchange
will strengthen from this loose bond.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
She didn’t believe in anything anymore;
belief had convoluted her thoughts.
Past memorized words choked freedom;
past incidents cut deep evacuating trust.
A sullied soul drinking soured pain…
staying neutral, she’d take her chances.
Mid road walking, that was her new path
for dancing with life’s absurdity…
neither passion’s euphoria nor desperate
despair would fuel her quiet observation.
She was too old to believe in erroneous love;
lacking warmth was a matter of protection.
Almost midnight, my mind soaked
with caffeine wildly contemplates
the passing of seasons, the sun setting
earlier, another birthday approaching.
Remembering my father being
chastised by my mother when he’d
pronounce in July… it’s almost fall .
He always had so many chores to do…
Now the months pass too quickly…
How’d it get to be September?
Thrown out to the chilly house,
the dogs barely twitch an ear.
The cat sneaks into my bedroom;
leaping onto my side, his purring
in my ear doesn’t help invite sleep
that the coffee has delayed…
snoring dogs… snoring son
fails to inspire the mind to quiet.
Grabbing pen to page for doodle
words scratching night’s white noise.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Sad that when we're young
hugs and holding were the norm.
Least in my family - specifically
in Mom's side of the family –
I was lucky to have all the hugs,
comfort and empathy…
Dad's side was a reluctant to pass
hugs out freely without remorse.
I held or had my two offspring
constantly chest or back packed.
Seems there are two extremes now...
those that "wear" their children,
those that carry them in plastic buckets.
The difference is so pronounced.
Wonder if the non-holders let their babies
scream themselves to sleep...
or is there a middle road to ease
them into dream time without stress.
For all the advances, childhood scars
are still propelled into adulthood...
why did she even bother
so much effort
so much leftover
she sat with her dried imagination
crumbled for convenience.
whining saw spit brilliant refuse;
sawdust particles form
a mark on blankness.
it's a start...
Toxins were laughed loose last night.
Parody of songs with total mimicking
of the original singer/band…
my sides still ache when I inhale.
Today a low energy day as body works
overtime to finish detoxification.
Laughter better than medication...
Lost the first thought this morning...
it had something to do with
remembrance vs. memory.
Both having reality as a base
but one colored more by emotion;
the other enhanced more by fiction.
Memory can discolor and fade;
remembrance engages those
rose colored thick glasses...
fictionalizing for safety;
turbo washed scars
leave pleasant stories...