Wednesday, November 30, 2011
After walking the dogs chilled fingers
spasm words across the keyboard in random
way on the last November evening.
Should learn to properly type saving neck
cricked to watch every key stroke which
doesn’t guarantee correct spelling.
Last of news with flashing images spew
details of horrid incidents, sordid events, trauma,
corruption and deception that trickles into dreams;
can’t recommend the habit of actually listening to
nightly newscast even if their word speak ends
with positive chitter chat and sterling smiles…
wonder how they sleep after disgorging it all?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Rain poured through her afternoon nap;
dripping fluid forms waterlogged visions.
Black and white with gray shades
via Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly…
splashing and smashing puddles skyward,
confident and skillful in body and soul.
In reality - middle age quest to tap resulted
in being relegated to end of the line; vision
impoverished, overlooked, neglected, she quit.
Tap shoes collect dust on her closet shelf still
reluctant to give up tap dancing in the rain.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Christmas begins on Thanksgiving weekend…
black Friday to cyber Monday
lights sparkle into descending darkness
from evergreen trees, house gutters, roofs, yards.
All aglow with colorful lights fighting
against early night,
against neighbor’s dark abodes,
against all odds for a happy holiday.
Twinkle lights temporarily push all darkness away…
Words galloped across the horizon
away from the mouth forming them;
away from smart-aleck consternation;
far from reigning them back to pre-verbosity.
Ignoring stunned silence rippling across space,
this conceited, sardonic, insolent man
continued with self-proclamations.
Pretensions to smartness or cleverness
clogged people’s ears as their mouths
formed my it’s late and we’ll see you soon.
Last to leave, his aftershave slunk after him.
Against an eternal battle with forgetfulness,
this was one guest that was not on the callback…
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Weaving strips of thoughts…
over under over under
exposing incomplete syntax.
Tabby-weave of guilt and longing
created broken semantics
due to loves corrupted meaning.
Significance woven internally without
ever verbalizing the affair to anyone.
Young, foolish, desperate, lonely…
twisted truth sits heavy naively willing
to believe his story of a wife’s neglect.
Wonder if there was another gullible soul
trusting he wouldn’t commit adultery again…
Thursday, November 24, 2011
pushes past cinder block walls;
overhead fluorescent light
pushes on the dull gloom.
storm cloud exterior.
Brushes skip across
blankness while rain pours outside;
watercolors ooze onto surfaces
forming interior rainbow puddles .
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
life as usual
observed from windows.
precise daily moments…
pages filled space,
binders formed piles,
notepads built tippy stacks.
Frail form floundered
under avalanches consumption.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Cold seeps into body…
stiff unable to turn
Locked on left side,
did soul depart?
quiet heart beats;
and muscles twitch...
given another day.
Midnight slid past an hour ago…
eyes glued to internet applications
ignore proper proposal for rest.
Promising to lay off the caffeine,
Corgis tumble into the night reweaving
leashes through frost crusted leaves
breaking fall’s promise for an Indian Summer.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Doodling has definitely reached
obsessive compulsive levels;
being surprised at its simplicity,
until unexpected cat leaping up
skids pencil to a heart racing stop -
irreversible purrs follow murumph.
Bedtime routine switches right brain
doodles to streaming dreams seeped
in feline sensibilities that fill creative pages…
Friday, November 18, 2011
Mouser, a torn up tomcat,
Inspiration: "I grew up in the woods outside of any social structures apart from those of my family. So I didn't absorb social structures through my skin the way many children do. If you grow up in a small town you instinctively know who is who and what is what and whom you can safely be contemptuous of." Margaret Atwood
led the way… this tuxedoed
best buddy slinked unnoticed
through ferns and underbrush.
Some urgent adventure filled
with rescuing, saving the day,
being brave and strong in the woods
and fields of imagination.
More dog than cat, we’d explore
the overgrown farm roads,
abandoned wells, stone foundations,
lattice work of former pastures connected
by granite lines disappearing into maple thickets.
Safe within the confines of family gatherings,
nothing unknown threatened disclosure,
tangled blood reliance slowed integration with others.
No need to develop external friendships
when cousins dotted the immediate landscape;
school friends were scattered miles apart
with only feet for transportation.
Genetic isolation disbanded as we finished
high school; cat acumen guided my expertise
slinking unnoticed through social obligations…
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Smashed flat by the flu
couched, bundled, layered:
jammies, wool hat, heavy socks.
Stuffed sinuses, Kleenex littered floor,
cracked voice asks for water;
ten year old son returns glass in hand…
Mom you just went wicked pale.
Hesitating – I saw you as young man.
After the accident, I always wondered
about parallel lives; somewhere my son was
whole without residual trauma damage
just like the morphed smiling adult vision
bringing me a full glass of water.
"All writers, I suspect — and probably all people —have parallel lives, what they would have been if they hadn't turned into what they are," she told The Paris Review in 1990. "I have several of these, and one is certainly a life as a painter. When I was 10, I thought I would be one; by the time I was 12, I had changed that to dress designer and then reality took over and I confined myself to doodles in the margins of my textbooks." Margaret Atwood
Basted until ill at ease, sensitive types
tumble through inhospitable surroundings…
feel forced to lurk in imaginative pursuits.
Outnumbered they house themselves
in creativity: writing, creating art, playing music.
Looking for happier elsewhere, odd jigsaw dreams,
visions, words fit onto substrate that others
admire, purchase, read to catch a glimpse
of an alternate world where they don’t fit in…
Author Andrea Barrett said: "I've never known a writer who didn't feel ill at ease in the world. ... We all feel unhoused in some sense. That's part of why we write. We feel we don't fit in, that this world is not our world, that though we may move in it, we're not of it. ... You don't need to write a novel if you feel at home in the world."
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Funny how casual conversation
strives to stay safe;
most begin and end
without disclosing incidents
of deep discomfort.
Middle ground waltz
say, what about that weather…
Dark cloud people drag barometric
pressure down; storm front pushes
drizzling cold words ahead of them.
An odd internal desire draws any sign
of happiness into a negative shredder
leaving a dismal trail in their wake…
glad that weather changed…
“When I’m with old people,
I inadvertently start talking about the weather.”
Said one of the teenagers in my ORLA acrylic class this morning.
fill in boundaries
with alternate color…
anything but gray.
there’s a glitter option…
glitter like bacon
goes with everything.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Deluded or in denial…
but I’m a rational being!
I think things through;
check this pro versus con list,
it’s very detailed…
even anal retentive.
Looking at my world,
the reality is, I’m logically insane…
According to David McRaney, "You may think that you're a rational, logical being who sees the world as it really is. But you're as deluded as the rest of us, and that’s OK, because it keeps you sane."
Sunday, November 13, 2011
So exhausted - mysterious, vague cause…
no - just cranky sarcasm…
sounds like a party next door except
for the children screaming, laughing and crying.
Did I mention listening to their loud TV or video game noise?
Old windows and only ten feet separate these houses;
even the earth is carrying their exceptional vibrations.
Hot summer night and no respite to be found.
Perhaps despite the late hour, I should inform them
about the paper thin veil between our dwellings ; that my
bedroom is across from their congregating kitchen
but I'm just too tired sweltering this night.
A friend suggested a solution for thin walls, open windows,
or houses built on top of each other creating domestic domicile
infringement: develop a healthy and loud sex life.
Then they might hear me: running, screaming, laughing,
crying, throwing things in so many exciting ways.
A friend on Face Book was complaining about new neighbors
In her apartment building which brought up memories
of some of the wild neighbors who have rented the house
next door since we moved in to our house 12 years ago.
Sensitive soul gets heavy at times
with or without mentors and muses.
Moon was so bright last night creeping
across midnight creativity –brush to paper.
Storm winds sang through clear skies
hassling leaves trying to hold fast to the present.
Earlier rain plastered the fallen onto glistening
asphalt… golden clusters locked to pavement
under overlapping branch shadows dancing.
A reality halfway between now and past present;
seasons pass with or without dead of night observations.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Assumptions dwelt on…
rumination attempts to leave
them for dead every single dawn
before rising torture invades
mind’s nooks and crannies.
Holding chaos in unclasped palm,
an offering to indulgent choices
that seemed serendipitous then…
Friday, November 11, 2011
Your body heat
seeps into my tired frame;
moist breath tickles my neck.
Reaching for you,
I turn to embrace emptiness.
This phantom companion vanished
leaving the night much colder…
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Don’t have to look too far.
I’ve turned into something old…
not in spirit but certainly in chronological age.
Passing by reflections, I ignore mirrors dialogue,
marvel at windows multiplicity or puddle ripple’s
finite possibilities of crepe paper skin; very arty
especially with Albert Einstein hair replete with whiskers.
I’m just an aging science experiment wobbling about…
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
who is my muse?
Where are the mentors?
Right now invisible
whispers can’t penetrate
a thousand bells jingling.
White noise ringing blocks
sound but directs to visual –
flipping through magazines,
turning book pages,
trolling the web,
for what’s within.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Counterintuitive guessing the outcome
based on questionable perceptions.
Spent the evening rearranging furniture,
placing knick-knacks, achieving harmony…
how on earth am I up right now?
Critic smirks waggling tongue, hahahahaha.
This isn’t good, still up, going to be exhausted
tomorrow becomes a taunting chant…
Critic smirks waggling tongue, hahahahaha.
How on earth am I can I remove the self-criticism?
Since it’s always there, I’d be lost without its input…
Monday, November 7, 2011
I know I left an extra hour
around here somewhere.
I guess I'm lucky that it’s found;
definitely luckier than most
because I got one last week too
and everyone asked …
is it something you need
or something you really want?
Checking out from their inferno,
I never even felt a twinge of
"you'll feel terrible tomorrow" .
Guess there's a difference between
feeling empathy vs. too much sympathy.
Heck, I’m long overdue to feel anything
at all about anything or anyone…
Shuffling behind trotting dogs…
their noses picked up tantalizing scents.
Worry dogged heel to toe trudge…
nothing intriguing filled my nostrils
except the frigid midnight air tang.
Eyes flitted over crumpled leaves, moss
tinged asphalt and Corgi feet rhythms;
no answers came despite dancing dog feet.
Looking skyward – not for plaintive pleading
but because of moonlight bleached patterns.
Lunar iridescent awe froze me in place.
A double aura ringed the waxing moon; impatient
dogs pulled me forward leaving behind this particular
periodic perturbation… insignificant insufficiencies.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
He told fibs:
said things could crawl out of the toilet.
I was afraid go…
He told me:
Santa wasn’t real – I cried…
I still see the smirk on his face.
He lied to me:
so many lies…
they crawled into adulthood.
He tricked me:
he’d run off laughing leaving me in the woods…
I stopped following him.
He tortured me:
flashlight beamed into sleep drenched eyes…
I woke screaming.
He stole my money:
sniffing out the scent…
I’d find my savings box empty.
I loved him for a while:
kept believing in inherent good
tucked somewhere in his form.
He still creeps in:
penetrating my dreams…
brother, leave me alone.
Stepping into moon aura,
chill night addresses breath…
Natural release, silver mist
indicates labor’s passage.
Leaves glisten with dew
soon to be frost’s undulation.
Ancient reflection severs it’s
brief ties with thin clouds;
the holy glow dissipates
to a common denomination.
Not sure if I’m really living my dream;
please define that for me… fulfillment?
I work and work and work some more;
finding bits of passion to embed in worded vision.
Captured from some irrelevant prognostication
based upon thinking one can actually make sense of it all.
Spilt onto a page from brush, pencil or ink pen…
the results are carried from venue to venue and back again.
In final desperation to lighten the load, the artwork
leaves by way of donation to every fundraising event
request without filling my wallet with remuneration…
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A simple complication…
an unknown probability and that’s that.
Undetermined evacuation of sense
fails all of a sudden and you’re looking
backwards hindered by déjà vu again.
thinking certain moments are right now;
wishing this complicated stuff goes away…
Friday, November 4, 2011
Tears well up over new clips:
a child holocaust survivor’s story;
a mother’s angst over gang related death;
a relationship partner taking the partner’s life…
children abandoned, neglected, abused.
No tears are left for personal situations;
all that’s left is empathy for another’s woes…
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Here are the rules…
there are no rules.
ridiculous yin yang.
strive to break them
or worry to follow.
there are no rules.
ridiculous yin yang.
When given constraints,some
strive to break them
or worry to follow.
Softness and strength…to break or not.
Contemplating a crumpled
preference, spinster hands
held a list written long ago.
Buried in a desk drawer,
decade after decade passed
turning both yellow with age.
Dried and withered by time,
an old maid’s impossible list
labeled my ideal man…