Friday, December 30, 2011

Self-control --- Poetry 2011

Deleting more than I'm typing…

is that even physically possible?

Head implosion; fingers exponentially

accredited with warping contained spaces.

Spaces between slithering synapses

thrust thoughts mocking enthusiasm when

all I really want is some space and time to write.


Thursday, December 29, 2011

Nobody is Watching

My brain is holidazed out –

wish that were so;

it's a tragic thing…

exhausting either way.

The introvert in me is

feeling underwhelmed.

I wasn’t around

too many people this week.

Life was busy, busy, busy

for others but too quiet for me.

Guerilla repurposing – I shall

dance because nobody is watching.


aka circadian clock -- Poetry 2011

Nap gone wrong…


hard time maintaining a normal sleep cycle.

My dreams are so big, they give me jet lag!

Either that or my brain has a wacky

suprachiasmatic nucleus…

hoot hoot said the night owl

time to make some art.


In mammals, the controlling clock component that generates a 24-hour rhythm is the suprachiasmatic nucleus

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

For the New Year -- Poetry 2011

Let’s have a virtual burning bowl ceremony.

Let go of things from 2011

or our lives in general…

clear the less positive habits,

release burdens

from our lives or our hearts.

Who’s in?

I've got marshmallows, chocolate bars and graham crackers

for S’more snacking…

shaking the money at the moon for prosperity will be next

although the bills might get a tad sticky.


Wiki How-To: It is unclear who first created this treat, but the earliest s'more recipe can be found in the Girl Scouts handbook of 1927. The traditional s'more is made with marshmallows, graham crackers and a few pieces of chocolate. S'more stands for "some more", as in "give me some more". So it sounds like "I want s'more!"

S’more –kid’s recipe

  • Marshmallows
  • Graham crackers
  • Flat bars of chocolate

With the help of an adult, toast two marshmallows on a stick over the campfire or grill until they are hot and gooey all the way to the center. Have ready a graham cracker topped with chocolate. Use a spoon to push the marshmallows off the stick. Squish the top cracker on. So good!

2011 Status - Poetry 2011

I had no promises to keep this year.

It was easier than holding a list hostage

knowing it would be relegated to unaccomplished.

Intent disrupted by calamitous nature of being,

I bungled along with odd well established habits.

Seeing that it was rare for anyone to really

discard the ingrained reactions, I have no guilt…


Sunday, December 25, 2011

Malcontent -- Poetry 2011

Not one holiday song stung her ears.

Deftly avoiding any source of spiritual

rhapsody, the days were tuneless.

Free from blaring cheer.

Free from mystic wonder.

Free from religious fortitude.

Blind devotion had burnt a hole

through her heart  severing righteous

rhythms on self-destroyed ear drums…


Past -- Poetry 2011

Rumpled in tangles without sheets, the mattress

was more a shoddy nest than a proper bed.

Rolling around in the heap, blanket lumps flatten…

layers adjust to tuck around this reposing form.

Sleep brought blessed nightmares similar

to Dean Koontz’s fiction; the kind of residual

images that infringe on dawn’s transitive approach.

Wearing a thick mantle, the deep victimization

shrouds bind her scared soul in vivid daily death.


Purpose -- Poetry 2011

Pulling the plug on another Christmas,

the outdoor lights blinked into the dark.

The tree was next… a click sucked the light dry.

Repetitious repetition decimated layers of spirit

till raw detritus bled this last night of holy nights.

Sitting in front of the shadow tree now naked

of cheer, the evergreen scent was extinguished.

The dry darkened tree, purveyor of childhood magic

was unceremoniously hauled out of the house;

Christmas was left on the curb having lost its purpose.


Friday, December 23, 2011

Winter’s Eve -- Poetry 2011

Lighting the candles

summon the directions…

call the earth,

call the heavens.

Candle flames flicker

in frigid darkness

beckoning winter

to this place and time.

Silver chanting breath

matches stars subtle light

drifting across the void.

Soul sealed to those

that came before

chanting on solstice night.


Thursday, December 22, 2011

Quartz Fragments-- Poetry 2011

Hourglass is turning,
spinning clockwise,

spilling particles in ripples

outward from the center.

Circumference ripples form

a quartz crusted boundary;

barely discernible air movement

scatters lightest pieces further.

What are you going to do?

There’s no gathering the spill;

no broom straw will find every

last grain; once the sand is gone

that moment, that memory,

that loosened fragment,

that fine precious breathe

is gone forever…


art door… -- Poetry 2011

A mentor tapped a longing.

Recessed, dormant, locked away…

expression erupted with guidance.

Gleeful exponential production

dominated former down time.

Sketching value increased observation

of light and color making the most

common object a thing of beauty…

transcribed in graphite, elevated to acrylic…

heart and soul sang coming out of isolation.


Weaker Sex

You two are fun and I really enjoy your company

which of course made me realize what I’ve been missing.

I am ending this self-imposed desolate isolation;

a new renewed "hope" wrapped with exciting possibilities

encompassed me while enjoying your company.

Our woman power of hauling in the flooring without

testosterone provided us with an odd bonding especially

when the workman across the street called us characters.

Silly men still believe we are the weaker sex…


Monday, December 19, 2011

Warmth -- Poetry 2011

Any touch, a hand resting lightly on the arm

during conversation manifested nostalgia.

Pausing to think of this elemental departure,

the devastation of losing physical connection

made it even harder to remember loves embrace.

Indifferent to being the committable old-lady-with-cats,

her one fuzzy friend complimented a humble home’s décor.

Found mewing, “My world is cold; my world is hunger”,

the wee companion was no match for human intimacy

till curled up purring, “You are my world and my warmth…”


Sunday, December 18, 2011

Moon restoration -- Poetry 2011

Only part of the month,

only without cloud cover,

only without strength to walk

prevents moonlight outsourcing.

Wandering side streets sans moon

guidance, white light creates strong

shadow map for an easy trail.

Comforting quiet, salient stars,

moon’s restoring beams fill

aging crones softened vision

bringing peace to inner spirit.


Saturday, December 17, 2011

Simple words -- Poetry 2011

Nothing as complex

as thesaurus reality

cleared the way

of curvaceous clutter

unused since

high school English.

Elementary words

preclude online dictionaries

and shorten sentences.

Simple words inhabit

clarity and convenience.


2012 -- Poetry 2011

New Year's Resolutions…

don’t even want to speculate

on thoughts for this new year

coming at warp speed let alone

unconscious habit rehabilitation.

Still trying to establish who I am;

still hiding in comfortable shadows;

still dancing with irrational fears.

Reneging on the proverbial list,

the selection of one word will suffice.

A new ritual – one guiding word…


Thursday, December 15, 2011

5 o’clock Glass -- Poetry 2011

Is it wine o'clock yet?

Close enough,

I won't wait…

it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Well, bottoms up…

then without a doubt

waking up to bleeding eyeballs

cause my glass runneth over..


Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Orion's Progress -- Poetry 2011

Walking the dogs

to rethink

the whole idea.

Starting point,

what was I thinking;


how to adapt;


follow through

without struggle.

A welcome relief

to stifle the critic,

get some fresh air,

stretch the muscles

while scanning the night

sky for Orion’s progress.


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Wise Words -- Poetry 2011

Murmuring silent gratitude…

an ongoing white noise

rides daily undercurrent

dampening other possible conclusions.

Enigma monitors wise contentedness

when considering extraordinary escapes

that keep appreciation agile.


Wise words taken from a fellow facebooker: "If you can’t be content with what you have received, be thankful for what you have escaped."

10 to 9 -- Poetry 2011

Jumped out of a dream

within seconds of scheduled departure.

Dragging REM clouds into clothing,

chewing a banana lost between,

driving the night coating into day,

encompassing corroded time sequences

with an exhausted nocturnal response.


Monday, December 12, 2011

Only Option --- Poetry 2012

Who escapes their childhood?

Maybe in fantasy memory

where the collection of good stuff

outweighs the negative events.

Some kids come wired wrong;

some kids become wired wrong.

Some kids pull it together;

some kids self-destruct…

so subtle a difference from either

starting path or multiple contingencies.

Maybe the only option is to go

through life damaged….


"The only option he [Joshua Komisarjevsky] ever had was to go through life damaged," defense attorney Walter Bansley said in his closing argument.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Risks -- Poetry 2011

What have you given up?

Remember the risks taken,

you didn’t care what you ate…

rode your bike down steep hills

coasting without feet to brakes;

sledding down hills between trees

narrowly missing the stone wall.

Full of life and foolishness…

What have you given up this year?

Walking, reading, motivation…

lives that endured long past anything

a person would call living.

Running from Death by sitting still;

paying the price for being too worried

about dying when you were still alive.


Hardest Kind --- Poetry 2011

Didn’t have a mark on her

nothing that was visible.

Bruises, cuts, broken bones

repair over time, it’s the

invisible blows that sink deep

into cracks between cells…

hardest kind to heal.


Back in the Day -- Poetry 2011

Party monsters –

have an or-a-gee…

What’s he talking about?

Sleepless party nights,

carousing, dance macabre…

Pushing back the I’ve

never done that…

passive wall flower

lurking in life’s shadow

missing misbehavior

sticking to good girl

routine of saving rote.

Crossing line…

guiltily wrong once,

this dismal remembrance

that saved me from ending self

to secret liaisons mystic…

the other woman in love

so naïve, so stupid, so guilty.


Lost Child in You -- Poetry 2011

Where are you lost child?

Is there still time to find you?

Wrap you in golden gauze,

whisper honey coated words,

cherish you again as in childhood.

When summer’s warm glow increased

the sweet scent of mowed grass; day

dream clouds drifted across blue skies…

a time where rain was fun to dance in.

A time when skinned knees and other

bruises were kissed away by mom or dad.

Where are those sunny days?

Here I am trying to catch that child

one last time under winter’s dull skies

imagining past sun warmed days laced

with innumerable hugs and kisses…


At the end of his performance Baby Gramps said he hoped he brought out the lost child in you…

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Baptized in Swamp Water -- Poetry 2011

Cousins trickery…

Catch some frogs,

You’re quicker than us.

Rowing away trust –

Hot summer day walking

through squishy muck and slim.

Their laughter lapped cross

the shallow swamp water

along with taunts if we cried.


Phrase from a Baby Gramps song – baptized in swamp water

Walking -- Poetry 2011

Daylight never stopped night dreams;

softened fog blurring edges,

they skirted the brightest sunlight.

Invisible to others, they were strength.

More important than real events,

a running loop of favorite sequences

kept running continually in place

separate from actual vision or hearing.

Declining invitations, slipping away to

observe the moonrise, waiting for stars

to poke through twilight, the images were

ever stronger… specters imposed over reality.

Doing routine chores within this film, there was

never a thought for sharing this inner world;

speculation of deteriorating mental health

dogged her heels making it more important

to wander through field and wood’s familiar

paths until the day she kept walking…


Friday, December 9, 2011

Steaming Cups -- Poetry 2011

Temporarily over coffee houses

not that I can tell the difference

between a cappuccino or a frappuccino;

it’s not just the clank and hiss

that echoes on hard slick surfaces.

Perhaps it’s the cloistered laptops sitters

taking up all the tables or the feeling that

other people's boringness started to infect me.

Glued to their glowing screens, they barely

break eye contact to sip from steaming cups…


Thursday, December 8, 2011

Searching for pen and paper Poetry 2011

Torrent of worry surging

with nothing to strain it.

No way to sift through the undercurrent

for drifting calm caught in tumultuous moment.

Separating the junk response from pure panic

with determined  intentional breathing

prepares mind for a pronouncement.

You’re all clear, Dr. determined mass was lymph

nodes and there’s no problem with them either.


Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Powerful hold -- Poetry 2011

Un-functioning , no.

Nonfunctioning, better

because “dys” has lost

meaning due to over use.

Here comes another holiday

laced with self-centeredness

where me, my, mine is prevalent

perpetuated by commercials.

Expectations ride assumptions…

glitter and sparkle heaped presents

gloss over sibling’s malcontent storms.

Looking back with fond memories

denies the dysfunction buried deep.


Susan Minot went on to write several other novels, including Evening (1998), and most recently, Rapture (2002). She also wrote a book of poems, Poems 4 A.M. (2002).

She said: "The word dysfunction has, I think, served its purpose and now has lost its meaning. Every family, like every person, is imperfect, after all. The idea that there is a Family somewhere who functions is an odd concept. In my youth I was running from my family to try to find out who I was — their influence distracted me. Now I see what a powerful hold they have, no matter what."

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Circulation -- Poetry 2011

Everything is fuzzy…

eyes aged quickly;

blurred surroundings

fade into soft tints and tones.

Ghosts of self-awareness

drift from focus as days advance.

Dissipation descends,

external senses close down

from overload to under-load

trapping memory circuits

wondering where time went…


Falling between the cracks -- Poetry 2011

Eight weeks and still several

student names allude me…

rowdy ones stand out due to

correcting them over and over;

other’s slowly leave their mark for skill

or lack of skills mixed with talkativeness.

Then there are the nebulous ones;

the ones so quiet they disappear

within their work barely resurfacing

after an hour to slip out the door.

Anonymity is their cover; speaking

so quietly, they are leery souls preferring

to be unnoticed between the cracks…


Monday, December 5, 2011

Writing Dreams -- Poetry 2011

morning wisps

into real time

written dreams.

former threads

now de-gossamer

lace of inspired goals

replete with deadlines.


 Goals in writing are dreams with deadlines."
~Brian Tracy~

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Fortune -- Poetry 2011

There are so many times when

And so it begins

announces itself during a day.

Could be the first sniffle and throat tickle;

perhaps a spontaneous opportunity;

recognition of past commitment

or a dangerous liaison to be avoided.

What fortune follows so it begins…


Saturday, December 3, 2011

Defaults -- Poetry 2011

Resetting word default

Over and over

Not unlike habits

Labeled good or bad

Set as personal defaults.


Friday, December 2, 2011

Dreams with Deadlines… - Poetry 2011

Late again,

can’t find keys;

where’s the purse?

Tossing and turning

till fully awake.

Hey, I don’t work there anymore!

Soothing cup of chamomile tea…

smoothing out the twisted blanket,

memories advance of dad’s “late-to-work”

dreams related over many a breakfast.

Twenty-five years after retirement,

bosses and  fellow workers

performed nightly work scenarios…

haunting his sleep, creeping into

the morning, invading conversation.

Wonder if they cling to his after life…


Thursday, December 1, 2011

mantra of the day -- Poetry 2011

I am not a slave of my mind…

I am not a …. or am I?

So many reactions from rout’s past experience;

preprogramed to respond to similar stimuli.

Those blasted Pavlovian habits rue this organism’s

behavior over and over  - slipping backwards.

Tempted to believe a new updated version of myself

can handle anything – evidence of being lost in repetition;

I am a slave of my mind....