Friday, December 30, 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
My brain is holidazed out –
wish that were so;
it's a tragic thing…
exhausting either way.
The introvert in me is
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.
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
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
Let’s have a virtual burning bowl ceremony.
Let go of things from 2011
or our lives in general…
clear the less positive habits,
from our lives or our hearts.
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
- 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!
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
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…
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.
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
Lighting the candles
summon the directions…
call the earth,
call the heavens.
Candle flames flicker
in frigid darkness
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
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…
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.
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
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
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
Nothing as complex
as thesaurus reality
cleared the way
of curvaceous clutter
high school English.
preclude online dictionaries
and shorten sentences.
Simple words inhabit
clarity and convenience.
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
Is it wine o'clock yet?
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
Walking the dogs
the whole idea.
what was I thinking;
how to adapt;
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
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."
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
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
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.
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.
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
sticking to good girl
routine of saving rote.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
Un-functioning , no.
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
Everything is fuzzy…
eyes aged quickly;
fade into soft tints and tones.
Ghosts of self-awareness
drift from focus as days advance.
external senses close down
from overload to under-load
trapping memory circuits
wondering where time went…
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
into real time
lace of inspired goals
replete with deadlines.
Goals in writing are dreams with deadlines."
Sunday, December 4, 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
Friday, December 2, 2011
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
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....