Charmed by Snow

July 31

Charmed by Snow

Warm weather snow falls in fat full flakes; I am living in a world of dreams and sweet peas.  Sudden dustings sparkle and surprise leaving as quickly as they came; yet the world is kinder now.  Beauty is an ambush of the heart.  My breath alters, accelerates, speeding me to a smile, an illustration of joy.  Crows walk the edge of the hedgerow, prattling on as they do; snow to their ankles and food on their minds.  I drive over the mountains discovering myself as the recipient, the receiver of all this great gift, this life.

Trek to the edge of your comfort zone and map it out

*

MORTIFICATION

Lime with envy I built a wall around.

Love and hate are enclosed, brick and stone.

Rigor of extremities, the discipline of ages falls so short.

I make no in-depth connections

I coat externals with glue

Stack reaction and let the bombs fly.

I mix and crush old habits and bad ideas, make a paste.

I am setting myself up again.

Abstinence becomes the pestle of bludgeoning and abasement.

I am hard and I am hollow

Wounded pride, I subjugate my soul

My life is reduced to a powder, I am mortified.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Mythic Adult

June 2

MYTHIC ADULT

My mythic adult is seen by the crowds around me; never is the charade exposed.  Close inspection has been suspended so we can keep each other’s secrets.  Circulating through the crowd, these children are impoverished from carrying this load of pretense.  Dropping this burden is a risk far too great.  Exposure invites attack.  Stand tall; act brave.  Unreasonable expectations are the water that moves the wheel, the power that generates this ongoing play.  Hamlet is dead, yet I reprise the part daily.  Daily I watch my fellows do the same.  I mimic a ghost I never knew in life.  Did it ever live?  Or is it only a mythic adult?

Plant some things for their flower and others for their fruit.

*

Head Wringing

I have my say, though my fear is

that I constantly repeat myself;

very much the way a crow calls the same thing endlessly,

but it all has different meanings to the crow.

I would offer code keys to my readers

if I could lay my hands on one.

My mind whispers that the soothing

people get from my work is like the calm

induced by chanting monks.

Possibly it is more the actor’s trick of reading repetitive lines

each time putting the emphasis on a different word;

a way of squeezing all the juice from nonsense.

I jot ideas swearing these lines are to be found somewhere

in my previous work, perhaps whole pages are redundant.

Finally I stop this fight reminding myself I have but one voice

and what I accuse myself of as similarity might merely be my style.