Heartfelt

September 14

Heartfelt

Boab trees litter my dreams; gossipy like old women in the late afternoon sun, I wonder at the tales they tell though I am far too young to understand. The Australian Kimberly shelters these mysteries in life; they shelter me in the far off wilderness of my mind. Coming to age seems merely a step when in the presence of the ancient beauty of long endured life. Too long drought, too deep rain, are places I can pick my face up from, stand my ground or be on my way. The leaves may fall, but they will return in my dreams and I will return to my life.

Chime in

*

HOME TO HOPE

Shadows of doubt fall across my face on dark days

And I have trouble finding my way home to hope.

Reliance on sunshine fails me come dusk.

Twinkling stars bare their souls to little avail.

I am lost.

Absurdity and obsession plague me for time and attention.

I wander deeper into a dismal wood.

How can I chop my way free?

Dejection dulls my senses; I am blind to solemn assurance.

I must reevaluate the shimmering enthusiasm from the night sky

Skepticism passes like storm clouds.

I may feel the rain for a time.

Necessity reigns on both sides of every street

But still I can crawl into my bed

Morning will come and I will fear less the coming night.

Cadentia

September 13

Cadentia

The randomness of love is matched only by the randomness of loss. What slips into view or out of grasp whispers beyond my control. Like cookies baking in a nearby oven I long for the sweetness to be inside; even if it is simply in an olfactory way. The similarity of the pain of what I have and the pain of what is no longer mine haunts me; scares my security, rattles my hope, affects my sleep. For minutes make a life and moments are all it takes to remove the very same. In the end all that I know is that loss does not remove love and love does not remove loss.

Check your drawers for memories

*

SCREAMING LETHARGY

The screaming lethargy of being alive

after many years of wanting something else.

The exhaustion of pulsing, breathing waves,

waves of thinking.

Yet as tired as I am, I am.

Here without a doubt, I stand.

No crawling, for I have not fallen.

No climbing, for I have reached the plain.

I wait for the rain to wash over me.

The truth to run through me, time to pass by me.

Like a free trip to an unwelcome destination

I arrive with randomly packed bags and low expectations.

I am here now.

The train doesn’t seem to be moving on.

I might as well leave the station.

Nothing to do on the platform.

There may be points of interest

or flowers to be smelled.

I step haltingly and fear making any connection

to this unbidden place.

My name is unknown.

I befriend the lamppost, the birds, the street.

I am tired from travel,

Fearful of arrival.

Fury courses through my veins

but the weather is pleasant.

I might take off my coat and stay.

Hypothetical

September 12

Hypothetical

Is my inability to understand what creates mystery? If I were brighter, swifter, keener, would life be free of unknown communion? Would comprehension eliminate revelation? Would I lose perceptual apprehension by arming myself with knowledge of forethought? Could I end mysticism through education? Should I even if I could?

Sample other people’s assets

*

OPTICAL ILLUSIONS

Like my new frames? I ask my sponsor

Who wrote you prescription?

Oh the lenses aren’t new just the frames, I reply.

You want to be seen differently,

but you want to see things the same old way?

My question still stands---

Who wrote you the script for those funhouse glasses

you have used all your life?

Did it ever occur to you the distortion is ground into the glass?

Remember some people need you to see things for other than what they are.

Unhappy families look great if you can’t see them too clearly.

It’s hard to know what to say to keep the peace--said Grandma.

She never took off her specs to see there was no peace to keep.

So I ask you again --The view of the world you base your choices on

who chose the color you see it through?

Louet

September 11

Louet

Consolidating fuzz into yarn makes me a friend to sheep everywhere. Spinning the filaments of truth into cables of life does not impress the mutton in anyway, but sure does my mental health a world of good. Free floating fiber is bad for my lungs and piles lint all around. Giving things a firm twist pulls together what used to be fluff and keeps me warm and dry.

Jones for candor

*

WORKS

I cry the waterworks so necessary to the healing of my heart.

I explode with the fireworks required

For anger to set living boundaries.

I sleep the sleep of angels, as I link to dream works

Allowing mental maintenance to occur,

Slip into my political face, making time for public works.

I return to my abode, call the pie maker and order “the works”.

Have it delivered so I can face the homework

Waiting for me and bearing my name.

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

September 10

Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon

Tying myself to one rail of a set of railroad tracks gets me the same results as tying myself to the other. Swapping one chemical fix for another is like changing my socks in a rainstorm, nothing dry will come of it. Not seeing potential harm does not eliminate the harm. Like a child with my hands pressed firmly over my eyes I yell, “You can’t see me,” and run headlong into disaster. Whether the train comes and makes a mess or not I make my own soup Ducky and must get on track by staying off the rails.

Go relax on the porch of your imagination

*

WILD

When I run wild through the rain

My hair streaming behind me

Water fleeing my face

I see with my heart

The thousand other rains

Pouring from my past.

How I peel from me the soaking luggage

Covering my naked pain

Nothing drives me to the cozy retreat

Of my bed like the humid chill

Of an early fall drizzle.

I slip my trembling skin between

The comfort and the comforter,

Flex my toes,

Towel my hair, wipe scenes of lost love

From my pale, pale soul.

Leaves rush my gutters, clog my mind.

I see the change in me as I turn heel to heel.

Trees spinning bare in a blank wet world,

I know this ever relived fluid, recycled life.

Barnum, Bailey & Me

September 9

Barnum, Bailey & Me

When I wake to find a whip and a chair by the side of my bed I know I am in for a circus of a day and the tears of this clown will not change a thing. I ready myself for the tightrope walk and watch out for stray elephants. All the trained poodles in the world can’t make this into a day in the park. Painted ponies prance through their paces; I try to stick to my own act, meanwhile remembering that no matter how difficult these routines may be it still beats a seat in the stands.

Raffle off the surplus grit from your nitty gritty

*

MEGAPHONE

The point of surviving

Or maybe the goal after survival

Is enabling the voices of victims to be heard

Starting with my own.

I allow the surging waves of thought and feelings

To rush the gates and exit

I try to bleed the bad

With and without the use of leaches.

So much is stumbled upon rather than sought after,

Some things hound me, I run down the street

With memory at my heels

I must let the screams out or become them.

Today I talk, tomorrow is for others.

When I pour forth I open the way for the rest

I have become the megaphone

Rather than the cheerleader

It is good to be of use.

Helping Hands?

September 8

Helping Hands?

Why would you go to a rattler for a snakebite remedy? It feels so much like the hair of the dog that bit me. The truth is I must, must stay away from the quick answers. I am a slow healer, but I do heal if I allow myself to do so unencumbered by poison or untruth. When I am returning to the vomit of my past it is incumbent upon me to search for the old lies and/or the new ones, either or both will get me drunk; do I even need the help of a prescription pad?

Never cage harbingers

*

SELF-SEEKING IS A DEBIT

Trying to get credit for everything I do

Has run me into debt in my anonymity account

Which draws directly from my humility bank.

I cannot expend my resources seeking acknowledgement

And expect to retain much dignity or class.

How can I build within, while constantly grasping,

For nods and smiles from scenery and landscaping?

I want approval so much that I have lost my center.

In an attempt to top the charts I forgot my song.

My ego writes checks that my soul can’t cover.

I run my potential into the red

Looking to get my name in black and white.

If I keep my name out of lights

I have a chance of building up my dignity.