Like A Joke

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You make a joke

You throw a joke

I am the joke

Can’t I take a joke

They laugh, they look

You smile, I within

I am the joke

What’s wrong, but

They know, I just

Can’t take a joke

I am the joke

It is me

And they laugh

At your jokes

They laugh at me

You grow like

A giant fed by

Their laughter, and

I shrink – tiny, tiny

Me, and that makes

An even better joke

So you say that, too

The laughs swallow

Me up, tiny me

disappears

Like

a

joke

and we knew (a love poem)

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the water held green, and it loved

pink so deeply that the sun rose each day

just to watch how green surrounded her true,

protected every petal and blush, and she

cherished him and stretched her bloom,

and the water was their canvas, so nothing

would change, and the reflection made

all that grew timeless, and we knew

let him pick no more

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don’t blossom here, flower,

close up, go back inside. don’t reach,

for your sun, don’t open your petals

wide.  don’t smile, or believe, or

speak your fuschia dreams.

he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,

grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,

until a lovelier one blooms, and he will

drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.

you’ll be lying on the ground, with no

way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,

dear flower, let him pick no more.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Joy and a Poem: Joy

Weekly Photo Challenge: Joy and a Poem: Joy

down, down the snowy hill
frozen giggles and mittens grabbing joy
grab it, winter girls, ride it
on sled tracks and carefree clouds
to all of your nows, laugh and again
feel the white delight of unbroken mornings
become the sky, it’s yours
enjoy the ride

A Sincere Apology and Genuine Appreciation

I want all of you who stop by my blog, regularly or just one time, to know how much I appreciate your sharing with me. Those who come by here regularly know that this is more than mere writing practice and sharing photos for me. I keep this blog as a way to let out and to share the storms and the sunny days, the struggles and the triumphs of my personal journey. I am indebted to all of you for taking the time to share in the journey, and those of you who have reached out to me in kindness and care, please know how much that has meant, and means to me. I don’t say it enough, but I always, always recognize it. Thank you.

I have been getting behind on responding to comments, and I am sorry. This is been a busy (and difficult) time for me, and I am doing my best to keep my head above water. I promise to get caught up as soon as I am able.

Along that same line, some very generous bloggers have nominated me for quite a few awards, and I feel just terrible that I have not been more prompt and thorough in my response. First of all, THANK YOU. It means a great deal to me to be nominated for any award, any time. I still can’t believe anyone is interested in reading what I have to write and looking at my photos! Please know that I do genuinely appreciate every one of the nominations.

Some of the awards I have been nominated for (some of which I have received nominations for before, if they sound familiar) are the Leibster Award. the Very Inspiring Blogger Award (thank you!), the Super Sweet Blogger Award (:D), and the Blog of the Year (Wow! Thank you!!!). All of these have special requirements which I am sorry to say I just do not have time to do right now with so much piled up waiting for me to take care of. But I did want to say a huge thank you and express my appreciation.

These awards always ask for the nominee to name or nominate other blogs, so I will take this end of year opportunity to recommend some blogs and to say thank you to these special bloggers who have been not only readers but friends to me in this WordPress Universe.

http://m5son.wordpress.com/

http://breathofgreenair.wordpress.com/

http://beeseeker.wordpress.com/

http://wallgrimm.wordpress.com/

http://slpmartin.wordpress.com/

http://rhubblog.com/

http://jdubqca.com/

supposerosedoes.wordpress.com

shardsofdubois.wordpress.com

 

 

We Talk

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We talk about the way you build wooden boats with your hands,
and the way the sun shines off the water when we canoe across the lake.
And we talk about the snow in the winter and the way the snowflakes fall in the quiet.
We talk about the way that you rode an elephant in Thailand along the side of a cliff,
and the elephant put one foot in front of the other so he kept on the trail,
and the way I went dogsledding in Alaska, felt the dogs pull and heard the trees whisper blue.
We talk about the summers of sun, sand and waves, and how we grew with salt water in our veins. And we talk of our smiles and our failures and the lessons we learned, tomorrow’s plans
and time that we hold in the palm of our hands. We talk until the coffee grows cold and the night grows wings, until the words have words no more, but our eyes keep talking.
We don’t talk about your aneurysm that might kill you tonight, or tomorrow, and we don’t talk about my brain tumor that’s growing as we speak.
We don’t talk about it.

Why

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Don’t tell me your story;
it’s written in shadows
gripping your face, and
the way you twist the trash
bag of everything you
own around your wrist.
15-years-old, but I see
just a boy, shivering in
short sleeves. They took
your sweatshirt away
when you tried to hang yourself
with it, before you flung
yourself out a second story
window. he’s okay, they said,
but he’s not okay. I see his face.
I know broken, and he looks
down at the floor. I have
the file that says no one
wants to claim him, they’ve
all given up. He’s the state’s
child now, and the state can’t
hold your hand. The file knows
secrets he tries to keep, about
abuse and neglect that led him here.
He glances up, and I catch his eye –
yes, I see you. I smile, a little, you’re
safe for tonight. I sit down and he breathes
this day he needs to leave behind.
I know…but there is paperwork to be
done. We need history, diagnosis, all
the information required. This boy,
my patient, is tired in so many ways.
It’s past midnight before he’s processed
and admitted. He’s so weary, sleep is
welcome. But as I walk away, I wonder
if he thought – no one asked me why.

tell me again

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tell me again

what’s wrong with me.

I’ll pull up a chair,

like a child listening

to a bedtime story,

while you list all the ways

I will never be enough,

remind me why I am alone,

sing me my failures,

question my abilities,

paint my inferiority,

hum my inadequacy,

strum the notes of my wrongs,

then ask me

why

I don’t

believe

in

myself

anymore

(someone with a brain tumor doesn’t look like that)

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sounds improbable

perhaps made up

even the radiologist

laughed (before):

“everybody thinks

they see a

brain

tumor

on their MRI”

maybe just

for sympathy

or attention, what better

way to make

people feel sorry

for you? really,

who talks about

it? If it was true,

you’d just be silent,

depressed, dying,

figuring out why you,

why YOU? so we’ll

silently nod our heads

in doubtful sympathy,

noting your normal

face, and we’ll keep

our doubts quiet

while

you

are

still

here 

Questions

How did she taste, when I was writing poems for you?

Was her bed warm, did you sing to her, too, while I waited

in silence for you?  Did you look behind or ahead or only

in her eyes?  Was the press of her flesh all you needed

to feel alive?  Were my words tossed aside like last weeks

trash, while you cherished her body, and I walked alone

outside? Did you wonder what it meant as you sighed in

release, the waves of torment you set on the seas?  Or do

you owe nothing to no one and your body is free?  Do you

realize that your body will never claim me?

BORN IN THE USA (we both say)

classified categorized signified

Who am I?

This is where I was born.

You think you know?

We are all….

We are all….

Every one of us, the same

must be geography

blame culture

this, a place no one wants to claim

because every one of us is the same

Right?

Does one voice speak for us all?

cultural assumptions

invisible me, an anomaly

No.

You think you know.

assume

They are that way.

simplify

Yet you with your own national pride

expect respect, are not denied

But those people, the U.S.,

they are THAT way.

Some things never change

(we both say)

Ending Up Alone

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“I will end up alone he says,” and in the silent pause,

so many doors close. She collects the know before the feel,

cancels the gray-haired couple, arm-in-arm,

rocking late days on the porch of music. Promises

to stay, believe, carry him to night, those are blown away,

stripped like maples’ autumn color, disappear like summer

days. Perhaps he chose alone to spare her in some way.

Though the layer of fallen leaves and torn up plans weighs

deeply through her bones, she carries pieces of him with her.

He will never be alone.

where is he now? (for Anthony)

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where is he now
the gardener of souls?
his “good morning” silent,
cardinals wonder why
sun, looking for a reason
summer holding on,
flowers broken without his songs
the gardener of souls
where is he now?

 

honesty

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secrets like a tree torn of leaves,

each one a truth untold, even

the desperate grip of branches

could not stop the fall. sun stares,

demands honesty, reveals deceit

in her glare. his wooden arms

are no match for her golden gaze,

so all of it falls, half-truths and lies,

and he becomes bare, only bony

fingers of regret, reaching out,

as if she would forgive. she covers

her eyes in clouds and turns away.

how we planned

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built on

ideas

of tomorrows

when

all the yesterdays

are blind

we plan

draw visions

of hope

in pencil, on

flimsy paper

that afternoons fade

and rains run

crumple

ripped dreams

days end

faded know

things don’t

always

work out

how

we

planned 

after all

(today I decided to walk out deep into the woods until I came up with answers to the questions I have been pondering. after walking more than 7 miles in the heat, I found myself lying face down in a grove of trees, with no recollection of what had happened. i took this photo then. i was injured, dizzy, and in no shape to walk the remaining 5 miles back to my car, but i realized that, not only did i have no phone reception, but i had no one to call to come help me. somehow i made it out.  i was in the woods for almost 5 hours.  after i got home, i found this poem on my phone. i wrote it today, but i have no recollection at all of writing it. i think that says a lot.)

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eight miles out i fall

black out, wake up

stones edge tree lean

ask. no reception here

no one to call. leaks

from knees, red, and eyes,

clear drops of alone

air crush with know. no

breath. out of focus all.

lost. alone. maybe here

home after all. 

When Mother Gets Angry

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When Mother gets angry, the children are not safe,

clinging to walls that collapse around them, crushing

childhood beneath her wrath.  She roars at us, and throws

our things about, for they mean nothing to Mother

when she is mad.  She’ll unleash torrents, and we will try

to hide, but Mother knows all the hiding places.

She will knock them down or flood them with her rage, until

we are gasping for air, begging Mother to forgive us.

And when she calms again, Mother is nearly silent.

She never apologizes, only watches us through cloudy eyes

as we try to pick up broken pieces of Mother’s fury.

We hold the children and shake, and try to explain, but

we can’t.  Haunted by the cruelty Mother has unleashed

on some, we whisper and hope, and glance up warily.

Do not make Mother angry.

 

 

Lessons

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On the Sun’s day, she called for a walk,

so I obliged, and listened to the birds of Spring.

They sang to each other, but left me out of their songs.

My steps were slow, while walking, to know.

And back in the woods, so far that I was alone,

they began to come, each at a different place

on my path:  those that I fear most –

the snakes.  They wound right to me, looked through

my eyes, never stopping – though I could not

move.  They each wore different clothes, but none

feared me;  they approached.  Stopped.

Spoke their silence.  Froze me in the leafy moment.

Seven times, seven snakes, seven silences,

each of them with something to say.

 

 

the path

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the path leads
whispers unknowing,
draws you, pines,
tomorrows to follow.
walk it with tender feet,
mild heart, searching
blind corners.
the path speaks
silent tones of hanging moss,
fallen logs, pine cones,
hear with your eyes,
color the symphony,
of so many days
walking ups and downs.
the path follows,
shadows of feel,
learned and passed,
crunch of golden pine
needles, fallen back down,
looked sweetly upon
by the sun, and the long
path, and always, you.

 

house of cards

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standing on the beach

as the tsunami of your resentments

overtakes me, leaves me gasping for breath,

but all I breathe in are words that seethe.

i remember, once, you called me a house of cards,

the cruelest thing you ever said

before

but now i am that, as you slam each card

with bitter brown water, swirling it,

pulling it down with years of angry.

there’s no house any more,

just a bunch of lost cards

you are trying to drown.