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
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
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.
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
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://breathofgreenair.wordpress.com/
http://beeseeker.wordpress.com/
http://wallgrimm.wordpress.com/
http://slpmartin.wordpress.com/
one
alone
solitary
separate
only
one
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.
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
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
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
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?
each
truth
stands on
its own and
grows a foundation
no hidden secrets or doors
that stay locked, no shadows that
lurk and threaten to pull out one piece
from the core of it and bring the whole thing down
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)
“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
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?
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.
we
remember
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
lost
without
sea soul set
think hope peace float
one being love being one
peace feel hope fly
sun soul sky
within
lost
(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.)
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, 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.
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 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.
still searching for home….
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.
Talking to the Clouds 