Let Words be Few

winter sun whitens
without uttering one word
seeded grasses’ tales

Cycle

Swan Jellyfish
Genus geopsychosis
Dwells in watery, cavernous fissures
Tenebrious and abysmally submerged
Among scars of geodynamic dross

Waiting for turbulent tides
To send it gliding through
Mirrored shafts hewn
Years of erosion refract and reflect
It’s venomous attraction so
Exquisitely arrayed

Rippled apparitions silently announce
It’s emergence at the surface to feed
It’s prey - oysters in penumbra
Stunted from lack of light
Beguiled into opening up for a
Sweet bouquet of plankton
Transported from below

Where, after dining sufficiently
It returns to proliferate

Adrift

sent adrift
slapped about
by furious fists of sea
beacon fades
emotions crest
obscure light is out of reach
faith plunges
into dark abyss
abandoning futility

dawn inflicts fog
beacon’s blurred
no tide to wash ashore
anger dissipates
indifference creeps in
efficacy’s left laying
on the ocean floor

Light You Up

photo found on the web

freedom and fame programmed at birth
taught to desire, but not self worth
put down for buckling under the heat
“suck it up, it gets tough on the street”

spark of anger ignites a flame
drawing desire to a mesmerizing game
to stand apart from the common mire
to fit in with the trendy hot fire

forging a world where losers are cool
idols imprisoned for breaking the rules
heroes demanding, lewd, and crude
success is loud arrogance with a ‘tude

heat of the fire brings life to a void
perishable warmth flares up annoyed
how long will it last before feeling the burn
numb propaganda bombards every turn

hey sister, look at your duplicity
equal “party” rights say “humiliate me”
do you really believe you can piss on a wall
light up so you can see how far you can fall


I really loved this poem by Laura Tattoo on Moineau en France.

Recycle

This weeks "Weekword" is "Recycle". Below is a story about my friend, Lynda, that I posted on Silk Creek Portal back in March of '08. When I hear the word "recycle", I think of Lynda, and this is why:

Since one of the themes of this blog this month is Women in Nature, I thought I'd write about my friend, Lynda and her garden. Lynda has been fighting breast cancer for about ten years now. When she first started on this journey, doctors told her that the odds of surviving this long weren't good. She is currently undergoing the last and harshest chemo treatment for her cancer. She was told that she would be on this one for the rest of her life. It's left her very tired and weak, with a low blood count and low kidney function. So, when she told me about her plans for this garden, I was surprised, but happy to hear it. It could be so easy for her to dismiss the idea as being too ambitious right now.

I drove to Beaumont this weekend to help her get it started. The place she plans to grow her vegetables is at her in-laws house. In the back there are 8 or 9 raised beds that have been overgrown with about three years worth of weeds and grass. While we were busy pulling weeds and turning the soil, I asked her, "what does this garden mean to you?" She said, "recycling." I asked her what she meant, and she started to tell me about her father-in-law, Spud. These were once his gardens. He built them about 20 years ago when he retired. He was very passionate about them, especially his strawberries. He worked in his garden when he was well into his eighties. Once, not long before he died, his doctor asked him if he ever suffered from shortness of breath on exertion. Spud said, "define exertion." The doctor said, "when you're going about your normal daily activities." This eighty something year old man told his doctor that sometimes after several trips of carrying 80 pound bags of sand to his garden, he would have to stop and rest for a minute. We should all have that problem when we're eighty. Anyway, Lynda said it made her sad to see these gardens that were once the pride of such an energetic man who was so full of life become so overgrown like this since his passing.

Spud passed away about 2 years ago, so being the nosy friend that I am, I wondered why is it now that Lynda wants to start these gardens back up again. I pried further, "so you're doing this as a memorial to Spud, or does it go deeper than that?" She thought about it, and then said, "this is what kept Spud alive after he retired." I said, "so if you have no work, you die?" She said, "yes." But, it was more than that, because she added, "I can't give up now, I have gardens to tend to."

She also has work to be done at the animal shelter, puppies to rescue, foster, and find homes for. She won volunteer of the year for her work with animals. I think that all of this is more than just work for her. She used the word "recycling". In this context, it makes me think of the cycle of life. This garden is an integral part of that cycle. In spite of the gloomy forecast that the doctors give, she continues to fill her life with life, and give back to life.

Lynda passed away in October of '09, and then my mom the following January. Many of my creative endeavors came to a hault, including gardening and blogging. Slowly though, I'm coming back around. Last October, I wrote this poem for her.



Lynda's Poem

You embellished my life
with the last five years of yours
Adorned it with stories
from your animal rescue adventures
while I cried on your shoulder
after losing mine
Bejeweled it with bead work
made from our treasure hunt bounty
while helping me blow dust off mine
Illuminated it with photographic treks
no one else had the patience to join
Enriched it with gardens
that renewed environmental wonder
and recycled life

Hours spent in unspoken mirth
or in epic laughter
We shared the same muse
Your diagnosis was terminal
yet you filled life
with life and gave it back
Until the last harvest moon

It’s been a year since then
My camera and beads have
once again gathered dust
But, an overgrown flower bed
outside my door whispered
It’s creator died years ago
A thorny rose stem among weeds
Tiny begonias hidden in the grass
told the story of her love
I thought of you and recycled it

In memory of you
I took a new photo
A huge white bloom
that only opens at night
While inside my house
a bird screeched
A rescue you’d fall in love with
Thank you

Simplicity

dormancy pervades
gray coated simplicity
Winter pond’s secret

This is for "Weekword", a weekly blogging challenge that I discovered on Mary's blog. The Haiku was inspired by hers. She went into a wonderfully in depth discussion of how difficult it is to attain simplicity. My photo probably doesn't seem simple, but for me, it represents the simple peacefulness I felt while taking it. That day at the arboretum, it was so quiet that it seemed like even the turtles were hibernating; like earlier that morning they squinted a sleepy eye at the gray clouded sky and said, "Yup, today is a good day to go back to bed." In contrast, below is complexity in winter colors.



Winter’s veneer hue
cloaks complexity within
strives for clarity

You can find many other blog posts on "Simplicity" by clicking on "Weekword" above.

Bridges

arching vines mirror
amber drifts cushion crossing
traversing dank murk

Fall bridges twisted woodland
in ravines of awareness

January Moon

left behind

the news of your passing
leaves them silent
but there’s no one left to preach to
so a stranger gives your eulogy
left behind
forgotten
because of years spent in memory’s effusion

life’s elemental scream
fades to a whispered prayer of confusion
a final exhalation
that no one hears


January Moon

shadowy fingers of night sky
unveil a swollen moon
with memories no longer to be recalled
their mother is gone

sharp angled barren branches
hint at this January moon’s frigidity
whose white hot passion
casts shadows on spray painted concrete
where I live


It seems to me that people are generally drawn to poetry that rhymes, so I rewrote the above poems to make the rhyming one below. Which do you prefer?

January Moon Rhyme

Night’s shadowy fingers unveil
A moon swollen with memories
Clouded recollection is impaled,
On the spires of winter stark trees.

News of your passing lingers,
Silencing those who knew you.
Your eulogy is given by a stranger;
There’s no one left to preach to.

Left behind, moon light raids
Years spent in memory’s effusion,
Your intrinsic scream fades
To a whispered prayer of confusion.

Final exhalation, this January moon
Hints at abysmal frigidity,
White hot quiescence carves a rune
That no one will ever see.

Shadows cast, their tales forgotten,
On dark empty streets of your begotten.

Flying Boats

sinking boat
suddenly takes flight
like the hearts of lovers
when lust is consummated
only to find
when the magic washes over
nothings changed

soaring unrealistically high
propelled by adrenaline
over bridges meant to be
sailed under
crossroads bypassed
in favor of a mid-air stall

last second parachute
cushions the end of a free fall
alighting further down stream
going nowhere
in a sinking boat

parachuting boats
as quixotic as
flying boats
and yet, unable to do
what it was meant to do

Trail

Spent

Coins dropped
into a hand of rotting flesh
Character spent

An old hag strikes a deal
with a luminescent daughter
Pale and delicate
retaining white linen that
repels murky water…
and wispy dark hair that
opposes ivory skin

Preservation paid for
she slips away
Constitution bared and bled
left standing alone in murky water
holding the putrefying jawbone
of an attacking dog

Camaraderie gawks
concludes and criticizes
standing safely on dry
decaying continents
of dragons and voodoo masks

They’re happy I’ll be staying
Preserved for decadent perishing
There’s no turning back
She took the dinghy with her

Beneath

A collage made from pictures I took on a trip to Tennessee last year.

Traveling

I made this collage with photos I took while on a trip to Garner State Park earlier this month.

Antidepressants

eyes coated with a medicated blur
words refuse to focus
shoulders are lighter
but pages still haunt

don’t care about the pain
don’t care about the gift
lazy hands laugh
unmotivated feet dance
-in purposeless directions
-in silent numbness

but sleep reveals that
core chapters have not been numbed

Mom

today
a warm bosom pillow
will cradle tears no more
today whispered poetry
is scattered by the wind
a woman on the night shift
watches another
exhale for the last time
raw eyes sigh tears of relief

she taught me to double tape boxes
-moving to keep up with life-
how to stack dishes
to minimize damage
got to keep moving

“life is moving so much faster now, mom
I think I’m beginning to understand
I miss you
I love you
farewell”

My computer is down

I hope to be posting again soon!

Illustration Friday: Hatch

My scanner isn't working properly :[.

I was trying to write in my journal, but was uninspired, so I drew all over an old entry instead.

Illustration Friday: Entangle

handless people mesh with
wicked minded hands
entangle with wicked thoughts
actuating the hands

ineffectual dexterity
plucking anemone tentacles
from sex books strung
together like beads

feeling foreign philosophies with
acquired unstable tactility
organizes books, but
salvaging anemone is futile


only a week late, but oh well, thought I'd post it anyway.

Metaphor

on I-10, I’m a silver Honda
conservative fuel efficient four cylinder
headers’ asphalt fantasies
obscured by exhaust

windshield cracked
paint fading to grey
factory radio screams lithium rock
speakers can’t keep pace

broken road taunting
with broken limits
concrete barrier keeps me east bound
constructing civility before rage

weaving through traffic unnoticed
hurrying nowhere
sunsets seen only
in the rearview mirror

Plunge

Plunge…

into Forbidden Lake
warm waters massage aching feet
pushing pain out through pores
orgasmic dispelling of anger
defecation floats to waves above
resurrected desires sink
into ripples of light







See more Beach Birds at Silk Creek Portal.

Funeral for a Friend

Funeral for a Friend

They cut away at her
attempting to starve the demon
possessing her bones
They force her to run
using all remaining strength
to a chapel door
An alter candle burns out
the ascending medicated confusion
wafts and dissipates as
the door closes
Where was I?
Puking in the ditch
back on Zion Road

Diligence can’t prevent
the birth of guilt at death
Intercourse - an awkward exchange
of secret emotions in this pew
I don’t belong here
They judge me unfit
Disfellowship me

Gone But Not Forgotten

I took these photos back in February on my last trip to Galveston. I've been meaning to post them for sometime now, but have been very distracted lately.


This was taken at the east end of the island where the bird sanctuary used to be. Somebody named Chris spray painted the words "gone but not forgotten" on the steps. The clean up process after Hurricane Ike is going to take a while, but the birds are making do. There are more photos of birds on my other blog Silk Creek Portal.


This is where my favorite restaurant used to be. I'd park at the east end of the island, and walk about 2 or 3 miles, eat lunch, and then walk back.





I was so happy to see that there were still so many birds here.

Flying Blind

Missing in action, marked
by defective compass -
absent medications
dissolve his directions.

Magnetic arrow points
to twisted perceptions
Blindly navigating,
hurricane confusion,
he's high on delusion,
thinks his conscience intact.

Absence of his conscience
invincibility,
freedom - insanity.
Medications reveal
limit of directions,
compass calibrations,
labored navigation,

altering the compass
consciously


Invincible


Chemical Abandon

Special thanks to Ashok Karra and Sharon Warden for all their help with the poem!

Avatar Projections

Avatar Projections

Is there anybody out there?
Can you feel my cyber quivers -
fidgeting mouse uncertainty?
Hear my mp3 groans -
cracking backspace key?
Smell my electronic friction -
running fetid program RAM fumes?
See my pixelated facial expressions -
stuttering keyboard skittish smirks?
Am I real or virtual?

To be in the present is
to be alone
Winter feet blue
Hard drive hums speechless for days
Candle scents lack of hygiene
Week old pajamas can’t remember a smile
What do you see when you look at me?


This poem was inspired by an article I read the other day in a Psychotherapy Networker magazine called "Screenworld" by Michael Ventura.

Rants and Vents

laying in a bed of piss

cradle of birth
dried up
prolapsed -
once nurtured
topiary progeny
now lays in a
bed of piss

fruited heirs
drop buds of blame
divesting their guilt
“She did this to herself”
angry at her for
being angry at them


Cured

how many times
will you be cured?!
do you really think
I’m that stupid?
how many excuses
repeated time and again?
do you really think
I’ll come running?

you’re so much holier than me
God has chosen you
above all the sick and dying
healed, yet
you can not control the voices

you can not keep a job
you alienate those who care
do you really think
I’d believe you’ve been blessed?!


I Can Choose Not To Listen

“Thank you Jesus, for healing me”
He cries out
Wanting more pain meds
Refuses to take his psychotic meds
Doesn’t care how the hospital bill gets paid

“Just be strong and take care of things”
Clueless fatherly advice
Running thousands of miles away, so
He won’t see the mess he’s left
Thinks he can buy respect

Two generations of
Self righteous rhetoric
Spat out
Condescending benevolence for
Their own benefit

At my expense

Illustration Friday: Contained

The Caretaker

What use are you to us
When you make yourself sick
Wallowing in self pity
Won’t listen to our advice?

Because we’ve spent our money,
You have no excuse
You owe us an explanation
Nothing’s free

You are not living up to our expectations
We have given you what we deemed necessary
You have been judged to be in arrears

Now you need to return to
Your previous role!

BluerPrintReview Issue #19

The new issue of BluePrintReview is out, and my article The Season's Solace is included in it! Here's a note from the editor:

"the new issue of blueprintreview is online!
#19: beyond the silence

silence:
the absence of sound. refusal or failure to speak out. a period of time without speech or noise.

and beyond the silence?

unified fields . and voids. a terrible beauty. and a claustrophobic little boy. flowers. and a meeting with Oba-chan. the shape of grief. and the way it should be. the season's solace. and rain, rain...



yes, this one is a vast issue, both in theme and in size. it also marks a new level: again, there was a new peek of submissions. plus, blueprintreview was listed as one of the 100 favorite online journals by the Women's Poetry Listserv. parallel to that, i received my first hate-mail. (karmic balance, i guess).

here the shortcut beyond the silence: blueprintreview #19

and here the quick guide to the issue:
to start the silence, erase all the sacred texts.
to end it, remember the things you know by heart.

thanks so much for adding your tune to this issue ~
have a beautiful, inspired and magic year 2009 ~
doro"

Hippy Geometry

Hospice Engineering

Step into quadrilaterals
Stand and pivot for transfer
Train track keys of a player piano
Strike chords with apathy
Reverberate on rails of life and death
Geometric notes
Measured begrudgingly
Side by side into the next depot
Dirge of a run-away-train whistle

Step onto meshed polygons jumbled
Indifferent symmetry spirals within
Lounge car player piano
I’ve become an inconvenience
No scheduled destination
Black and white parallelograms
Depress and release
Clack-clack tracks below

Stand and pivot or
Remain confined to this berth
Parallel rails don’t reconcile



Linda Perhacs' Parallelograms
Paul called this "Hippy Geometry". LOL, I love it! Thanks for sending it to me, Paul.

Dream of the Gifted

Dream of the Gifted

long hair thick with power
a genetic gift
voice written with
celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow haughtiness

small stature belies her strength
delicate child climbs
ancestral monument
ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history for
the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
long sharp spear
once grasped, androgynous dancer
appears, amusing and entertaining until
self-indulgent curiosity pierces its human neck
rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

daylight obscured
nature’s balance blackened
dance ends in death
severing lyrics from melody
darkened stage
keeps performing on its own
haunted, materializing
over abundance of food for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written
for her repertoire


I submitted the first draft of this poem to The Critique.
Dallas, an editor, offered many helpful suggestions that you can read if you follow the first link. Below is the first draft. Let me know what you think.

Gifted

youthful hair thick with power
and a voice written
with celestial notes
underscored with chords of callow
haughtiness
her tiny frame climbs
an ancestral monument
an ancient stage carved with her heritage
searching through faces of history
for the source of mystery and power

suspended center stage
a long sharp spear
once grasped, the androgynous dancer
appears… amusing and entertaining
until self-indulgent curiosity
pierces it’s neck
it’s rabbit face distraught
turns ominously toward her
“What have you done, child?”

blackened balance
ends the dance in death
severing lyrics from melody
the darkened stage
keeps performing though,
materializing
an over abundance of food
for her family

a score of negligent indulgence
is written for her
repertoire

Inspiration

I thought I'd post the inspiration for the poem From Vatnajokull to Sargasso. My friend Paul e-mailed me this picture he created, and explained it's inspiration, which is partially quoted below.



"30 years have passed since I was in the Sargasso Sea... named for the seaweed that reminded early Portuguese explorers of Salgazo grapes. I take a sip of wine. It is true that the only company I kept during my churchyard haunting was that of the local wildlife. I can remember leaning against the heavy ancient tombs, listening to the wind tickle the the long thin meadow grass; the birds sweet twittering only there to distract me from their nests.

The hawsers stretch across the deck, over windlass and into the becalmed Sargasso. They drag there until the sea unknots the tangled hemp.

I'm looking at a painting I started some years back - a Photoshop enhanced version appears above. I started a few like this. I was responding to the patterns that I saw in nature.

The bark of trees...

Lichen growing on stone...

Sand ripples left by the receding tide.

As is so often the case with this kind of doodling, I started to see half familiar shapes emerging from the squiggling foam. A creature here and there. The hint of something hidden just below the surface. A place from the past."

He also sent me links to Chris Watson's Vatnajokull and Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon. Thanks Paul, for letting me share this :]