In Peril

When the rich man's dime

is worth more than the poor man's heart,

the world dangles

upside-down. 

Automatos (Gk)

The worst thing about a bad attitude is that no one other than the owner can readjust it, because it's all locked up in itself.

And yet the owner often looks to the world for a free tune-up.

Alteration

Sometimes there is a catch in reality,

a snag,

which interrupts the rhythm of stitches

and changes the visual

pattern.

The novice seamstress might fail to note

the error,

believing that her initial perception of pattern

was faulty.

The master tailor,

however,

deftly checks and recounts

the stitches.

In His Care

It was just a tiny little germ in my heart,

long overlooked, almost nothing --

yet the Good Lord chose today

to cure it,
transforming that which I'd mistaken
for a tightly locked door

into the wide-open arms of a
new friend.

Without warning,

an entire garden of hope sprouted

where the speck of germ had been,

watered, surprisingly,

by my own tears 

of the most unexpected

joy.

A Free Spirit

As understanding begins to dawn,

hurts fall away.

In their place is a heart swept clean

of bitter debris,

a mind cleared of clutter,

an open spirit

willing to listen.

As someone has done for me,

so can I do for another,

and I am that much

freer.

Many Little Heartbeats

To go blind yet continue talking sanely on the outside,

unable to hear one's own conversation

while, petrified, falling into a black void within,

taunted and nearly annihilated in the depths

as one separated level of consciousness

rises abruptly over another --

this is both a disaster and a

miracle . . .

sad evidence not of intrinsic pathology,

but rather of a

well-fortified shelter 

constructed, by the grace of God,

in many little heartbeats of a child's 

terror.

That Immovable Something

When confronted with

our emotional selves,

there is much that we can do.

We can laugh,

rejoice,

dance,

flee,

stomp,

weep,

dig in our heels and refuse --

so many options left to our whimsical decision!

Who can choose?

But somewhere beneath all

the hubbub,

below the shaky fault lines,

lies a peculiarly still, quiet

something

that will not flit or flutter

for anything or anybody.

Cacophony moves it not,

and we find

(to our increased distress or 

amazed consolation)

that when the drama of

reacting and emoting abates,

not much will have changed.

This peculiarly still and steady something

will have only

expanded its base,

widening slightly to encompass

our latest foibles and failures,

anchoring us yet more securely

in the fullness

of that which really is.

Pieces of Past

Like a hailstorm

they rain down,

sprinkling the scene:

Torn-off corners and

assorted snatches

of old photographs,

infinitesimal fragments

of glossy snapshots

poised from this angle

and that,

a jumbled jigsaw

of scattered colors,

dim outlines,

and missing sections . . .

all awaiting the Hand that will

retrieve the lost segments,
retouch the fading hues,

and reassemble history
fractioned.

Mind in Flux

Tilt the model to the right,

and the interior landscape changes,

perspective beginning 

from a different angle,

light beams and shadows falling upon

different walls

at different levels,

a uniquely new view granted

by each tilt of the whole,

reality holding steady throughout,

while a single room

is scrutinized variably

through unlimited positioning.

Inner Peace

To burn brightly, evenly

with the clarity of the purest

candle.

Faith

There was a feeling

of breathtaking Mom,

white and pink,

radiant sun,

gleaming gold rays,

shining green leaves,

"whoosh" down the slide,

hot pavement,

jelly beach sandals,

sweet cocoa butter lotion,

wide, laughing smiles,

friends just an elbow away,

and the cherishing

kind of love

where a hug could leap out of the arms

naturally,

before the old days

were banished.

I have pursued that

hopeful, glowing spirit

in city streets and cathedrals,

from here even to

Paris.

Wherever that spirit is,

I must be.

I will find it

once again.

Riptide

That girl arguing with her boyfriend

(you see her over there?) . . .

She got drunk

for rage,

for competition,

for jealousy,

for envy,

for daring,

and for oceans and oceans of

pain.

Wanted a voice

so bad,

wanted to tell them about home

(they were just so deaf to pain),

she never knew exactly where

or how

she'd land,

because the point was

the voice,

her voice --

talked down,

shouted down,

insulted down,

frightened down,

shamed down,

shut down

too many ways

in too many places

for far too long.

Bizarre drinking

gave her a voice

(she thought).

Swimming in Kamikazes

gave the pain

a texture,

a shape,

a reality --

until headlights shone into the

drunk-driven car

at a deadly intersection,

and she could do nothing,

not even speak,

because she could barely breathe

for the ocean of Kamikazes

rising within her,

slowing her heart,

knocking her out again and again

in the back seat,

leaving her paralyzed,

helpless

even to ask

for help to breathe.

Deflector

A false spirit smothers

and covers with lies

each gasp of truth

that will expose its disguise,

rushing to conceal 

its muddy tracks

with roses (whose thorns can be

sharper than tacks).

Thus barbed is the path

of the crooked truth-bender 
and all who defer
to this practiced pretender.

In Real Time

Perhaps an earthquake tremor, soundless,

felt on the upper floor,

10 to 20 seconds of

desk vibrating under my arm,

screen shaking,

surreal to feel myself bouncing ever so slightly

up and down in my chair,

vibration under my feet.

Was everything else shaking, too?

Too late to tell --

I looked around . . .

it ceased.

~ Turquoise

1:55 p.m. today, August 23rd, 2011

Misplaced

Sad tremors inside,
time flying by me,
me flying by time,
grim feeling overhead,
something ominous,

something outside of the day
pulling me away
from clocks,
from time,
from myself.
I see myself now,
sitting there in the library then,
frantically typing,
dislocated;
how strange time felt.
After 10 minutes (clock sprinting)
the computer asked
if I wanted more time,
and I seized the time --
"Yes! More time!"
because, you see, there's never enough,
never enough time,
before things change abruptly
and slip away
as though they had never been,
and the world around me shifts --
which would be bad enough all by itself --
but then, I also shift.

Which way are we pointing now?
Is grief this bad?
Is this grief?

Lessons

It should be no surprise
to myself
to find that I have changed,
that adversity has restrained
my openness,
trust and respect
much higher priorities
not so easily
assumed.
And so it goes,
a little scar tissue
hardening,
a necessary evil,
a buffer
covering over
yesterday's mistakes,
making me stronger,
more resilient,
more alert
for tomorrow.

Teacher to Student

And so you have a poem.

But it is not the poem you wish to write.

Yes, it is an "acceptable" poem.

But you --

you are not "acceptable."

Nor should your poem be.

No, your poem should shock and scandalize

with truth,

chortling loudly over shallow propriety,

raising hairs on complacent heads,

shattering illusions,

uprooting delusions,

and electrifying through connections

musically charged,

configured only

by your unique and unrepeatable

mind.

So close down the poem --

close it down until you're ready

to fling wide the doors of petty convention

and look words in the eye,

choosing only those that

sizzle like shooting stars

and burst like flares,

showering the world

with your own personal fire.

Hollow Bones

Walking perpendicular today,

folded over,

unhinged again by gluten,

shredded within.

Tired, insanely tired,
sinking-weak in the bones
as though they were

hollow.

When will acceptance take root?

When they remedy the

toxic fraction

of the gluten molecule,

when they make a pill

to bypass it --

or before?

The rise and fall of breathing

aches, pulls,
smarts through the middle,
neck blotchy, itchy red . . .

and you would think by now
I would have learned,

would have bothered to believe

(despite the denial of doubters)

that some lives really require 

abstinence

from gluten.

Click here for excellent GF Site by Shauna James Ahern

Shy Struggles

"Say 'hello!'"

Can't do it.

I'll look the other way.

"Knock on the door!"

Suddenly tired.

I'll come back another day.

"Use the phone!"

Please, no.

Somebody might answer.

(This fear is becoming

a spiritual cancer.)

"Smile and nod!"

I can't.

My head will get stuck

in some awkward position

with my kind of luck.

"Do nothing and wait."

Ah, thank you!

I will.

(And here I sit,

petrified, waiting

still.)

My Child

My child

of many Epiphanies past,

this would have been

your ninth season of life.

The tears wash over me today,

as I sit quietly at my window seat

by the trees.

I will water your tree,

little one,

with these tears.

Roots, Shaken

It cannot be.

Small revelation, but bitter --

another brick removed

from the old foundation,

something terribly wrong with the cement,

too much sand in the mix,
floor buckling,

sweet memories now endangered jewels
in crumbling settings.
What secret ravages this structure?

Heart a balloon deflated on the ground,

wind knocked out of my soul,

I ask,

Does love inevitably crumble, too?

The Doomed Fate of Envy

Worse than rat poison

is the demon Envy,

corroding all that she touches

and all that she receives,

pounding a continual pulse

of grandiose dissatisfaction,

bitterness exquisite

(celebrated for its profound intensity

and self-bestowed entitlement)

as she, Envy, promenades in the garb of glorified self-pity,

turning her miserable self 'round and 'round,

gnarled fingers pointing and coarse voice screeching,

"Give that to me!  That should be mine!"

shoving love rudely to the sidelines

in her compulsion to receive, receive, receive

all that is her "due"  . . .

none of which could ever make

such a cold-blooded vixen

happy.

The Private Stage

The worst lies are not

the ones other people tell us,

but rather the fictions that we, ourselves,
embellish and cling to,

frantically constructing paper masks
and cardboard scenery

to avoid curtains closing on our dramas,

our self-crafted works

of both catastrophic and laughable

proportions --

because, in reality, there is

no proportion at all

to a lie.

At Ease

A friend --

all the better if not

perfect,

but rather a little scuffed,

worn, and frayed around the edges,

never too good for failure,

no stranger to mistakes.

Being human goes better

that way.

The Moment

And they didn't hear you, anyway.

Your choicest words shouted,

pleaded,

but they never picked up the thread,

never looked back.

So the words sit inside you,

needing to spill, spill

perhaps to ears more open,

more caring,

perhaps less.

Perhaps, in the end,

the tsunami force of waiting words

takes over,

regardless of who's listening

and who's not.

Perhaps, when you are so broken

that the vessel of self cracks open,

words flying pell-mell onto the page

at breakneck speed,

dictated with urgency

from the depths,

perhaps then -- and perhaps only then --

you have become a 

writer.

Reverberations

Borne back in time
by familiar sky and slant of sun,

anxiety streams from every pore,

stomach grinds.

A small wound rips open in the now,

bright sunlight threatening to expose

the gaping one beneath.

Tearless sobs rumble in the depths,

muffled,

like distant thunder
when it rolls through the mountains --

the sound of truth

trying to 

rise.

Aftershock

You can talk pretty,

says self to self,

but the concussive shock remains:

self-doubt,

the cloud you now travel in,

dense fog
a clumsy cushion

between action and intention,

elusive fuzz behind the eyes,

silent noise between the ears,

buffering (buffering what?),

blurring the focus . . .

long-muted thoughts sloshing this way and that,

making you tilt from one foot to the other,

weak,

wobbly,

not quite good enough,

never again good enough,

not even remotely approaching

"enough,"

because (I forgot) --

What is "enough?"

Negation

Sarcasm dripping

off the walls,

onto the floor,

into the sink.

Insults rank,

ugly leers

from eyes reddened

with contempt.

Air seething with

barbed words

and rage --

bristling, crackling as you

breathe it.

House sparkling, bright,

ammonia clean,

nearly igniting with

the fanned flames

of hatred.

The Heedless

Shattered -- who knew?

It couldn't be seen.

No bandage, no bleeding, no fuss,

all serene.

But shattered, indeed! --

knew the fly on the wall,

which was far more than anyone else

knew at all.

The fly tried to tell them,

but each turned a deaf ear,

and thus fly became just one more

swatted smear.

Alone now in silence,

the shattered heart crumbled,

while body lay prone on the floor

and lips mumbled

Mumbled a prayer that

someday they'd hear,

that one day they'd notice

and, please God, draw near.

Until then, aloof, 

they would gamely joke,

while in the next room

the shattered heart broke

Broke into pieces

all over the floor,

to be stepped on by all

when they opened the door

And exclaimed, "Look at this!

Our friend is a wreck!

So careless is he,

he could break his own neck!"

Wasteland Ghost

There is a wasteland,

a forsaken place

where nobody lives,

a place that

nobody

wants to remember.

It dangles in space --

"somewhere" to me,

"nowhere" to others.

Everything in it

has lost all meaning,

even the loveliest things,

because nobody wanted them

anymore.

But these things --

some were mine.

If I want them again,

do they come alive with meaning?

Or, because others despise them,

do they remain meaningless, futile --

proof only of my

nothingness?

Without Memory,

vast tundra of things past,

I would not be who I am.

And yet,
does this same Memory, so unwanted by others,

now render me

invisible?

Roots: That "Orphan" Feeling

Pain from the left,

pain from the right,

pain raining down

from morning 'til night.

Loss and abandonment

flood in from all sides --

no relief can be found,

sweet comfort now hides.
       
       Tears blur the sun,
       tears blur the sky,
       tears blur the moon
       yet sharpen mind's eye . . . . .

It was Baby's eye view, and
not "the stuff of dreams":
Industrial orange
on construction machines,
"forgotten about" orange on cold, hard steel,
sickly orange on side streets,
desolation so real.

Grown Baby cannot eat with
"lost" alleys in her head . . .
the "orange of desertion"
brings the queasiness of dread.

And yet it's always back there

in the side streets of her mind:

The thought of being alley-dumped

could make her crazy-blind.

       Strength grows weaker
       while grief grows stronger . . . . .
       The heart must endure,
       but oh, how much longer?

How Baby knew Desertion
is now impossible to know,
but the limbo of  "feeling 'orange'"
is like an undertow:

       No one for you,
       no one there.
       And if someone came,
       he would not care.

No ending will this story have,

limping blindly on and on,

for no one, it seems, can pull out this thorn --

it never will be gone.