Book Troubles (or Strong Scents Clinging to Paper - The MCS Files)

I'm reading a story about a girl whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was reading a book at a funeral.  Prior to that, she'd walked into a lamppost while reading.  Reading while cooking, she'd accidentally started a kitchen fire.

As for myself, I was caught sniffing a book Saturday at the library, checking for absorbed scents too strong to bring home.  The pretty, petite librarian clicked by happily in her high heels when I heard -- and saw, out of the corner of my eye -- the sudden catch in her step.  It was then that I realized the book in my hand was still held up to my nose.

She picked up speed again, thankfully . . . . .

Higher Logic

Instinct rushes to identify

trouble brewing on the sly.

Pedantic reasoning has the fate

of often being much too late.

Askew

A lie nearby

can sometimes be felt

when instinct warily recoils.

Gut twists in response

to an unseen prompt

that wrecks peace as it roils.

Something obscure,

something unsaid

left swirling in the air,

the churning waters in its wake

mute proof it had been there.

Broken Words

Broken words and broken poems,

the language of the lost,

the stammering of beggars begging,

"Hear me, though it cost."

In Memory's Ear

Breathing I heard

in memory's ear. 

Frightening?  Not now,

because it's not here. 

Whose breathing was it --

in memory's time? 

This I know only: 

It wasn't mine.

My Prayer

Help me to become
who I must be,
before You regret
ever making me.
Amen.

The Stranger

Arrested

by words 

serious

and keen,

I halted. 

The stranger

suddenly

had a soul,

and I began

to see.

Exclamation

I don't understand contentment based on

creature comforts alone.

I refuse to treat as tragic

the availability of "mauve" as opposed to "bone."

I cannot bear to fuss about

this method versus that.

Change is not a scandal to me

as it might be to a cat.

Death is coming to us all,

vanity is air and fluff,

so when people rave on about trivial things -- 

enough, enough, enough!

Silent Sorrows

There are sorrows never broached,

yet they exist . . .

shadows passing over a face,

sadness behind a smile.

These unspoken things

have their place,

for if they're in man's heart,

they matter.

Time Change

Drunk with night's exhausting dreams

I painstakingly wend my way,

old layers of time interposing themselves

in memory through the day.

I shake off old time zones from hour to hour,

trying hard to remain "present time,"

but the old zones slip in, over and over again,

without tangible reason or rhyme.

It tires a body, this constant flux,

global movements in the mind,

each bearing an old mood, like an old perfume,

"signature notes" varied in kind.

One whiff after another, fickle time has its way

of obliviously wafting through,

uncaring of mindset it blithely disturbs

as it swings between old and new. 

Surrender

Answers that elude me --

go ahead, fly away!

Sad and disgusted,

I'm too weary to play.

What God wishes me to see,

He will reveal.

I've no more patience

to withstand the unreal.

Exile Unspoken

Drained from pretense

(or was it charity?),

I sit in a warm, dry room

after a sunlit day,

damp and chilled in the bones. 

And the work was hard --

hours of buoyant conversation --

for there was no bond left,

only burned bridges

long ago incinerated. 

In their ashes I swam,

attempting to vivify dead memories

and ties which, perhaps, never were . . .

the futility of it all

breaking again and again and again

my own dumbstruck heart.

Why bother with words, when silence can be so much richer?

Jealous Captor

On his knees within,

the addict stumbles through the day,

substance crooning, "I'm your friend,"

while holding friends at bay.

Mere mortals can't compete

with the peaks of ecstasy

that wax and wane alluringly

in twisted reverie.

By Itself

Thanksgiving alone

might be my fate --

goat yogurt and cranberry

marooned on my plate.

Dandelion tea

might offer a perk . . . . .

No coffee -- but chicory!

Now that would work.

But then, chicory comes

with barley mixed in --

Can someone find me chicory

by itself,

in a tin?

I Worry

Organs ailing within and I worry,

worry about what it all might mean.

Doctor's office makes me sick

between disinfectant and candlewick,

but the pain remains constant and keen.

Writer's Holiday

Unwell, I write,

and write all the more,

distress pouring out of me.

Well, I write,

but in measured dose,

more conscious of heart's lock and key.

Thoughts During an October Illness

In the breathtaking 

sunlight

(so beautiful!)

approaching noon,

eyes cringing from the

brightness,

ears buzzing softly,

head in a misty daze . . .

I had the fervent desire

to cry.

********************************************************

 

Sometimes,

it's just games.

Even a smile 

can lie,

when there is no 

real warmth

behind it.

Sometimes,

for the sake of honesty,

we would do much better

to frown.

*********************************************************

If you have one person

who really cares about you,

consider yourself

rich,

because many people find

caring

to be a burden.

I don't know why.

*****************************************************************

Eyes stiff,
vision wobbly,
inflamed brain nearly pounding out of my skull,
I finally gave up writing
to watch an idiosyncratic romance,
laughing my head off
like a crazy person . . . . .
Maybe tonight I'll watch
the Weather Channel.

Fragrance Sweet

Beautiful music

performed by friends --

fragrant oil on the raw wound

when nothing else will do,
assuring me that

I, too,

will sing again.

Fine Line

We see and don't always say what we see,

for charity is a delicate veil

that prudence must sometimes mend,

although the veil can sometimes wear

so very thin,

prudence feels almost like a 

lie.

The Poet's Heart

The poet's heart dangles

from a fragile limb,

enduring ice and snow

through Spring's balmy kiss,

beyond Summer mist,

for reasons even he may not know.

Art's Irony

Sorrow trumps comfort

and riddles remain 

whether I favor dash or dot.

Words people the page

(be they wise or strange) --
while the poet matters not.

Lost Treasure

"I'm your friend," the substance croons.

"Come join me and you'll see."

But thoughts get twisted in the lair of

potent reverie.

Tempting, fleeting sense intense,

illusion's useful tool:

happiness mimicked, power distorted --

pleasures rare and cruel.

When elusive bliss has ended,

forced devotion miserably spent,

heart begs of man a reckoning

of where its treasure went.

Threadbare

Bent low,

I feel my failures
mightily,

and their weight pulls me

down,

taunting me,

daring me

to get up --

get up!

Surprise --

I intend to 

rise

with strength spent long ago

and skills in which I am poor.

Threadbare,

I must go forth.

He cloaks the birds

in splendor -- 

surely He will fill these

empty hands

with something,

something I have not yet imagined,
animating mind and heart
to learn, to do --
and the strength will be all His.

I will go forth.

Courage

The two hardest words

can sometimes be

not "May I?"

not "Thank you,"

not "I'm sorry,"

but  . . . 

"Help me."

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)

Look Alive

Left to rot in a deserted garden

of walls and dank silence,

some benumbed part of spirit

still languishes there,

unable to rise,

too weak,

too deathly tired

even to look up.
Onlookers,
never noticing the void,
smile and wave.

Onward!

And the sun triumphs again,

rays beaming,

wind rippling,

nature pulsing

with the heartbeat of life

unconquered.

Dual Effect

Torment thick,

and it's raining within . . .

round, heavy drops

pelting my heart,

sobs erupting over

grave games
played

with words,

weaponry subdued

but, at the same time,
not.

A Moment of Weakness

Yesterday's terror

still under the skin,

raw nerves, too alert,

now burning within.

What will push the fright

still lodged inside me out for good?

Others' understanding?

Perhaps, perhaps, it could . . . . .

The Face

There is a hardness

that can replace

warm blood and humanity,

stiffening a face into stone,

chiseled planes of bone

so cold,

water could freeze on them.

Eyes, fixed,
slick pools of bottomless ice

stilled by something

worse than hate --

no fire blazing there.

Cheeks taut,

skin pulled tight,

flexing only to grimace

crookedly,

symmetry dissolving

into misshapen madness.

And the face

grotesque

cares not.

Jewel Underfoot

Discomfort takes its stand,

crying out to complain,

but not from pain.

Pain knows better than to

shake its fist and sulk --

as do those whose noses

have never scraped the ground.

If pain should resort to such trifles,

they would be base imitations,

the weight of such lies

casting it down once again.

And how tragic to stamp one's feet

in a pretender's rebellion,

only to realize later

that pain, humbling and true,

had left a precious jewel in its wake,

now crushed

underfoot.

November Spring

Water dripped in sparkles

as the sun,

cushioned in blue and white,

blazed coolly

through the thawing day.

And the knowing went on,

fluid thoughts

cresting in peaks of melting snow,

glistening moments of love

showing up the flat grays

of indifference;

shady spots sheltering

rare snapshots of silence

in its varied states and meanings,

sun-warmed spots holding

tender vignettes of affection.

The knowing moved forward

with the day,

as the light flickered 

from tall window to wall

and leapt with the joyful

motion 

of life living itself.