Equilibrium

There are times in life

when you realize

that you were "supposed to" have failed --

but you didn't,

that you were to "supposed to" have crumpled --

but you wouldn't ...

because you have

your own vessel to sail,

and survival demands

that you never help others

rock your own boat.

Once Somebody's Daughter

She has loved me, for the last two-thirds of my life,
in a different way,
which I'm supposed to understand --
but which I don't.
I must be missing a portion of the script.
When she left him,
it went from "what was" in all its rich detail
to a sassy present moment
devoid of the past that included me.
It broke my brain
to have been loved with respect and devotion,
only to become like a forgotten knick-knack.
A shock it's been, every time,
to be addressed, upon the slightest whim,

casually, carelessly, angrily, coyly,
as though to a mistrusted peer.

Counterpoint

A little hippie in me
and a lotta' tomboy
left over, inside,
from yesteryear.
Ain't plannin' on
givin' 'em up --
they're my backbone,
my grit,
my shimmer,
my color --
manly certainty
of my femininity;
they're the earth beneath my feet,
the flowers that bow in the rain,
feast of tones and shades,
nerve and gall.
I will stand my ground,
stomp my feet,
shake my hair,
clank some bracelets,
and howl into the wind
whenever survival
calls.

The Force of Ice

How quickly the surrounding light dims
when they look you in the eye
to vent, at long last,
their hatred of you,
having first paved your way with
lies and degrading sentiments
to all who would listen
and believe,
flinging the froth
of their rabid madness
in every direction,
teaching all who watch them
to adhere to this very treatment
of you
(o nightmare of nightmares,
by which they maul your heart),
their words like ice picks
and old rusty nails
puncturing flesh,
while their hired hand,
with silence and pursed lips,
presumes to judge,
pushing you out
by force of
closing door.

That Feeling of Forever

Love it when a photo draws you in and makes you feel as though you're living in it, sharing in a moment of time on the earth before you were born -- a mind-bending taste of God's ever-present moment, Eternity. 💫

Bare

You wonder about Hell
and live as though it doesn't exist.
I wonder about Heaven
and live without that inspiration.
You judge me as having a faith I do not have
but merely hope for
on the basis of sunrise and sunset,
the ecstasy of shimmering sound,
nature's palette of colors,
and the miracle of life.
You judge me as feeling saved
when in fact I feel lost,
as feeling found when in fact
I feel annihilated.
You judge me as having sets of beliefs in order
like cups and plates in a cupboard,
when in fact I have neither a consistent set of beliefs
nor a cupboard for dishware.

Outside

When it's all going so wrong

there's just no getting it right,

when family of origin feels like it isn't,

there's no homespun recipe

then.

Lilac Perfume

Lilac perfume, with which to dress this day
of crisp cool favoring snow,
but sky's light favoring Spring ...
for Spring, like the scent of lilacs,
can be carried in the heart
and about one's life,
silent song of love.

Frog-Man

An unrecalled man,
a stranger
(perhaps glimpsed in the woods long, long ago
by a little girl)
of unparalled kinetic energy
who, in attack mode,
might have feigned playing "leap frog";
a maniacal man almost recalled
by the little girl, grown,
in a nightmare;
a crazed being -- perhaps Bundy, himself -- who'd invisibly fueled
her old "look all around you" flashback reactions.

When Words Are the Path

They exhort her to move forward this way or that,

but movement requires spark of light and informed inspiration,
without which no direction can appear.
So when they shut down her "how it looks"
and "how it feels" cascades of words
(flow of inner life interpreting surrounding patterns through reflection),
they cut off oxygen to her brain,
bringing her source of survival to a halt --
demanding that she act, any which way,
dumbly.
She knows too well
that burning questions exist because there are answers to be found
in a world created with order and reason,
and that to lose touch with the emerging pattern
is to fall off the path.

Disengaged

Housekeeping
she now did online,
often sweeping clean the page
of those items which,
in the evolving course of things,
no longer fit the feng shui.
From real housekeeping she'd been
disempowered ... age 17.
While they shamed her for sneakers with skirt,
the contempt in their eyes
burned up family ties.
Thus dislocated, then stricken
with PTSD in the woods
(as the PTSD, itself, informed her,
in its details of manifestation,
when her consciousness later awakened to it
in its 20-something year of occurrence
as it occurred, once again,
beside a forest ...
herself twirling 'round, quick as a whip,
this way, then that --
for from behind which woodsy shrub or tree
would the maniacal frog-man leap?
She couldn't be quick enough
to apprehend him from any direction,
were he to pop up and strike.
To silence the battle,
she would have to go inside
and close the door.
How many times had she been defeated
by the presence of nearby forest
this way ... needing to go inside
and close the door
to silence the physical, but not visual,
flashback
to an event now blocked
from her inner sight?)
Altered within,
she could no longer memorize
any song on the piano,
nor take charge of her household landscape,
for nothing in it -- including her family --
was hers,
anymore.

Like the First Christmas

So weary am I this Christmas Eve --
not a present could I buy.
No tree, no stocking -- all is bare,
except our hearts -- no lie.
This Christmas have we to shiver through,
hard times and blankets galore.
The holy manger had no frills --
no retail in any store.

This poem was begun by me on December 24th, 2022 and concluded on December 28th.

~ Turquoise

Northeast

She sits on her bed,
unable to take leave
of blanket over toes, part-numb --
no reprieve.
The drafts drift in
as the heat drifts out;
the walls, paper-thin --
no use walking about.
Ice bites the air
behind her back;
she dreams of wood stove
and chimney stack.
Thirty degrees or so --
with heat.
Cold, cold hands
and freezing feet.

Missive

I had a dream that I'd posted an invitation to our local spiritual group meeting, and I woke up "realizing" that I would "have to cancel" that nonexistent "invitation" of mine for today. My heart sighed -- in reality -- with missing that meeting. Because it's Christmas Eve day, the meetings will resume next week. Sounds rather backwards, doesn't it? I really needed that meeting today ... when "too busy" drowns out the sublime hum of Blessed Mother's quiet, patient waiting to bear The Christ ...

I go to that meeting whenever I'm able to, because there I can find a gathering of people, coffee, desserts I'm not supposed to have, and conversation. Yes, the conversation happens to be about God, centering upon the God-man, Jesus. Now and then a morsel reaches me and probably nourishes me in the regions of my spirit I cannot see or feel. I typically don't "feel" much in regard to my faith, although I'm probably supposed to. Faith, for me, has never been based upon religious feelings about God. That would be impossible, as I've never had even the bare minimum of "religious" "feeling."

I typically find my Christianity in weeds and pebbles on the road; in abandonment, insults, heartbreak, crushed spirit, accidental musings, and moments which spark realization; in Biblical time connections which link prophetic references; and -- most rare, but treasured when it happens -- in memory found or suddenly hoped for.

This morning, I was reminded -- again, because I do try to forget at times when the teaching demands much -- of "where my bread is buttered," and Who is the source of both my bread and my butter.

It is He -- that Baby God Who was born, poor as dirt, beside the animals ... as close as possible to those pebbles and weeds.

Yes, He can be found along the road.

~ Turquoise

The Beauty of Personhood

You can call the trouble "politics,"
but for me it's not the same.
What wounds me is no invites --
no matter your party name.

Roads I Never Knew

A violin grew up in Brooklyn,
its master's hand commanding
rhythms crisp and clear,
like budding branches springing to life
in the dance of time.
Through tones of smoothest silk,
love's sweetness unfolded
like the petals of a rose.
Gershwin and Rachmaninoff
stirred the young master's soul,
soul of the 1920s,
violin his beloved companion.
Only the old violin knows
the rest of that musical story,
the story belonging to the boy
who knew, as I never did,
those Brooklyn roads.

Written by me on September 2, 2022.

The Two Rivers

We bring out joy
at the saddest times
to fuel buoyancy and life;
for joy does not contradict
sorrow,
both arising from the
wellspring
of free-flowing
emotion.

Raining Cherokee

Shock vacuumed up the years
into its tornado,
dropping them back from the sky
piece by piece
decades later ...
I, the gangly 1960s girl
with a space between her two buck teeth,
long unrecognizable
after braces and four teeth pulled for them,
teeth which, like others still surviving,
might also have borne traces of
American Indian heritage,
advised to me as Cherokee.

 

[Todd Rundgren, below, resembles the younger me -- and I do so love this song.]

The Roeboat That Sank a Nation

Moment of joy,
eclipsed;
slaughter of the innocents
real now --
titanic.
No room, no time
for victory.
Bow heads.
Press on.

Broken Kitchen

When life slows down to one pinpoint at a time,
you notice the buds, the blooms, the tendrils --
your world writ big by God's life force.
And that is all that matters.
When you are no longer useful
except to love,
you weep as you rejoice
in still being alive.
Run, body and soul, to the
embrace
of all that is innocent and peaceful --
the only worthwhile and loving
place to run.