Posted in Musings, Photography, Poetry, prose

The road arrived.

Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole

Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.

If we fail
fail to see the wind
coming at the break neck speed
of a metal horse
on tracks,

If we fail
fail in our comfort
food, shelter and clothing
scraped together with goodwill
given as scraps to wild dogs,

If we fail
fail as foreign spies
on fellow citizens
drumming up grievances and rounding up heads
rolling in wooden bowls
we ravish our own hands.



We fail.
We won’t change history any more than armies before us.
We drip in mother’s blood
and scour our bodies of father’s filth.
We bury bones in rags
doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer.
Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
Posted in Poetry

tragic.

Mirror,

how do you
tell yourself truth?
in bite-size portions, snacks
in-between meals or buffet-style realization?

The never ending comparison
words written
as if boobs matter.

Who else makes such remarks?
If not for Anne Sexton, i
would have no clue why
i am or am not.

Anne said it best…

“Perhaps I am no one.

True, I have a body

and I cannot escape from it.

I would like to fly out of my head,

but that is out of the question.”

let confusion continue.
you believed the wrong men. the girls
crueler than an autumn sun
toying with warmth.

Posted in Photography, Poetry, prose

Just Dance

Dance first. Think later.
It’s the natural order. —Samuel Beckett

What am I doing here? Does anybody really know? I suppose some of us do. The smart and put together ones.

I sit up nights worrying who I am. Resign myself to think I may never know. Knowing one day I am sunny and the next day I send shivers up the coolest cat in town.

Life was going swimmingly. I had plans. I felt my square edges had been rounded to fit in society’s cylinder vision. Then, you know, a virus spread like a bad case of halitosis. Why didn’t someone tell that person to keep their mouth shut? Yeah! I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell someone either.

Then I have another problem. The world is divided along political lines. And religion. And between truth, morality, and friendship. I’m somewhere in the gray area of exhaustion.

I realize I am as much to blame. So I sit and wonder. Will I have courage to change my life to compensate for these wavy thoughts.

No. Im not suicidal. Not this time.

Still, I need a break from this break. Sit awhile and sing me a song?

Posted in music, Photography, Poetry

Melody —Senryū

Bright Side of the Pink Moon
seeking familiar
loneliness settles towards pitch
the strum of a string

https://youtu.be/OmKCb9LcEoM https://youtu.be/kIB7a7f_keQ https://youtu.be/Ny6QK_E5BrY

Yesterday. I once played this song continuously on the guitar I bought myself in high school. As a teen, my summer days were spent babysitting for a divorced mom who worked for The Braille School in Milwaukee WI. The family came from New Zealand and had sheep rugs scattered throughout the house and ate lots of vegemite. The kids had a cat named Erasmus and a pet goldfish, whose name eludes me. The dad was a small-engine pilot and flew planes out of Oshkosh WI. I wonder where they are now?

Cheers 🍻 mates and good day!

Posted in Poetry, short fiction

dilemma 

Always a man, the little boy picked up his trucks. It most certainly was not his decision. He had rather destroy than keep order. Chaos, a game to play. And nothing was squared away that day.

With time, his anger grew
loudly inside
but politely kept at bay. Inner demons kept vigil,
camped around the fire to stay warm.

Years pass. Mornings grow into nights and boys grow into men. He was quite a catch, his father would say. Some girl would come visit to take his heart far away. He would vanish forever, his mother’s greatest fear.

War settled upon the earth. The boy-man set off for a foreign land, leaving behind his loves. His parents and new bride waved goodbye with no answers.

The mind wins over peace and erupts upon a credulous society. Everyone wonders still, what has gone wrong for so many centuries.

Posted in Poetry

Pippi’s New Year

(A picture of me as Pippi Longstocking exists. Somewhere. or Perhaps it is lost forever, thus really nonexistent. The memory carries on.)

Im a little bit everything
and all over the place,
mail in my purse
that hasn’t been sent
a list of to-do’s
certainly not to be spent
a knot in my hair from ’72
when mother gave up on my hairdo!

So incredibly complicated
with every new day
I am grateful I have nothing much more to say.
So, look at my face
realize this once
I have feelings, gosh darn it
so play with me nice!

I am asking 2020 be my year
to learn and love
dance and play as my heart needs
the score complete
as Mr Gull flies by
and in his pursuit
he finds I suit his curiosity.

So, off I go, to dream,
to see,
what my imagination, Mr Gull and I can scheme!

Goodbye 2019!

Posted in Poetry

Manger Straw

Some days
mom sang me lullabies
and i held my breathe
along with her
join the symphony
of dazzling lights
and ephiphany
“I seen Jesus”.

Her head would slump
and her mouth frown
in exclamation marks
“child i have no idea what you talking about.”

I would
stroke mom’s downy feathers
under her belly
where all such pain lands
bandage the broken wing
and hold my arms up high
“fly Jesus! fly!”

Explain to myself
there is no pillow to lay
my momma’s head
“child she has no idea what you talk about.”