skipped, hopped over
eight years gone missing
the quiet of forest -misleading
as the twisted twigs show
the contortion of thought
you had every reason to believe
the smile, wink and nod of moonlit glow
was your savior unknown.
you inherited the chive patch
picked blossoms fail to seed
saving you time later from unwanted guests -so
fill a jar with rice vinegar
bathe the purple buds
in time, pink flows
covering life in marinade
saucy joy splashes high
above the growing grass
menial tasks put off another day.
collection of private journals -packed away 1/9/2018
journal pages ripped straight from time
time severs the mind
cheap wholesale thoughts -sold to highest bidder
reminders we are products of hard work and perseverance.
who sells the answers cheaper?
i scanned the pages with a qr reader
as if written in hieroglyphics
and everything came back blank
empty promises made to myself
to do this and to do that
a book of Eden
pleasure where the world is lost to me.
then i see it
a post dated May 28, 2001
its been a long time since i wrote
back then i’m planning my garden
dirty seeds -buried
exist in the laundry room
watered and well lit
all hope lost to time
with your splintered soul lying in same dirt
waiting to be watered
seasonal drought takes hold
everyone is missing from your life
and if you were a prophetess you would have heeded the words heard
but you kept moving
knowing nothing attacks the target -flying
and your missed shots left scars
miles long, long gone -no time for healing.
Best to observe from afar
than be too close
and discern nothing at all.
come leap with me
into the next dimension
sail the seas
with grand intention
to understand the wildest dreams
of logic and answer
“Who are we today?”
turns brown waiting
for lush lips lined
Japanese Lanturne is a five-line verse shaped like a Japanese lantern with a syllabic pattern of one, two, three, four, one.
Yes, these friends are finally being packed away. Today. Suffocating, perhaps. I like to think i am giving them a break. And me too. Its been a few years since I read them, but before I stack them, lovingly put aside, i extract a few thoughts to pass your way…
I never promised you a rose garden. But dear, my promise garden flourishes. Even, dead of winter, a bleak despair, seeds believe in miracles.
“Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”
“My love is something valuable to me which I ought not to throw away without reflection.”
Freud Civilization and Its Discontents
“we are all murderers and prostitutes – no matter to what culture, society, class, nation one belongs, no matter how normal, moral, or mature, one takes oneself to be.”
“Whether life is worth living depends on whether there is love in life.”
r. d. laing
Like old friends, we will meet again. In a new town, the words will take on new meanings.
I actually wrote this a week ago. Its like a memory. I suppose it is memory. Feels a dream I want to wake up from. But the possibility of living in Boston is intriguing. Closer to my love of Monhegan Island and Maine. I can hear the loons call and follow the moose tracks… that is what life exists for me.
One of the virtues of moving is purging. Having lived in this house, our home, for 18 years, we have amassed quite a bit. “Junk!” my husband calls it. It! It is, sad to say, all too often junk.
To say that word. Junk. It saddens me to think our lives revolve, as synchronized as the planet, but we manage to weigh down our wings with junk!
Moving, i learn to fly…