Going through the motions

When your heart
lacks love for today
a mere shadow, chasing the sun away
close the curtains
ban the songs
people got in your way.

I remember
a time -certainly
now, not to be high
perhaps it was last night
the outline of a face
traced in the dust, aroused.

You wait for your ship
a turn around
right about face
float until the motion -going
shifts your head.
It’s this tread you dread.

Raped

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well-lived.

word orgies
leave us naked
empty days and nights

your feasting strips humility
scraps of audacity linger-longer

recognize Christ?

Standing outside, admiring Joan Miro’s outdoor sculpture…


Miro’s Chicago

we were invited into The Chicago Temple by a passerby. It was absolutely beautiful inside. Ornate wood and stained glass warmed the interior and our noses.

Power to Change

If only you could sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.

– Fred Rogers

I vividly remember watching this show with my brother, 1975-1978. The kindest men I knew, John and Mr Rogers from some neighborhood.

Suicide

As March 1 draws near, emotions bubble to the top. Mostly anger. Then guilt. I rotate through the grief process every year. Denial passed over. The event all too familiar and real.

I think. I thought.

Shouldn’t i be well
by now

the pain of missing you
not seeing your smile
hearing the loving words
from your mouth -voices

ridicule my rest from the tragedy
climbing down the mountain
i scream, it should have been me!

What a mistake
to be happy
climbing
back up the mountain
year after year. Again and again.
Realizing in a year
the steep decline,
a familiar path,
has no net.

But you felt better,
decided to join society,
well meaning people chime. Again and again.
Who can understand this pain?

eyes have seen the light

eyes have seen the light, charcoal, 2015 (original photographed and edited)

a once cited story
history
has declared to us
her story matters. now
!

Gonna Win

Coming back one way or another… a year and i will be dancing on stage. Age is all mental and physically i’m gonna rock my world!

Ive been under the haters thumb

and i wagged to their beat

not my own drum

but this girl has a heart

that wont repeat

the lies ive been told. deliberate

in my moves,

groves to make you blush. Hush!

you talk too much.

Judge and Jury

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

i only judge myself because i am the only person i truly know.

Institute of Art, Chicago, first floor Modern Wing

i witness you, accept what you deem worthy of me to embrace. all the while i remain absolutely blind to the intricacies of the painting you are.

you may lift the curtain a tad. invite me in and under the mask. allow me to get a little closer. do i know you? are you afraid of me or i of you? do we really even know the other? or bother to know? will i be willing to lift my mask too?

Crow on the Wire has a Sunday confession that sparked varied personal thoughts. i hear because i listen. not sure I understand why politics is as divisive as it is. perhaps it is being set in our ways and feeling comfortable with our habitual years? only changing, transforming, because we finally see the truth. or are we bending truth to match a defined enlightenment? Not sure.

The Chicago Temple, United Methodist Church

In the Choir

i may agree. i may disagree. i may not have an opinion at all about you. rather hide myself discreetly, knowing you won’t bother to understand how i feel. or why i do, as i do.

justice is most important, so, the final verdict given about me is my own to dwell upon. i hand you the privilege of judging yourself too. i decide what needs to change with me in order to be more loving towards you. and i pray your willing as well.

this process of transformation does not work when we judge each other. how i react if you decide not to accept me is my choice. my question then becomes “will i remain in my old ways? and why?” along with wondering why i should change at all.

Transformation

this weekend in Chicago is invigorating. it’s cold and light snow fell. ice crusts the shore. broken spaces release the energy.

being with another person is confining. we rarely agree because i am slow, quiet and want to savor the feelings the sounds and sights produce. he is fast, loud and out of touch. annoyed by everyone and everything. but i managed to make him wait in the snow while i took a few pictures.

i am tired but a good tired. i am existing in a sacred place.

this Chicago visit was to see Rodin’s sculptures at the Art Institute. i have not completely digested the experience. his sculptures pull so much out of me. the locked cage, broken open. infiltration welcomed.

while at the Institute, we decided to check out more of the contemporary art and revisit a few favorites.

Energy and motion made visible – memories arrested in space –Jackson Pollock

The Key Jackson Pollock, 1946

Part of the Accabonac Creek series and a prelude to his drip paintings.

Number 17A Jackson Pollack, 1948

this. being surrounded by art. it all makes me jealous. i want to paint. i imagine myself painting. i feel my body shifting, as i lift the brush. the canvas never stationary and neither am i. the color calling. my hips sway and i feel eyes watching me. i want to be bold but gravity keeps me from flying.

City Landscape Joan Mitchell, 1955

a close-up of the favorite place i would reside in Joan’s landscape. a happy place indeed. certainly lost but found to me. splashes of red, pink… orange. Enveloped by reality of black, white, grey, brown… blue.

yes, i am referring to myself. after all, borderline crossing is all about me. my willingness to share a glimpse of me, with you. tear a piece off and toss it. wait. scrutinize your intentions.

we all need order to heal the crags of depression that consume. perhaps we are all lost in Joan’s landscape. hanging around the wrong colors. worshipping the pain in our lives. i am learning to cross the river and enjoy the other side.

wild honey

Lotus unfolding -poems
to tell stories
her 3rd grade painting
gift wraps the hidden feelings
foretold -growing.

She practices pirouettes
the mirror reflecting
long, lean days that rise,
an age in messages
of rose-petal blessings.

Her mind insists
nothing will be right -to him
wild honey tastes sweet
and in between the crevices
he finds her safe tonight.