Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
Like Dicken’s “Tale of Two Cities” I have lived a tale of polar opposites. I have known a dark night of the soul and the fresh morning dew of enlightenment.
No memories can ever be forgotten but they can be forgiven. And the forgiveness allows me to wake up and be grateful for everything. Even the memories that still cause sharp pains. Those are the memories that led me to despair and wrestle in a black, plastic garbage bag until I finally took the knife, I once used against myself, and started cutting open breathing holes.
So what has been going on? So much!!! Sitting under a poetry mentor. Restructuring old poetry and finding myself. Taking piano lessons. Working on Mozart and Tchaikovsky pieces.
I start a new volunteer position in a women’s homeless shelter directing an art therapy group in mid-June. After i take a solo travel trip to Nantucket.
The daily weather is cooperating so tending to my new garden in Harvard Massachusetts. It has been almost a year that we moved to the Boston area. Busy picking up sticks winter strewn about the yard and wondering where to station a summer writing cabin. The best of my days are spent sitting atop prospect hill, watching the sunsets.
I hope to be able to spend more time here at WP. I do hope.
Well… you and i made it to experience another year on earth. I hope the approaching 365 days is good to you… full to the brim with positive thoughts, new adventures, reinforced friendships, old and new, with plenty of time spent writing and working on your craft. Or perhaps experimenting with a new method of expressing yourself. In short, here is to a creative 2019 of souling!
I haven’t been reading much blog posts. I find in my depressed moods i can barely emerge from my cocoon… and anxiety is worse to try and read.
Is it selfish to wonder if others are reading me? Heck, i rebel against these letters. Yet, they some how keep the union strong. Unite against me. Bond. The New Army Brigade, 26 letters strong.
They force the issue. I retreat. They win the argument… A thought is but a rain cloud pouring down angst against me. The evidence sufficient to imprison me for years. And the nervous out pouring brings the show curtain down. Behind-the-scenes i dance. The music puts pen to paper, to recite the days events.
I need to rest. I know. But a thinking mind rarely obeys. And so i bore you with my show.
Guess we are even. I am bored by you too. So lets be bored together.
all these stories
i read them…
pause in the middle
of the road
to notice the caution sign
turning cars approach
from all directions
where are the exclamation points, periods, and paranthesis?
these neglected words
dismiss traffic signs
thickly settled, a clue
to, too many people
tracing the same thick yellow line
replacing them with broken hash marks
where passing allowed
poets are drivers, see
fast and frantic
too traveled to make a difference