Good gravy!

Where are these people?

Where do I start this morning? I need to go away… I cannot read another word. I am tired of humanity.

We have beaten down everything around us except ourselves. I love this Mark Twain quote which came through a social media feed.

Right?! You!? Let us all take a little blame for the world’s common craziness! We all play a part in this satirical melodrama.

And in the same breath, I must say enough of the media flogging us. What good are beaten-up people? We can do some introspection, do our part to heal our neighborhoods and homes. We can be reasonable people and still have a healthy ego.

Not all of us are selfless enough to abandon our lives. But we should stop on occasion and take inventory on how we conduct ourselves daily.

Take small steps. Then take some more. Good Gravy is never rushed. But eventually, with constant stirring, we can enjoy our mashed potatoes. And share them with humanity.

The Poet’s House -Winter

Leaden footed winter.
Lumbering elephantine.

A pieced poverty of color
the house close-mouthed.
Silvery shards,
a fence frosted, still erect.
Leaden footprints of anticipation,
the tulips and daffodils quilled.

(I found a black and white print of “The Poet’s House” in a second-hand book. Artist unknown. I added seasonal color. This is winter.)

My Morning Mind

I am scribbling away, trying to keep up with my thoughts.

The coffee was brewing and the aroma had me thinking this morning. Again. Stuck in a corner with piled papers around my feet. Shuffling through them, I came across a Steinbeck quote. Lessons on love and hate.

My mind wanders as I watch the clouds prepare a bath of snowflakes. “What constitutes hate? And does an ideal love overcome our failure to understand others? Is there a moral love?”

There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had. -Steinbeck

Why am I bogged down with such heaviness? What relief exists? The heavens resemble our hearts and yet clouds obscure the view. The heart is buried. The soul is grieved. Is it I, we, or you?

I have danced secretly in ugly love. I being the selfish person begging for comfort. I have lived in that grave. Today I dream. I long to release myself from the grip of fear. To taste the sweet water of grace. And gift you the same power of hope.

—–

Mind you, not every day is clobbered with words. I am learning to laugh. Tell me a joke. I listen well enough.

Happy writing ✍🏼 J🖤🤍📬

Happenings

Anthony Gorman©️Hands in the Garden

It is all too dreadful
anymore. anymore
she climbed up looking for
answers stored
from when she was 17. 17 forever and all too dreadful
here and now. she saw shooting stars at 22. 22 with child.

A child with child
she watched
a hospital roommate manuever a babe.
she trembled. she trembled for those in the world.

It is all too dreadful
anymore. anymore
i climb up into my head
for answers stored
from when i was 32. 32 tears
streaming to cleanse fears
strobing as disco balls.
i laid down, down, down
trembling for the world.

It is all too dreadful
anymore. anymore
i climb up into my head looking
for answers stored
from when i was 52. 52 years
to rid my past
of answers never met.

I am trembling
for us in the world.

Disappear

I am.

I have not left home. Not yet. Not until tomorrow morning. I hope the coming days in Florida prove restful.

To be stuck in between dreams, for years, leaves me wanting to disappear while I finish off old memories and crave new ideas. To remain in limbo leaves me off kilter.

In Jane Austen’s Persuasion, proper manners, community, and romance fills the pages. But also spirit. I could easily fit into Jane’s 19th century.

I am. I am trying. Bending. Breaking. Falling. Obsessing over miles. The years span as eagle’s wings.

Praying. Mumbling. Beseeching spirits to know more! Craving what I cannot drink today. Reaching for the chalice far away.

This is a great start. I can persuade myself to step out and discover. To be my own heroine and find my future.

I am. Leaving, I disappear.

I am not. Now gone. I sail away on Calypso.