Im really looking forward to 2022. Wow! Can you believe how far we have come?
Wind swept my hair in a bun half-naked neck exposed getting cold perturbed by my lack of sense holding onto a love having been long dead
The chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose.
Connecting with others here on WordPress saved me from utter destruction. And for that i am grateful. And in the process, i have returned to my first love. Creating is my lifeline and my grace to get me through to the other side.
Working Out my Angst. 2021
Growing up i was denied every aspect of self for the greater good. And as much as i love my family, to neglect myself was detrimental in the long run. I lost my brother to suicide. And i still have trouble understanding that relationship. We were very close growing up. Until we drifted apart. Friends until high school, when his sudden budding interest in girls, sparked a fissure.
I will never fully understand suicide. The thoughts of doing away with self, once gripped me too. For thirty some years i thought it through. Jumping from second-story windows, holding my breath under pillows, imaging myself driving the car off a bridge, and holding a knife to my neck while talking to my therapist. I had my ideas. Pills and razors, ropes hanging from rafters. They all presented peace of mind.
I have wandered through the ensuing fog. I have spent countless nights in tears. I sacrificed myself for the greater good all while dying a slow death.
I started practicing art in recent years. Whether photography, watercolor, acrylics, textiles, or garden seeds, i have found my inner sense of life. In my poetic words i have tried to let you see a bit more of what stirs inside. And even though i am unable to practice my first love, dance, i found a place to move internally.
So take your bow. See me stand before light. You saved a life.
In disguise. 2021
Please do not use any of my photos without my permission. Thank you.
Go. Get some color on paper. What color am I feeling? It feels like no color could capture the past hours. The colors all appear so dull, uninviting, wordless. With no message whatsoever to speak with. No map to direct feet. No clouds or forests to hide fears.
What color appreciates mystery? Do you know?
The ribbon of blue strikes the sky boundless energy disperses the crowd hangs low and into eternity i ride.
Lay my heart down and weep what little time remains I give it all to you the gift of all beauty hidden from human eyes. You are only fed to eager souls.
I won’t be gone long. How can I keep myself from being amongst all this grandeur?
I did a little beach cleanup. I hiked miles. I painted. I wrote. Nothing here keeps me from living. Everything here pushes me to go further. The seals and loons. The cawing of crow friends. A shy heron perched as if wind was nonexistent.
The waves rush in with new gifts of sea glass. The waves recede into the greater good. The flow of sea amends all the broken pieces of life.
The world is cold and selfish. It barely bats an eye at our grieving. It spends so much time grieving its own demise.
On the way to rest in solitude, I listened to an audible book where another person told of their adventure into being with only self. Except she barely was alone. Day after day, visitors and visiting. The only time spent in solitude was when she was writing poems or finding sleep, alone, in the darkest hours of the day.
So what part of this life is best lived alone?
Looking into a mirrored reflection I beg, “Please let me find myself.” Slowly, I slip into a rhythm created by the sun, moon, and tide. In silence, one finds a way to revolt against the engulfing madness.
In trying to grasp the unevenness of life, I plan to make fear abide my courage. To wake another day unknowing. To wonder how I make my life worth living. To make a way in the wilderness.
Im awake. For what reason, i have no idea. There is no prayer left in me.
I haven’t given up. Im just feeling a bit numb. The curtains are pulled and the heart sinks fast.
Just how im feeling. Wonder who else feels such things. There is no reason to feel this way. Unless these aren’t my feelings so much as how the world appears.
The kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to.
It matters not if i am known. Or remain a mystery. The matter is that i am wholly me.
Not wanting accolades or seeking a tribe. The tribe always moves on to bigger houses and better views. I choose to stay in my shell.
And in my space, i read the kind of book that stabs and wounds. If the book doesn’t wake me with a blow to the head, what am i reading for?
We need books that affect us like a disaster. That grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves. Like being banished into forests far from everyone. Like a suicide.
A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.
seasons: a poetic journey 