Crow Caw

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

Your silhouette -mine

snow flutters
upon the earth

We stand

our umbilical cord
severed

as God turns His head

I ran away
to never look back
and you got lost

along the way
our whiter than snow -bled.

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.

Cursed

Is it the curse of a new year that begs us to introspection and compare ourselves to others? I honestly am having a love/hate relationship with all of life. I am genuinely happy i am here, breathing and writing and reading other’s blogs. I am also genuinely sad at how little i can do to make the world better for those hurting. With every step i take i feel the anguish of this world all the while marveling at each person’s ability to also take another step.

I want to be angry. But being angry does not make me feel much better. Oh! For a minute i feel vindicated. But then realize how little i truly understand. Am i so childlike and as innocent as i pretend? Did i not rue the day my brother was forced onto me? I was perfectly happy until he showed up. Then i had to share everything!! My toys were his toys and actually more his toys because out of anger, i gave them to him. If i cant have them all to myself, then i don’t want them. Lucky for me, he did not want them either. Looking back, he only wanted to be loved.

Material things bring nothing and take everything away from our hearts. Oh! what I wouldn’t do to have my brother back!

My bookshelf

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.

going through this frenzy

purchasing books

every title imaginable about

suicide and why, these voices reside

build a home, hoping to rest -a while.

A while later, it all starts again,

depression, anxiety, r.d. laing…

this divided self reads jung and admires van Gogh

the Plath’s and Woolf’s of this world

we meet-up, browse universal thoughts, written in black

being ghosts of past

haunting our minds today.

Ideally

Remembering childhood days

running home for dinner

playing legos with your brother,

Why’d it have to end?

What shadows crept behind the sun

washed out memories,

lurk, no amount of fight

breaks their will,

rushing to and fro,

cause your world to explode -no

running home for dinner or reading Ranger Rick -no

your running for your life.

I told my daughter, today, she was a tornado. And she answered. Your worse.

Me?

Yes. You. Your a hurricane, tsunami, earthquake, all rolled into one. One some thing. A thunderstorm that never ends.