carousel
of random thoughts
carry me
past this place
into our first apartment
our noisy haven

with a date
written
into my notebook
and your eyes seeking mine
for the first time in a decade
I can sleep now

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My tank feels empty

I wrote something this morning. I shared it with you because even though it was rough, I always want to tell you the truth. I wrote it quickly and did not edit it. It wasn’t great, but it was good. There was truth in it. I don’t want to post verbal spewing, but that is where the truth and heart is, the words I write before I have had a chance to muck it up, or chop it into pieces, or make it sound bigger than it is. Hipper than it is. It isn’t ageless literature. This is not Whitman I am writing here. This isn’t Frost. It’s a big heart from a big, bad place. It is a journey from darkness into the light. Not the light they tell you to avoid, but the warmth of peace and contentment no matter where I find myself

It is love, pain, sorrow, tears, regret, longing, sadness, hope, choking, loss, care, love, loathing, vengeance, cost, ringing, silence, deadly, hopeful, chance, wisdom, idiocy, lust, craving, darkness, life, light, craftiness, gratitude, defeat, melancholy, rebuke, aching, anger, revilement, tenderness, grief, crazed wishes, damned mistakes, mercy, grace, want, desire, apathy, music, hate, crashing, thunder, lightning, devastation, obliteration, pain, death, touch, relief, resilience, endurance, thankfulness, and love

puzzle pieces
all we have carried since then
the wishing that brings hard work
unexpected pleasures
birdsong still

Variations on a theme

feels like summer 1989
as we walk past the flamingos
the zoo
has nothing on us
animals
all our instincts
engaged

foolish
to have accepted us as intimate
to trust even one word
he
did not know me
and now he is gone

I want to see my mother again
to tell her what has happened
and that she was right

Last words:
I want her to know, that
I am not alone any more
not bereft anymore
and I am not afraid

 

It is a crime

Time is a fiend
what it asks of me
some tender underbelly
of hope that bleeds
when it is disappointed
It does not take without
leaving its card

Time is a thief
when we are not looking
it takes more than its share
suddenly a month gone
then two, reaching back
as it takes it takes
the great taker

Time has been murdered
in the name of leisure
in the name of discouragement
just killing, time our credo
when the winter has beat on us

and I am not exempt for I have killed
I have also killed for that lovely

bit of nothing

time

She was a collage

a random spattering of life
over more than one canvas
every do-over leaving a mark

she spread sunshine
unwittingly with her
cutting sense of humour

based mostly on fact
but the ridiculous-ness of it all
made people smile

like a clown, dance for us
make us laugh and dance
and forget the day’s burden

her collage of reds and blacks
and too bright yellows
when she was seeking pure gold

her own heart of gold she did not trust
her thimble-full of hope
she brought out on holidays

Monday Random: Let’s talk about depression

  • My husband has Mondays off, so Tuesdays are like Mondays for me; and yesterday was an impossible day to write this, so don’t worry, you did not go back in time
  • We’ve all heard the news this past week, like other weeks in the past, when someone takes their own life, or more than one someone
  • When suicide is in the news, some people on the news will talk about asking for help if you are in trouble, and others will talk about talking about it too much, that it will create copycats
  • I actually do believe that the latter can be true, as I think back to a time in my life where I romanticized suicide
  • There is nothing romantic about it, and I tend to avoid literature where it does seem to be the climax of the film and something very hopeless that had no other choices
  • This is not to say that we should not talk about it, hell no!
  • Hell no!
  • It is the secrecy that sometimes makes it oh, so easy, when no one knows to come and help
  • Or maybe you have been talking, and not felt listened to. And then there is that person who says, ‘it’s only a cry for help.’
  • Really? What does that tell you?
  • Yep, I’ve been through all the stages. The last stage was about fifteen years ago, when I promised my children that throwing in my cards was no longer on the table.
  • But I will say that this past week when I heard about the third suicide in as many days, that I started contemplating things
  • Then I told myself, ‘Stop it!’ ‘Quit it!’
  • Depression lies
  • So does fear

Continue reading “Monday Random: Let’s talk about depression”

What have I lost?

Lost a suitcase with too many love letters. Held too long and too fast. To last.

Lost my heart to the man I did not understand. So foolish a young girl. What did I know of love

to hold on to it that well? Lost socks. 147 over a lifetime. I imagine they are somewhere with him

my stalker hoarding even the ones with the hole at the big toe, sitting with needle and thread painstakingly

mending what others call refuse. I refuse

to acknowledge the one that got away. I worked too hard and long

at giving myself away and only just now have I found myself, what was lost in some infernal junk drawer of miscellany is now mine again, bedraggled, blood-parched, begging me for mercy for one more go around the bend.

Let us do it–let us gather what is lost and grasp what so far
was never ours to hold

making your brain my home

we are committed now to this journey through each others’ minds–
we took the steps and there is no backwards, no backward steps
until we reach the end, we’ll see it through to the end
of knowing you and stealing your thoughts, until I understand your miseries–
feeling you snake through my head at times tickles, sometimes squeezes hard
in those spots where it is narrow, where I booby-trapped the entrance
every tragedy covered in shame and pushing out the light–
could you just feel your way around, feel your way about the place
so that I might have comfort and warmth where you find
Antarctica, so I could have piles of skins and a blanket of care
your wild passions and tanks against the battlements of a weary mind–
and I walk-a-bout your head because you let me, and make it my home
for a little while, make it feel like home until I know you so well
I will conveniently forget where the doors are, forgetting
the front door and also the back