Imagine you are in your happy place
It wasn’t my meditation
Do you like to float?
I can never fully let go
Let the salt water buoy you
I want that for her
You are free
We all want the same thing
Tag Archives: poem
Personal Effects II
I wrote a poem about loss.
No one died, but all around me there was empty space with the possibility.
When we worry, when the unknowns build into an ugly catastrophe
it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the gravity of it all.
In the stark cavity created by the spidery black legs of a thinly padded plastic chair and the expanse of institutional white tile below
sat the plastic bag
holding the physical items that tied personality to my baby
The ones she doffed for an anonymous starched gown
that dwarfed her inside
all of the unknown
While I sat staring at the obscenely transparent plastic holding but a small part of her.
Personal Effects
There is nothing so sad as a clear plastic hospital bag.
Kite-string thin threaded through plastic puckers
pulling at the corners, ripping at the seams
The material trappings of this world lumped at the bottom
Empty expanse of cellophane spread out for the world to see
Contained for safe keeping
Inconsequential in the aftermath
Who cares for scrunchies and soft socks
When the immaterial has left this mortal coil
Deluged
In nature
I wonder how many streams
is too many streams
Excepting flood stage
what is the maximum
confluence
of streams
Because
we humans
are not smarter
than nature
and yet
we try to support
multiple inputs,
audio video sensual,
all at once
It is no wonder
our consciousness
shuts down
zones out
is washed away
Inertia
Low pressure
in the atmosphere and in an indeterminate one of four tires
13 miles till empty
Critically low levels of battery life
The evidence amasses in the case against energy
A body at rest tends to stay at rest
in these days of the tail end of winter,
the cold strung out to a sparse thread of frost,
the wind a constant movement that won’t blow it away
Weak sun filters through a constant cast
Broken branches brittle and gray
join at intersecting angles
skeletal shapes the only thing of interest on the ground
And yet no where near alive
What no one ever tells you
about your worst bout with whatever mental illness you’ve had
is you’ll put yourself back there
every. other. time. you struggle
forever.
Every time
you get oh so tired
or life’s bitter edge rubs sharp against you
or you just can’t crawl deep enough into the corner of the couch –
You will think,
here it comes again
it’s back
I’m falling down the rabbit hole once more.
And then, a flicker at the edge of your consciousness.
It’s midafternoon; you haven’t taken your meds
The sun hasn’t shone in days
A deep mood does not mean a depressive down swing.
But the feeling is so unsettlingly familiar
it sets off alarm bells
of a flame that once fueled an inferno
Unseen Web
We imbue our mothering with the ghost of our other children
The empty embrace of the one we just sent away
causes us to cling ever tightly to the one in front of us
The overflowing vessel of a love we never got to pour
floods the existence of the next to come into being
It is never only about the child in question
Our actions are the answer to all
the worries
hopes
fears
attachments
neurosis and
emotional stability within us.
It is a web
we can only see
when the sun
alights
on the tips
of frozen blades
of grass
Upbraided
I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm. She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, her fingers working through a small section of it. Though their eyes don’t meet, they are connected by this intimate act And I want to cry For their bond and bonds broken, For the simple when things have gotten so complicated, For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it
Ode-o-meter
Measure distance covered in the length of a song
Imagine geographic area given the musicians to roam
Number songs down before destination done
Hit corner by time clock hits the next minute
Shave time off ETA
Not late until start time elapses
Envision window into where you are
Just how close, closer,
every inch, every minute, every mile
Pray for a well-played EP
The Word
Clerestory
comes to mind
from the white light
spilling down
onto my bed.
A canonical,
conical
shaft from above.
From its singular point of origin,
w i d e n i n g
to envelope me in its illumination.
Just sit
and
Be still.
Breathe in the light.
Chopping Potatoes 