Desert dry.
I could say I'm busy and distracted, which is true, but not totally true. My writing mind feels as though it's been tampered with, or the Eye of Sauron is boring into it and my brain and psyche is shrinking back in a silent scream of too-much-awareness.
It's true that my mind has been tampered with. I've had to drop a few nuts and bolts and monkey-wrenches in there to try and straighten it out, but so far it only makes a grinding sound and shoots out a few sparks, and isn't fixed.
All to make a humble apology for not posting the rest of the story chapters (see last entry if interested), or anything else, and yep I know we all go through times where we don't have a lot to say.
Ecclesiastes tirade on meaningless! meaningless! seems appropriate at the moment, oh and the vanity part, also.
Well, this is depressing.
I'll not come back on until I have something nice to say.
In the meantime, I've dug through my phone (which I am trading in this week, or next, or whenever I can drag myself to Telus) and uncovered a few poems for those of us of a poetic bent. They range from 2009 or so to the present-ish.
Feel free to comment or criticize; my skin is getting thicker. For example, "This poem is dumb. I don't get it at all! Are you crazy?" would be acceptable, along with, "I think you're a genius and must be published immediately or the world will shrivel and die for lack of art!" which is also acceptable.
Please keep in mind that the Poet (me) is not the Speaker (the voice of the poem). Or not always, anyway. Meaning it is not necessarily ME as the Speaker in the poem.
Okay now.... let's see....what do we have here....
Aha.
Vertigo
In dreams I walk
Not yet awake,
not quite asleep.
The precipice of
unreality tilts strangely.
Thoughts reveal
themselves and focus,
then dim and
fade.
Objects float
past my vision.
I need to run,
to speed quickly on,
but I’m held
here by this edge.
Jagged and
unruly,
Dangerous and
wild,
Is the sign of
sanity that I appear so mild?
Dreams that held
me spellbound
have turned to
air in hand,
and vertigo, my
polar star
is over on its
end.
Lost old souls
will understand.
My time is going
back and forth
across the face
of hours and days.
The sands of
time are quick.
I’ve propped my
image up
With spoons and
forks and knives,
Running fast! I
will not have to hear the crash –
I’ve disappeared
inside my mind.
Lonely feels
sweet like coffee sugar
crystals on the
tongue
walking alone in
the blue space of a summer sky
watching the
people on the ground.
Friends I meet
here are not around.
I’ll wait, but
there’s a dismal sound.
Hiding
I hide behind smiling eyes, smiling mouth –
a flash of teeth, a twinkle
a poised approach.
A little speech, a set of shoulders –
swish of papers, click of heels
a dip of head.
I retreat. Feel the papery surface with
Surprise!
You thought there was a person here.
Warm welcoming look, touch of a real hand.
I’m sorry. She’s not in right now, but leave a message,
no doubt will be back soon,
only it has been a long, lonely time.
Paper only lasts so long.
Merely embers warm to the hand.
Too late –
Fires burned in secret smoke and fume,
then ashes come.
I hide behind the twinkle you mistook for fire.
It’s ice.
Windswept Days
The only moment in all the
space of
these windswept days that I
feel
The only time I feel peace
and
happiness is when
Our eyes happen to run in to
each other
for a moment
A dragged out moment that
stops all
the voices
And laughing, smiling faces
for a
moment and I feel
The only time there is peace
is when
our eyes meet
In the grey storm-cloud and
it rains and
thunders but
In the glance away the
still-bright sun
colors all the faces
And the painted dog chases a
stick and
a spoon stirs the coffee
Loud clinks chasing away the
beautiful lull
where the grey
Storm-clouds of your deep
eyes breathe
kindness into my
Dried-up fractured soul.
That’s the only
time.
