Poetry 7-11-2024

Sometimes I like to pick up random notebooks, lying around my desk (there are several) and crack open the pages like looking in a dusty box in the attic. No reference to when or where it was last filled and sealed. Sometimes I find pieces of myself that had scribbled themselves on pages. Once out of my brain, I forgot about them. Sometimes I recognize that girl, shining on the page. Sometimes I long to be her. Sometimes, I am sad for her. Here’s a relic from a random ‘box’. (I should really put dates on these things)

Celestial

Oh, the lengths of letting go
I've undergone
This sun rises and sets and entire worlds
are made and destroyed
stars I once thought I revolved around,
sure that chaos would run the darkness if ever
I left their orbit
sputter and fade into nothing

Because the power of a world is
the power that I give it
The fire of a sun
springs from My well
The light in the dark is borne in
My heart
It did not exist before me
It will die without me
and so it goes
ever in the throes of change

So I'm not breathing life
into any more poisonous coals
they can suffer and wane
in the cold of my celestial shadow
in the passing of their time
and the Rebirth of mine

they will revolve around Me
as I am the center
they are just cold rocks,
caught in my gravity
I care not, I notice not
if they stick around
or become lost and distant sedimentary trash
pulled away from me
by their own faulted inertia

I continue on
always

Shooting The Curl

Something changed in the last month, my friends. Something kind of big. I didn’t really feel it at first, much like a solar flare or an earthquake a thousand miles away. The gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings somewhere in Malaysia. That’s how it began. Just an itch. A bit of a tickle…

You see, for the past seven or so years I’ve been on this track, inspired by the loss of a friend who left this dizzying ride far too soon. The day his light went out, I vowed to shine mine brighter; to burn out if necessary, but to always, always push towards my desires and passions.

And I succeeded in many respects. I achieved goals I had set, I went forth, even with paralyzing fear, to put myself and my work out there, to try new things, to live each day as if death might snatch me in my sleep.

And it’s a beautiful way to live. But no one mentions how hard it is to burn that intensely for so long. It’s nearly impossible to sustain in any healthy way. And I ended up sustaining it in not so healthy ways. Losing sleep, detrimental coping mechanisms, the overwrought sense of always being tired and worn out. Damage to my physical body. Damage to my mental health.

That’s when the butterfly fluttered somewhere in the distant neurons of my brain, and inspired this rising tsunami.

Living like you might die is a great way to get shit done. But I think I’m coming to grips with the idea that I might not go out like a candle extinguished, surprising and fast. That maybe, I’ll make it to 98…and if that’s the case, I have to slow my roll enough to make those fifty-some years just as beautiful and full.

Well, watch the wave come in…

I have to learn to slow the moments down. I am learning to say no to what doesn’t bring me joy. I am learning that not every day, week, month, year is the day, week, month, year that will see startling changes and massive accomplishments.

Sometimes I won’t get out of my pajamas all day. Sometimes, even after being a meticulous worker for most of my life, I won’t take the extra shifts. I may even put on a few pounds and kick my fucking scale to the curb.

Because I’m learning to save my effort for the things that really matter.

I’m committing myself to the things that fill my time with meaning.

This life-altering shift has helped me take a hard pass on things that have only been important because they mattered to the other people oscillating nearby. It’s got me skipping out on the mundane shit that doesn’t serve the purpose of my joy. Most importantly, it’s giving me permission to let go of people who don’t deserve my time or energy.

Does that mean I walk around being an asshole to everyone, shirking my commitments, and letting the laundry and bathroom scum build up to disgusting proportions? No. Because I might not die tomorrow, but if I did, I’m not going to leave a dirty mess behind me.

But does it mean if the bathroom looks fine but for a few spots on the mirror and some toothpaste in the sink I’ll put aside my ten pages of editing to clean it up?

Not any more.

Does it mean I’ll take all the jobs I can get, pro bono, because my platform ‘needs’ the solid underbelly from it?

Not any more.

My time is worthwhile, my craft is worthwhile. And if I don’t get any more of those little side jobs because they cost even the kindest, well-intentioned acquaintances then at least I will have the time that they took for me. And that’s priceless.

Does it mean I’ll drop my precious hours of writing, or family time, to take on a few extra shifts at my part-time jobs?

Not anymore.

Does it mean I’ll sign up for the time consuming races that guarantee I’ll end up with some injury, just for the ‘glory’ of bragging rights and the ‘challenge’?

Not this year.

I think I’m done with bragging. I’ve proven I can rise to challenges and I think I’m good with getting over giant accomplishments. I think I’m going to shoot the curl of this tsunami and ride it out…let it take me past all of the underlying reasons and expectations of others and do what’s best for me.

After all, I’ve only got half my life left. I spent a great deal of the first pleasing others, trying to anticipate and follow through with what they expected and needed of me.

I think it’s time I shook up some of those misperceptions.

 

VerseDay 1-31-19

The last day of the month of new beginnings.

How goes it in your world? Did you evoke change? Did you come to terms with what you are and are not?

Big questions. I blame the sinus meds.

Enjoy a little verse, carry it with you today as you head into the next month of possibility.

 

Bricks and Stitches

 

The cocoon of pleasantries

A trap of sorts,

to keep at bay the dark undercurrent of 

what this heart aches to shout.

I lay, brick by brick,

this wall…this shelter

to keep the storm inside.

Pin the chaos down, 

safely tuck it away,

guard what is true, in its own alluring ugliness.

I’ll bluff the hell out of this hand

of clubs and hearts,

and keep it close to my chest.

Though it flutters against my throat,

a tickle of cough, a threat of reveal.

The magician’s trick 

exposed and flooding secrets over the sharp edges,

like an infected wound held too long with faulty stitches.

less magic,

and more disease simmering.

I try to hold it all inside,

by bricks or stitches, magic and pins

keeping it to myself,

so only my heart suffers the weight.