Category Archives: Me and my shadow

Dreadland

I’ve fallen into Dreadland,

the well seems to grow deeper

as I fall, bottomless,

dark, mossy, with

brackish water sliming

stones, drip by drip.

Incessantly wet.

I try climbing

tearing nail one after another

only to fall back

into the morass of despair.

Night shadows darker

until finally . . .

I chance to gaze up

to see the stars

glistening in beauty

showing me there’s another direction

and giving me strength

to begin the climb to freedom

once again

 

Ileostomy

The bag bites. It hangs flaccid,

a visceral reminder

of what I no longer have.

 

I hunger all the time,

a response to a lack of storage

to drink, drink, drink

so dehydration isn’t one more problem

to be contended with.

 

But that means a massive outlay

of excrement… effluence … shit

 

They say to name it,

to bond with the stoma.

to make it my own, my pal.

Yeah, I’ll bond with that hole

that erupts when I’m out

and covers my clothes

with rank leavings.

 

Well my PAL is named ASS

because that is what it now is.

An opening surgically made

like a sausage, it’s casing oozing.

 

Sitting on my belly so pretty

a little rosette,

7/8 of an inch wide, 1/2 of an inch high

proudly proclaiming center stage.

 

All attention, all honor,

an entire body held hostage

by something perverse.

 

But …at least  . .  .  I’m alive . . .

A query to viewers

There is no science in determining what to write and how to write it.  There are some topics I’ve noticed people are drawn to more but I can’t write about them exclusively.  It is also true that I don’t want to write about the same topics over and again. Even if they draw viewers.  It wouldn’t be authentic or real.  I’d simply be pandering to the largest numbers.

On the other hand, I don’t want to waste viewers’ time by posting things that don’t appeal to them.  I just wish I knew what the magic formula is.

I have to admit, some of my greatest views have been poems written 20 or 40 years ago.  (Yes, I am an old relic.)  It is disheartening as I’d like to think I have grown as a writer in the years since.

But I can see my style has definitely changed over the years.  I don’t waste time on melodrama now.  Flowery prose doesn’t excite me.  I’m more to the point.  I cut to the chase with what I have to say.

Some of the pieces I’m proudest of don’t attract any views, like “The Ravages of a Man”, a short story I’ve written over a number of years.  Meanwhile, love poems seem to find an audience.  Trouble is, I’m not in love and haven’t been in many years.  And my rants, those I’d be better off not writing, no one wants to hear about them.

I would welcome feedback about what you like and what interests you.  Not just in my writing but on the world’s stage.  I need new ideas to percolate on.  I want to contribute meaningful work.  I know my book has meaning but I don’t print it here.  That you might enjoy.

So please, take a moment to let me know your thoughts. I need to stretch my wings a bit and the interchange between you and I would be welcome.

Walls

Walls – safe, predictable walls

Not meant for scaling

Or maneuvering around

Not even meant for

Sitting on a sunny day

 

Walls have a purpose

You stay there

I lick my wounds here

Thou shalt not

Echoing in my cries

 

I never realized

How intrinsic a part

Of me walls are

Bet you were surprised

To see them

 

How can I conduct

A relationship from

My ivory tower

If walls come tumbling

And I stand unguarded

 

It may be that walls

Were not meant to define

But to take a breather behind

Perhaps – but I am naked

Without wall comfort

Don’t try to shatter my walls

Or you may find them

Shattering me.

Our Sixties

Our Sixties are

the time of

self-acceptance

when our faces

shift from middle

age to the planes

and lines of our

elder path

Except for those

bicycle enthusiasts

our bodies sag

with the weight

of a life lived hard

We know ourselves

and do not hold

our heads in shame

This is the time

of release from

obsessive worries –

a time when we

set ourselves free

A Wrinkle

A wrinkle
slit depression in my skin
lying slightly off plum
so I find myself mirror hopping
seeking whether it will fall
hanging down like a drunken sailor
whose feet are mired in netting,
or extend out as crow’s feet.
Deep sighs abound
for I’d rather have
the illusion of something
created by laughter
than the droop of a line
dragged down by depression.
I suppose it is inevitable
in its coming
I am aging . . .
my body clearly shows it,
gravity worked its travesty
But I can forget my body
in my mind’s eye
so quick to forgive and forget
it does not fit the mind’s image
But in a mirror capture
of my reflection, there is
no hiding from the inevitable
so that slight depression
is acknowledgment no amount
of glitter will ever fool others
into believing this old hag
ain’t gonna be kickin’ those heels
in any young girl’s dance

Purging the Soul

Only now can she say
her soul has been purged
scraped raw, exorcizing
that which is best left behind

She has slumbered long
passing through months
followed by years
with the faintest of life-giving energy

Perhaps the past held its  merits
but those were not honored
and in the deepest, darkest night
merged with dreams as fools fodder

Awakening comes with acknowledgment
those omissions raucously colliding
with acts of substance

How does she feel anything less
than complete and utter shame?
her days are more numbered
than most and having less

She sees her squandered actions
Her thefts of objects, honor and time
so trivial, yet from desecration
comes her only hope of renewal

Let it come . . .

Crone Status

I no longer look for Mr. Right,
can’t envision him in my space
can’t see myself naked under the light,
not the vision to behold
I care to share.

The man I might want
has nothing to do with this reality,
wouldn’t be attracted
to this hag worn body
ragged at the seams
creaking joints making
a cacophony of noise

Looking back –
I skated the edge
of marginalization
for more years
then I care to admit.
Looked at life darkly
groveled, debased myself,
making self-pity an art form

But now I am willing to shoulder
crone status and its implications.
No young God will warm my bed
I take comfort in its space
in wearing old, worn bedclothes
with no one looking askance at me

My body can make all the noises
a symphony makes
sore bones moaning
arthritis crackling.
Cat curled against my back
on inky dark, windswept nights.

The Moment in Change

Pen poised in mid-air,
with mind musing upon
the course of destiny,
vaguely wandering in
floating traipses
shooting off into future dreams
forgetting the moment
given in tender love
for cautious care.

So quickly do I flee
from the pressures of time
into a world of imaginary dreams,
mystical illusions and cryptic
messages – forgetting that
only through a full living
does the journey seem brighter
and the path clearer . . .

When caught between
past and future
I stand in terror,
eyes fearfully turning first
one way then another
but never straight ahead –
fogs swirl in clouded images
through the mind
leaving behind a tension
of confusion.

Today is only like any other . . .
the past is all that is seen,
the future lies in a heavy
cloak, blocking out fresh air.

But the moment – if relished
for itself – treasured among all
others for it’s radiance, its life –
is a gift of the gods
given to the weary
to instill hope and faith
that other moments such as these
are there for the taking
and just as freely given

 

Vast Reaches

The time has come
to search beyond fears
and trepidations of
long instilled torments
and reach for pinnacles,
scary but alluring,
rather than remaining
sequestered behind walls
built to protect,
to put the soldier,
always holding the fort,
maintaining structure
and security to rest
to experience peaks and valleys,
of knowledge and understanding,
loving and letting in,
sharing and fighting . . .

It is a time
for new beginnings,
an exploration of the sense,
questing for gratification,
in opening oneself up
to the frailties and strengths
never before explored.

The time has come
to love, to like, to play
… to be and be with,
to be at home
within the vast reaches
inside myself