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
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 . . .
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 – 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 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
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
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 . . .
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.
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
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
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