Revisions, Revisions, on and on

I am currently in the process of setting up pages.  New posts are going in. Old posts are being switched to their proper page.  Given that my TBI gets in the way of everything I do and I keep forgetting so have to relearn how to do the most basic tasks, it will be a while before I get it the way I want.  Please be patient and hunt around. Writings may show up where you least expect them.  Thank you my friends.

Dreams and Choices

DREAMS

In dreams are visions born and choices made,
slipped under the skin before
the consciousness can react
making stands which force resolution.

Once I dreamt of living my dreams
in happiness and fulfillment.
Laughing with friends, stimulating, enriching,
finally within a circle of balance, goodwill and peace.

You came and held out
the long grasp of your hand, and I
full knowing the losses, feeling great pain
of their removal from my life,
took the offered hand and turned my back
on the warmth of open acceptance.

But still could not resist
one last look back, eyes brimming with sorrow,
at the choice I was making,
deep inside knowing it wrong,
but thinking I could change him,
heal his sorrows, end his pain.

Lot’s wife understood
the burning need for the last look,
to what she knew, she understood
even though she
would be forever turned to salt.

One darting look back,
forever turned to stone,
a lesson I must remind myself
each time your hand
extends to mine.

The Dreaded DMV Story

‘Da Dreaded DMV story

Reading Atypical 60’s blog today reminded me of the nightmare I underwent when I moved to Connecticut.  It wasn’t the lines – although they were there.  It wasn’t the hot, heavy, rank smell of sweat, although that was there as well.  It was about the persecution of a woman that could never be done to a man, simply because, he was a man.

I had all my little documents in my hands as I spent a couple of hours in line, to be told to go stand in another line (well, this time I could sit).  When finally called up to the representative, I was told I had to provide proof of all the times I changed my name during my life.

That presents a few difficulties.  Two marriages, a business name, the name I used between marriages, the name I used after both ended. Oh, and my maiden name. Additionally, I am someone who has trouble staying put.  I’ve lived in about 15 places in my life.  My dad was a minister and they tend to be trotted here and there at the District’s/Bishop’s whim. So that was a few in New York and Connecticut.  I was born in Kentucky (1)  while my dad was in college.

Then there were my life choices. (2) A marriage and move to New Jersey. (3)A divorce with a name change but instead of using the American spelling of my maiden name, I chose the Norwegian spelling. A move to California and marriage a couple of years later (4). Since I was already using my business name (5), I incorporated it into my marriage name (6). Backtrack . . . We got married in Seattle, Washington. One more state of paperwork.  Then there was there was the eventual divorce number 2. I chose to adopt my grandmother’s maiden name because I wanted to honor my father but I was damned if I would ever take a man’s name again (7) once I had moved to Connecticut and the divorce was finalized. I am only grateful because I didn’t also have to provide proof of residence, just state, or it would have been another 7 or 8 places.  I am terrified that down the road I’ll have to show proof of my Facebook name or my email address or other internet names which will need to be included.

I had to go back to the DMV five times.  Each time it was to face the lines only to find out I needed something more or different or from another department in one state or another. Finally I had enough!!!  I called my State Representative and explained the persecution I was undergoing.  Within a week I was granted my license. I didn’t even have to stand in line.  However, when my renewal comes, I will have to finish this process DMV declares just.  I may take them to court.  I realize this has some vague connection to NATIONAL SECURITY but let’s be real – this is ridiculous!

I have one question?  Would this happen to a man?

Emergence

The plants knew it first                                            
suddenly wanting more water
shoots thrusting out
fast and faster
some an inch or two a day
all stretching toward
the single set of windows
in my apartment called home.

The weather thought about it
a little more . . .
just a few days
mulling it over
asking itself if it really
wanted to exert the energy
to make plants grow
and goats give birth
and people to stop for no reason at all
turning their faces to the sky,
bemused expressions on their faces.

The wild geese had been returning
for the past few weeks
carrying hope
on their wingtips,
but few had time to believe their cries.

Its the day when people
bring out the outdoor cushions
maybe a bit premature
but wishful nonetheless

Soon the sand scrapers will be
brushing the roadways
screeching and thudding their way
down pothole pavement
as trucks come out with steaming vats
full of tar to fill the worst
of the worst.

My restless legs must take a walk
looking sharply for the crocus’
first peek through the ground,
two birds hastening o build their nest,
ferns unfurling
and wait for the wild leeks
to show their two bunny ear leaves.

Its time to re-establish
life is worth living
and I was meant
to be a part of it.

Picture by Marty Dugan

Which am I

Once so cautious
to speak my mind,
and acknowledge that more
existed than fear
behind these placid spheres
of liquid knowledge.
Past points of confusion,
round dimly lit corners
of despair –
I seek the faint glow
of illumination
through phosphorescent images
of truth and understanding.
Pretending an ignorance –
false and impure
so as to protect
a fragile ego
from being trampled
by those more powerful
more forceful and strong,
but ignorant nonetheless
or their callous branding
of silence of stupidity.
Now, to speak vehemently
in more persuasive tomes
about subjects familiar
and search for comprehension
among vacant minds
peering in bleak dismay
as they seek to absorb
my convoluted logic –
am I the trampler
or the tramplee?
Have I, in my eloquence,
become more stupid
than I was before . . .
as I attempt to spread
purity and wisdom
among fellow blind souls?

 

Without A Voice

WITHOUT A VOICE

His touch whispered against her flesh,
softly, gently, weaving a pattern
of infinite acceptance
of the safety of his arms within
which she felt,
of the sanctity of their home
which they had built together,
and the murmured sighs
of the children they created . . .

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

They had such looks for each other
sending others questing
for the secret so obviously born
in the passion they shared.
And gazing into his eyes,
she felt she was falling
into he liquid pools of green amber,
a falling away from herself
into ways of her choosing.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

For within the quietness of his voice
roared a rage which scorched her,
though rarely shouted,
its timber reverberated  through her body
causing the cells to bang
against each other,
the skin to break forth in bruising.

Yet within the voiceless plea
echoed through her veins,
take me to freedom,
no more despair.

Never did his arm raise to strike
but his words bore a power,
far greater than physical force,
for once the wound heals,
the mind forgets, and beatings
feather about the edges
of blurred memory,
but words give birth
to inflictions of the soul,
and lie manifest in bruises
born on the flesh,
as silent legacy
to what her own words
cannot speak.

 

 

 

 

 

Butterfly

Wings of satin gossamer
lie still at her side,
waiting to catch uplifting currents
to soar free, unfettered,
able to glide higher and higher
spiraling to undreamed of heights.

The time is soon.
She has fought through the
cocoon binding which
encased her,
holding her close . . .
bound, confined, stultified.

Patience is needed,
she has done the footwork
and needs only wait
a bit longer
before the winds to freedom
carry her to a flower
of her own choosing,
to meet her destiny
with courage and pride.

To be the butterfly
she was always destined
to become.

 

Misplaced Rage

Huddled on the sidelines
I watch
as you argue, berate
those to whom anger
does not belong . . .

Yet understand,
for learning confrontation
is a painful process
taken in tiny steps
a little at a time,
until strength is gained.

And you know,
even as the argument wanes
understanding of your actions
shines clearly in your eyes,
and that haunted look
of a child who has wronged
creeps across your brow.

But the time
has not yet come
for anger to be placed
where it belongs –
inner pain still holds
too firm a grasp,
and fear of rejection
looms as too harsh a reality.

Better the waiter,
life guards, clerks, delivery people –
they are accustomed
to undeserved pettiness . . .
soon the day may come
when you can look your tormentor
in the eye and spit back
the grief and rage
hoarded in years of submissiveness.

But for now –
where does the waiter go
at day’s end
and who becomes
the unwilling victim
of his pain . . .
where does the cycle end?

I walk down
a leaf-strewn street
and glance upon a dog
with tail tucked between legs –
and cry . . .

The Mask of Reality

A kaleidoscope of colors,
brilliant and beautiful,
adorning her majestic countenance,
she flickers her rainbow
of glorious delight, catches
the breezes . . . and flies.

Those watching from lowly places,
bow in reverence to her
stunning splendor, failing
to realize her abundance
of colors covers an aching heart
weeping for the safety
of a silken cocoon.

Never understanding for they
don’t reach past beauty,
content to remain
in superficialities,
wanting what they see
to be what they know,
and n more – they
speak in hushed tones – –
of loveliness and gentleness –
as they watch her
fluttering among the petals.

One day she no longer
will grace the garden flowers
and forget they will –
later, when other
lovelies pass in sight,
they’ll exclaim of
beauty again,
failing to remember
a day in the past
when a beautiful butterfly
with head held low,
looked with despair
into vacant eyes –
then quietly flew away.

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