Write Anything ?

Write Anything? Anything at all? The vastness of possibilities is mind numbing.  Okay – got one.  This blogging thing is so much harder than I thought it would be.  I write – love to do it. But on command I get a little stumped.  And setting up the blog for the way I want it to be is enough to make me scream (in deference to my neighbors, its an inside scream so only my head explodes).  Every learning experience I do is fraught with hazard and due to memory issues, I have to reinvent the wheel again and again . . . and again.  If I have to do it a couple of days later, I have to learn it all over.  Then I have to hunt – under rocks, under tables, up in the attic, god knows its not in my head – for where to find information to learn from or where to send it.  So Wednesday is a day like any other for me – “Groundhog Day” Revisited.

Target . . . Me

I was reading a new blog, Awkword and what Michelle has asked us to do in choosing a target audience and I realized not only do I not have one I am aware of, but I don’t know who the target me is.  I have lived alone for 20 years. No dating, not a really active social life, and though there are some reasons why, I also find myself saying, once in a while, why not?

My writing can tend to be somewhat, or very, on the dark side.  I have a low to mid grade bipolar condition.  It keeps me more on the depressed or withdrawn section of life.  I also have a boat-load of physical issues and have for all those years and before. So I suppose I might draw people who have similar issues.  These can range from the conditions: once I was on O2 for 2 12 years and have had asthma, chronic eosinophilic pneumonia, and emphysema in greater or lesser strengths for all my adult life.  Fibromyalgia dogs me. I lost more than 3/4 of my intestines and gall bladder when I went septic and my systems shut down and was in a coma 3 weeks.  When I woke it was to complete loss of muscle memory.  This past year I had back surgery which didn’t help. I’ve had a migraine most of the last three months.  See what I mean?  There is more but that alone can make for a target audience.

I have Traumatic Brian Injury – caused during the coma, but which creates its own set of problems.  My memory is not always reliable. I suppose it is an understatement.  My sister calls it CRAFT – can’t remember a fucking thing.

Because of these factors, I am legally disabled. Work is hard. Complex assignments are too hard to process. Simple assignments bore the crap out of me.  I can’t work too much because Medicaid and my body won’t let me.  So I have been a caregiver for numerous years. I started off as a Business Management Consultant with clients all over the country.  Quite the let-down.

I am a mother of two twenty somethings 3,000 miles away from me and happy that way. They are living their lives well and that is the most any mother could ask.  But I live near my sisters and my 8 year old nieces are my delight.

Oh yes,  I am a recovering drug and alcohol addict – and food.  I have been sober from alcohol for more than 35 years with a 5 year break for a 5 year addiction to prescription pain killers which ended 11 years ago and had a horrible effect of my kids, especially my daughter. So there’s guilt and shame I can’t seem to let go of.

AND – I’ve wanted to be a writer  and missionary all my life.  I’ve been published a few times and I have an opportunity to go on a mission in 2017.  Until then I do what I can here.  I write a lot of poetry, some memoir pieces, and non-fiction articles  about women who have achieved greatness through tremendous adversity.  I write about what I know and want to know; what is inspirational to me and religion and spirituality.

So if you can find a target audience in all that, except that I probably sound very self-involved . . . playing with my navel and all that; let me know. And I still have to figure out pages, widgets, you name it.  Learning to be a good blogger is taking a long time . . . did I tell you about my TBI?

I welcome tips and comments.  I truly want to grow. So give me a hand why dontcha’.

 

 

It’s over

Ahhhhh!  It’s over. No more baking
multitudes of cookies
No more frantic hunting
for just the right gift –
that probably won’ be anyway.
No more parties I
don’t want to be at.

No more listening to Uncle Harvey’s
lame, stupid jokes he s said
every year since I can remember.
No more sloppy kisses from
Great Aunt Gertrude.
No more car, plane, train rides
that seem to last for days,
sometimes more.

Did you see that sweater
my blessed mother gave me,
knitting into the wee hours
of dark, cold night?
Well it will do for the
ugly sweater party next year.

No more watching the uncles
and Dear Old Dad, get smashed,
knocking over the Christmas tree.
Then drive them home –
George lives two hours away!

You know?
I’m actually kind of bored.

Total Eclipse

Electra on the rise
No longer computing
Nordic Amazon on a motorcycle
holding onto a dark rider,
midnight invader
total eclipse . . .
“Never look into the eye
of an eclipse –
you will go blind.”
Is that like “Never eat from
the fruit of knowledge,
of right and wrong?
this blaze huge as
a dripping red pomegranate
blooding the sky,
and the two fearless riders
raiding the early dawn
as the sun rises
with the moon riding
on their backs –
light borrower!
Good that I am, she says,
you’d scorch the earth to death,
without the cool mercury of me.”
and her eyes flashing
green poetry . . .
challenging, “If I go blind, Eclipse,
then maybe I’ll see,” .
They mount the hill,
closer and closer,
she holding on to him,
blond hair whipping them both,
to challenge and charge the night,
morning of the coming day and
and this total eclipse in the sky,
flirting with the elements
of life and death, as always,
this pulsing red ball –
“fuck your logic”
“fuck your irrationality”,
what a time for a
total eclipse of our own.
Dissolving, phosphorescent particles
into the blinding red blaze
backdrop of Summer’s Solstice.
total eclipse of our own.

Opening the door

Opening the door to
that long boarded up space –
you peeked in, beheld
those treasures placed
in the strong hold,
and quietly closed the door,
allowing another the pleasure
of reveling in those gifts.

Though you chose not,
taking the route of less risk,
that key was placed
in the rusty, age-generated lock
making the passage of someone else
a little less difficult,
reducing the resistance
he might find.

Should I thank you
for opening me up
but leaving without
tasting the fruits
Or curse you, for
walking away, leaving
the passage clearer
than ever before?

No one came to remember

She died one night
without warning,
no fan fare, the one time
in a harrowed existence
when silence reigned . . .

Mother of four,
wife to a shell, she fought,
scraped, strove to win wars
against innocent bystanders –
each carrying a glimpse
of a face who had wronged
her in a disturbed past.

The funeral was brief,
lasting no more than 15 minutes.
Even her children debated
whether they could spare
the time to attend.

Now she rests, finally,
a state sought fifty odd years
by all concerned
beneath poison sumac
in a removed corner
of some country cemetery
where few would go
to visit her remains.

The quest completed,
she’s no longer restless
her tomorrows are infinite
no more worry about bills,
callous children,
an inept husband.

After so many hard years
she is at peace, under the sumac
in a country cemetery’s dark corner
where none will go to
remember her . . .

Yet, none
will ever forget her . . .

 

 

The Door

 

The door moves in the breeze –
gently swinging back and forth
not quite sure if it wishes
to completely close,
locking out intruders
from the harbor of the home . . .

. . . or swing wide, allowing
all interested parties
permission to enter the sacred
hollows of an empty vestibule.
To “pillage and plunder”
or bow in reverence
to the deities inside.

Perhaps a gatekeeper
would be the answer.
He alone holding that
secret password which when
voiced grants passage, secret words
or gestures symbolizing mutual
understanding an respect,
a silent promise no to violate
the treasures that lie within.

Yes, a gatekeeper seems
the best solution,
for we all know don’t we
doors have no minds,
they operate by outside stimulus,
gentle hands or barking orders.
The door, holding so much power,
fails to see its own authority,
allowing others to govern
its destiny
.

Shady Sady

Hiding away in her private
world of poetry and blankets
wrapped tight for protection
from the elements, wanting
fulfilment of desires
but unwilling to seek them . . .

Shady Sady, eyes of grey –
living in a land of half shadows
and misty images,
floating away into other hands.

Sad-eyed girl of forty,
wanting mother’s arms tight
about her – a father, loving and kind,
to make all decisions, ease
all burdens.  Wishing her daughter
the life she lacked courage to lead.

God damn it! Go for it baby!
Hold that head high!
Be haughty. Have an air
of self-contentment.
Your love won’t be found
in pages of books –
or wishful fantasies.

Seek out your desires,
reach for happiness,
even blankets get holes in them.
Nothing is perfect.

Yet you turn your head
in pensive wondering,
shy denials of insecurities
deeply penetrating.
And sit – reading words of others,
rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth . . . .

Wanderer

 

Are you just another sailor,
a girl in every port
guided by winds of time
and vague visions?

If so, what am I?
One more casual fancy,
a new lite of love
to fill lonely hours,
keeping moments from
being wasted?

Don’t answer that query,
Let me dream on
in contented ignorance.
My mind may know reality
but the heart yearns
to remain in splendiferous
fantasy – ignorant
to truth, wanting the lie

Relationships

THE VICTIM

Her eyes, wellsprings of pain,
hinting of torture,
black circles under rims,
dark enough to leave one to ask,
whether they are bruises or not?
Movements covert,
a shrinking in upon oneself,
cowering in anticipated trauma,
knowing too well
one hit follows another,
but desperately trying to fend off
the next,
standing in a void, an emptiness
of pleasure, thinking somehow
these blows are restitution
but of what she can’t fathom.
An atonement of some past life.
Not willing to speak out,
to draw attention to herself,
the glimmer of life though
still seeks to shine,
in the trembling beauty,
the grace of hand,
a consciously remembered
knowing of her right to exist.
She will persevere,
and, hopefully survive.
Her body no longer carrying bruises,
her soul remembering
but no longer blanketing itself
in pain.

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