I’m here, still here, and not going anywhere, but please be patient, gentle readers. I’m working on patience, and on being gentle with myself, too. I’ve never been particularly virtuous on either score.
I started a new job two weeks ago. A wonderful job! I’m pleased beyond measure about this change. The clouds seem to be clearing. I’m hopeful that I’ll be in a new groove soon, and that the pretty words will flow more regularly. Meanwhile, working on patience and gentleness.
A meme popped up over on Facebook with a wonderful quote from Sandra Bullock:
I’ve made peace with the fact that the things I thought were weaknesses or flaws were just me. I like them.
Love that. Working on that.
This poem avoids negativity,airs no grievances.This poem cannot bear exposure.This poem wishesthings were different,cannot imagine a pathnot paved with disapproval.This poem settles.This poem has lost 30 pounds,doesn’t want to talk about it.This poem needs a lunch break.
This poem is loosely based on Hanna’s Boomerang Metaphor.
What if red antswith big long antennaeare endangered?We need to rescue themfrom the wading pool!The girl in the flamingo swimsuithones her bug phobia,tends it with extinction concerns.A spider might travel your legif you remainperfectly still,as you are part of its landscape.Maybe you are its destination,or its angel.You surely are mine.
In my dream everybody’s hereand everyone lets goof pain, affronting shame & blame,a miracle or soit seems,to dance as if in dreams,the samein daylight as in night--Let’s dance together without fearof being wrong, or right.
My occasional music prompt is up at Real Toads:
Sky,your cloud tiers,like a wedding dress,all ruffles & chiffon,tease,showing a little leg,& I thank you for that.The acheis manageable now.Where before I bloatedwith the weightof all the absorbing,now I’m lean& mean to lift my skirts,dance, inspired,not in spite of you.I’ll have cake,toss handfuls of rice,release myself--To you, sincerely.
For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: Conversation
What if our days are better spent alonethan searching for that one partic’lar High?The searching, seeking, wandering from homethat leads us out of atmosphere to Sky,awaiting clouds? A perfect Rainbow roamsas far as eyes can see, to rectifythose years undone, so many songs unsung--Our search for Self already has been won.
Outrageously late for Kerry’s prompt: The Yeats Octave
I’d imagineyou’d want to clear out the junkfrom my side of the closetand the litter of toiletriesfrom the bathroom.It’s only practical.I wonderwhen you’d noticemy jar of coffee beansin the cabinet next to the stove,and how long you’d leave it there.Maybe forever.
What is it
that nearly ten years later
is starting to crack
like water pouring off our roof
when the ice dams broke?
You pull me toward you,
not to strike me,
but embracing me in greeting,
like the mountain that loved the bird.
My name is joy.
my head against a pool table
like it was yesterday,
and so I think
your hands at my collarbone
could mean no tomorrow.
I am strong, but you are stronger.
You cradle my head in your hands,
arching toward my lodestone.
You will lead my way.
Sound your horns! I have arrived,
exposed and triumphant.
This poem appears in my first book, Responsive Pleading.