Depression Imagination

A distressing

consequence of my depression

is reduction of everything

to only literal. I see a dahlia

and express nice flower.

Still able to name things,

I say that’s a dahlia,

but nothing more. No starshine,

no tiny village, no lover’s lips
in its showy display.

Observing the short space

between laughing until tears

and the sullen walk home,

I am unable to describe it.

Only when close behind

a port-a-john sloppily

lashed to a pickup truck

do metaphors come in a rush.

With a holy shit

I visualize a vast array

of what could possibly go wrong

but no answers

Late! But whatever. Sharing in the Imaginary Garden for Sanaa’s first Tuesday Platform

That Nagging Sensation

It started with my shirts,

then the cat, photos,

words on paper, one by one,

a slow transformation

barely noticed

Everything monochrome

with rounded edges,

flat

like Keanu Reeves,

completely lacking affect

After an indoor summer

already leaves turn red,

soon will be ash,

& I’m living with ghosts

of people who are still alive

Always a child crying

in our neighborhood,

wails wafted on muslin curtains

otherwise peaceful

in the breeze

What happens to voices

when windows close against cold

with insufficient sun

to hedge

against whispering

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden today

Untitled (8.20.17)

Salty

irreverence

disguised as outrage

dulls Liberty’s promise

expects her

to shine

Uncomplicated micro poetry for Kerry and the Real Toads

Hymn

Read this new poem by Sherman Alexie: HYMN

Reverie

Between

stretchy clouds

   impossibly high

and bass so low

as to bring

vertigo

           Hyper-aware

                of gravity

     nimbus-strong

  and super-wish

           a tractor beam

   would end

All this

Izy’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: WRITING UNSEEN

Connections

The first time it happened

I noticed to myself,

all of us

engrossed in other things.

The next day, we exclaimed

There’s a rainbow!

just as the singer sang

about a rainbow.

We looked at each other.

That’s weird.

It happened yesterday.

Yes. That’s really weird.

We decided to take it

as a good sign.

Flash 55! for Real Toads

With My Daughter at the Ray Touch Tank

Remember how giddy we were,

thrusting our arms

up to the elbow in cold water,

clutching smelt till the rays came

and snuffled them from our hands?

Remember how shocked we were,

squealing with surprised joy,

how tiny teeth felt on our palms

gnawing so gently it tickled

like a cat’s rough tongue?

Remember their smiles,

how we proclaimed cownose rays

the cutest of all living things?

I remember your eyes, glossy

with laughter, and feeling so alive.

Karin’s prompt to the Real Toads: A GLANCE AT NARRATIVE

Working On a Building

What if

this structure exists

only in my mind,

these rooms

in which I pace

tile floors to carpet

are of my imagining,

our talks and lovemaking

the trusses

of my dreaming-home,

our silence and pain

but girders

for a grander scheme than we?

If so, it will take

more than a crane

to bring this baby down--

Late entry for Kim’s weekend challenge: BUILDINGS

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Haiku Observation #4284

Rainy Monday blues--
worn like a home-made afghan,
tastes like cough syrup

Toast & Syrup

No sugar cereal

only Chex or Wheaties

but any day (or every day)

2 pieces of Wonder toast

spread with margarine

cut in 18 fork-size pieces

soaked in Golden Griddle

This breakfast

seems wrong for adults

(or for anyone in 2017)

but would be fulfilling

in a green year

Sharing with the Toads on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Aubade

When the last of the fireworks

fizzles into grey-green night

under a lonely streetlight,

mosquitos retire, drunk,

the air’s as dense as local honey

and sweet, I’ll retire in your arms

Because upon waking, we’ll miss

this thickness portending loss,

the dozen verses sung in darkness

simply for sake of time, and wait

out pacing hours until the chance

again arrives to imbibe on shadows

Late entry for Play It Again in the Imaginary Garden

Springing

Gentle Readers, guess what? A friend from college sent me the September 1987 issue of Kiosk, a literary magazine. He had saved several issues, some including poems of his own, and some with poems written by friends. A poem apparently written by me appears on page 14. What?

I have no memory of this poem, or of the literary magazine, or of submitting anything to same. Or much memory of college, to tell the truth. This poem is not among the small stack of papers I have stashed away from when I was Very Young. But there is no doubt who wrote “Springing,” is there? Wow.

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform with my Toads today, who I know will appreciate this! :)

 

Thursday

I can feel myself retreating

into my own mind while wanting to tell

my friends I love them. I want to do nothing

but lie on the floor holding my kids in my arms

occasionally running off to bed with my husband.

I need to write but want to watch movies, read

a book but my body demands sleep. I want to drink

while sober, take a nap instead of exercise.

I’ll work hard but really want to quit my job,

resist yet surrender. Sparkle and glower. Holler

and whine. I want to run away but stay home.

For Sanaa's prompt in the Garden: OF INSOMNIA AND SLEEP

Little Bow Haiku

Back door wide open
to morning sounds, garden air
like nothing has changed

To/For, About, With

    in loving memory of Tracey McCartney

We balk

at the task of writing

about the life of a beloved

because it seems impossible,

the audacity of eulogizing her

rendering us wordless at first

but we try anyway.

We listen to Neil Peart

for inspiration

to pen stories and poems,

write songs and blog posts,

issue proclamations

using words like fierce

and justice, steady and strong,

talent and uproariousness,

passion and compassion

and love.

We search inside ourselves

for the same qualities,

wondering about the unnamed thing

that draws one person

to another

whether across time

and miles and constant change

or tucked in together

belly to back

every night for eighteen years.

We are drawn to her,

our brightest light.

We warm ourselves nearby.

We curl up beside her,

ever-closer as her flames begin to dim,

fervently scribbling down words

describing how much she means to us.

I wrote this poem for a Celebration of Life this past weekend in Nashville and it was read by Tracey’s spouse Nan. Deep sigh. Much love.

Sharing with the Toads on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden.

The Judgment

Surrounded by beauty

needing no reminders

a peculiarity of souls

lines up to account

for thoughtless actions

The worst that could happen

is likely to happen

& souls judge harshly

but I will persist

as advocacy is my jam

As emerald favors pink

or as moths thrive in moonlight

I’ll observe from the floor

for as long as it takes

then dust off & keep on

I picked a tarot card as suggested by Mama Zen earlier this week, then responded to Magaly’s prompt: I AM MADE OF

Observing Love, Broken Things

I threw open a window

to melancholia

of cold and rainy spring

Lonely breezes blow in

like electricity

raising gooseflesh

straggled strands of hair

All I can think is

there’s so much love

yet everything is broken

 Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden

Birthday

(I wish I had created this. I love it.)

Living Room

Bare walls,

straight chairs--

the only color

in this room

is his black piano

Kim asked the Real Toads to write about a place through a person or a person through a place: PEOPLE AND PLACES

The News Cycle

News charges forward

like the kind of train

that encourages counting

while we wait

behind flashing barriers,

shelters all the hobos

and intellectuals,

expects us to keep up

despite its desperate rush

toward the damsel

approaching the tracks ahead,

anticipates everything

except the cunning of women

who have held too much

for long enough

and are done with all of it,

who are ready to wield power

like never before,

who are ready to strike out

and torque that train

right the hell off its tracks

before we have the chance to say

I think I read that somewhere,

maybe in yesterday’s news

Brendan asked the Real Toads to opine in verse about The News.

#SML

Followed a car

with the plate

   SML

Some drivers might read

   SMALL

   SMELL

   or SMILE

but I could only see

   So

   Much

   Love

and appreciated

the reminder

Susie asked the Real Toads to write a poem from our immediate surroundings: MIXED MEDIA ART (I jotted some notes at a traffic light and wrote this upon arrival. Heh.)