Rhythm of the Light

Ten aren't enough

2012-01-26T21:48:00.000-08:00

stop, Stop! Stop the pain!

"Ten fingers and toes",

sigh, watch as he grows.

stop, Stop! Stop the truck!

He hit the lamp post,

for he didn't look back.

stop, Stop! Stop the driver!

He's gone in the twilight

and forgotten his headlights.

stop, Stop! Stop the trip!

He's left home

without his phone.

stop, Stop! Stop for gas!

The tank was low

and he had no cash.

Even if stopped, silent, and still,

our son at the wheel

gives me the chills.

(True story, just because we can count 10 fingers and toes at birth, doesn't mean he'll keep them!)

Woman of the vine to Gilgamesh:

2012-01-22T21:58:00.000-08:00

As for you, Gilgamesh, let your belly be full,

make merry day and night.

Of each day make a feast of rejoicing,

Day and night dance and play!

Let your garments be sparkling fresh,

your hair be washed, bathe in water.

Pay heed to the child holding your hand,

Let your spouse delight in your embrace.

(...for death is the fate of man.)

This the advice from the Epic of Gilgamesh, as the king searched for immortality and mourned the loss of his beloved brother and companion. Written on clay tablets 2000 years BC in Mesopotamia. Have we learned it yet?

My poetry reading nights

2012-01-19T23:56:00.000-08:00

Where you read from anunfolded square,

drawn as a handkerchief

to catch my tears

and blow my nose.

Where you whisper

prayers to the gods of life

and rattle charms of beaded and feathered gourds

against the chains of death,

Where your hands press openthe pages

awarded satin ribbon markers,

the corners creased

by fingers licked with achocolate tongue,

Where men chant

as softly as the mother

who closes her eyes to sing

to an infant in the dark,

Where women bare the shame of

irregular butts and bloodypanties,

and where I have to imagine you

in yourwrinkled and sweaty underwear

just to have the courage toenter here…..

Where a slap in the face

might as well be on my upendednewborn butt

and I still find the courageto see you

in your wrinkled underwear,

just to read to you, here, tonight…. 1-19-2012 DGG

2012-01-10T06:42:00.000-08:00

Lowest winter
sun rose
warming inner
window pane

Wind Dervishes

2011-12-01T08:08:00.001-08:00

A rushing

like water falling

calls me.

I try to face,
and brace against
an animalistic air.

I follow leaves

like dervish dancers

leading flight

from trees

who let go

overnight

Oars

2011-11-24T17:29:00.001-08:00

"There comes a time",
said the sage
to the drenched woman,
"to use your arms as oars."

"When the mother of all
storms surges its
crushing waves,
pounding and plowing
across the bow,
and tears through sails
as through your lungs,
and against your ribs
like spars,
it's time to reach
your arms as oars.

Your oars are
smooth and broad,
oak old and oak hard,
polished by oil,
smoothed by sweat,
and molded by toil.

They will guide the bow,
align the sheer,
override the surf,
undermine the tempests,
and hold
the old boat
afloat."

WEATHERING THE STORM

2011-11-08T08:23:00.000-08:00

Wind pushes loose bodies around, and through them
we are space
Rain blankets down, running rivulets through
we are water
Waxing gibbous moon, one eye open in view
we are light

(funny how life changes make unseen storms in a potentially tranquil world)

2011-10-27T06:08:00.000-07:00

Moonless shadows fall

on straight stone paths in stillness

beyond briared woods.

2011-10-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

Rory hit the wall with a silence,
like the sound a skull drum shakes.
Rory felt like a clay pot
crumbled before it bakes,
in oven-hot hands that
burn til they ache.
Rory lost grip, felt as brittle sticks
snapping beneath tines of a rake,
without an ounce, an inch,
a peck, a pinch it might take
to understand how
an olive-pit breaks.

serendipity in a paradox #12

2011-10-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

Change

Caught in

autumnal

incessant

hazey heat

reflections,

the first storm

urges

before it

a windforce-cold

sand-bit feel.

Dearest low

barometric

dive

lifts me

from my seat.

See, there

blown

upon gusts

three turkey vultures

play with it's force,

bringing my eyes

winging

out of my head

so my heart

can watch the leaves

change.

making rope

2011-09-29T23:19:00.000-07:00

We held each end, spread

five times the need apart, handles

smooth and firm, twine doubly doubled

rat-tails, porcine bristled, porcupine fine.

Twisting, taught, tonal, tight,

you held firm, leaned against its pull,

I spun the handle, and wound it round,

tough, alive, coiled and stretched the spring.

Preconceived, at the cusp of curling,

a third hand becomes anchor, midway holding

half of each snaking together, weaving one wound braid.

Capable of unraveling, we hold onto the knot.

(I have learned to make rope from twine. The process becomes magic in the hands of boys, with a t-shaped dowel and nail tool, spinning the twine tightly until it folds upon itself in a coiled rope.

I am learning to keep a relationship from unraveling, like a rope maker, we need to tie up loose ends)

divining pool

2011-09-16T23:05:00.001-07:00

Pool viewing:

smooth surfaced, obscuring depths,

images reflected, mixing into water,

fluid yielded, encompassing forms,

surface roiled, dispersing views,

for a cool drought, quenching relief.

Three-quarter moon

2011-09-10T08:03:00.000-07:00

The three-quarter moon turned away from me tonight,
her full lips set, jaw edged tight,
war-paint eyes turned to the right,
the three-quarter moon cut shadows with light.

The three-quarter moon
took away the stars,
took away the sea,
took away the clouds,
for a two-toned realm of fog
and isles,
above the horizon line,
hills underfoot,
one step
from the sky,
alabaster lit.

Indian Summer

2011-09-04T22:52:00.000-07:00

Apple jelly, wood cutting,

pear pie, windows shutting.

Arms of grapevines growing mounds

arching greens upon the ground.

Buckeyes fruit, late and sallow,

leaves dropping first to fall.

Thick and prickly flesh rises

to night’s sightless icy breezes.

Sun hides, static, pallid

within a seamless, cloudless pall.

The Mother’s hills are

thinned and brown

where soles of summer

have worn her down.

Don’t, yet, give in to the cold.

Don’t, yet, let it take hold.

Put the woolen sweater back.

Rest sandaled feet in the Mother’s talc.

Open the window,

wrap in Her afgan,

draw heated breath

with every the pass of the fan.

Crickets still summon

honeysuckle's song

for Indian Summer

just
around the corner.

Serendipity in a Paradox, cont.

2011-09-01T08:51:00.000-07:00

Broken Glass

The pan shattered,
from oven to stovetop
who knew the burner was hot?
Rich chocolate creamy brownies
smelling acrid,
suddenly exploded
all over her
all over her feet
all over the kitchen
all into tears.
Shards of glinting needles
and burned cake
picked, wiped,
swept, hunted.

What a relief
for once,
something
tangible
to fix.

but if your heart flutters

2011-08-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

But if only your heart became wings

transparently suspending the hummingbird,

but if only your heart became a moth

springing upon a chaotic meandering,

but if only your heart became eyelashes

tapping views into thoughts into view again,

but if only your heart became a leaf-

flag signaling autumn upon a twig,

but if only your heart became a candle flame

to strobe past visions of night,

but if only your heart became a bow

percussing trills to poetic strings,

but if only your heart became fingers

straining for increments of strength,

but if only your heart became a curtain

laced for the gazing wind,

but if your beat became only a flutter

we would hold it in our hands forever.

-for Robin, may your great heart beat strong.

DGG 8-24-11
photo: h.g. giese

guess again

2011-08-22T23:55:00.000-07:00

Hitch a hike

lift with praise

pick a penny

reap a raise

what am I?

Point the finger

judge the sucker

name the owner

be the mother

what am I?

Flip this member

from a pocket

the longer the better

this bird will say f...orget-it.

what am I?

slip the band

onto the fourth one of the hand

but make the world understand

you aren't owned by any man

what am I?

the fifth is the grip

if too loose, it spills lids

if painful it will slip

or get hooked on a lip

what am I?

Shaking a fist

busting meat to the bone

cracking knuckles in a scrape?

...an open palm

can give

or own...

This is a photo of therapeutic silver rings, used to improve alignment and function and prevent further deformity in fingers damaged by arthritis. Look up: "Silver Ring Splints" online.

Serendipity in a paradox #11

2011-08-17T06:57:00.001-07:00

Out of darkness into light

Before the dawn,

the land is void

shifting between chasm

snd cliff face.

From undifferentiated darkness

a vaporlit film forms

in the vanishing points:

sourceless, pervasive.

Sensing massiveness

evolving:

onyx edges

cut the firmament.

Moving into emerging

valleys, vales and voids:

envision indefinite shapes

into illuminated forms.

Hills metamorphosis

into volumes

to touch

and circumscribe.

The pearling vault

extrudes greens below

transposing

illusions of black.

Flushed-tinged

cheeky clouds

blush to barely touch

the unseen sun.

Facing the evanescent

blooming dawn

gives the most brilliant

gift of sight.

Another take on the theme, it is always darkest before the dawn. May you find Serendipity when it comes your way

Wordless Weds is my Tues Toes

2011-08-16T21:27:00.000-07:00

I finally feels like summer here on the central coast of California, a noontime walk with a friend became a drenching sauna......Oh, and yeah, then there was the Green Man in the lawn....................

Serendipity in a paradox 10

2011-08-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Slight of Hands

Hands unpeeled by cancer scars

and wrought in knots, still knit wool scarves.

Healed too small, fingertips drop beam and ball,

but open the door, lift a child off the floor.

Puppet hand turns a toddler's bedlam

to Sherry Lewis's voice, transfixing lambs.

Nails are lengthened, painted, adorned,

until one's missed, then it's hardly ignored.

Her core radiates from her palm

to wick cold sweat like lavender balm.

His hands, broad as a pillow's spread,

can trace each hair upon a head.

Some injuries are losses, some are gifts. One door closes and another one opens. I treat hands after injury or surgery at my work. Until you can't use your hand, you don't realize what it does. A large proportion of your sensory brain and muscle control centers are dedicated to the hands and thumbs. Your hands have more bones than your back. Would you see a general orthopedic surgeon to operate on your back? No. But how many people go to a generalist when the hand is severely severed or broken? The therapy following is equally complex, handled best by a Certified Hand Therapist with experience.

We learn to value what we have/had after it is taken away or damaged........
May you recognize serendipity when it comes your way.

sunday 160, when the moon hits your eye

2011-08-13T22:37:00.000-07:00

Open the orbs, howl with the owl, hold the bones, pound the drone, oscillate outside upon onyx loam, observe halos, owe the original olden opal, honor the moon.

photo: H.G.Giese

( This is a poem in exactly 160 characters, spaces included. Try it yourself and post on Sunday. Visit the host with the most 160 tales on his blog, Monkey Man, at http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/2011/08/sunday-160-wish-upon-star.html
and let us know about yours!)

Serendipity in a paradox # 9

2011-08-13T07:27:00.000-07:00

Give me a full moon:

New moon, fresh sky, meteors flash to the naked eye.

Crescent sickle, piercing slate, a hanging handle to galaxy's gate.

Dark-masked half-moons, denying hidden blues.

Gibbous waxing full and ripe, fruit of loin and rounding high.

Ah, the moon's full-faced and seasoned, alive and vivid with clarity and reason.

(The moon is full tonight, unfortunately blocking the meteor shower view with its light. There is beauty in a night with no moon, the crescent can be startlingly sharp and star-catching, the half-moon can change it's face, the full moon lights the night world, but obscures the milky way.

So, enjoy all the stages of moon-viewing.)

Which moon moves you the most? Why?

serendipity in a paradox 8.

2011-08-12T00:30:00.000-07:00

From above
is a sentinel's sight

from within
it's burning bright,

from the wind
driving arrow-like

to the heart
diving fast as light

to embrace
talon tight,

grounding spirals
landing upright

a supportive friend
with a falcon's might.

This was a California Red Tail Hawk, the largest local predatory bird. On the coastline, the Peregrine falcon is it's counterpart. This juvenile hawk tried to fly in the window at my clinic. He spent the following hour sitting outside, stunned by the window glass. He kept a close eye on us, but didn't retreat when we came up to him. He just watched us move behind the glass, baffled. (eventually he flew away)

Serendipity in a paradox # 7.

2011-08-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

What you get from assuming:

Like holding your breath

when you’re about to get wet

Like wanting a prize

you know you won’t get

Like scooting out backwards

from under a bed

Like straining your eyes

in a cave full of webs

Like slapping a face

with pain and regret

Like losing the memory

of someone you’ve met

May you recognize serendipity when it comes your way.

Wordless Weds is my: Tuesday Toes

2011-08-10T20:01:00.000-07:00

May you recognize serendipity when it comes your way.

serendipity in a paradox 6.

2011-08-09T20:43:00.000-07:00

Only after one's fed,

satiated enough

to be free of

the cavernous

starvation,

can one think about

feeding another, and

preparing the next meal.

What makes you feel satiated?

serendipity in a paradox 5.

2011-08-06T08:12:00.000-07:00

If you hear only one sound, without the image, can you hear the dichotomy within it, and love it for both:

purring and the mewing
rustling and the digging
blowing and sussurant
rumbling and hissing
rasping and tenor
guttural sighing.

(I've been studying a sound I love, and trying to describe it. Without success, I can only draw analogies. Isn't that why we write poetry?)

Can you guess, or create your own images to go with these sounds? I know what mine are, what are yours?

serendipity in a paradox 4.

2011-08-02T23:05:00.000-07:00

I walked with the moon tonight

a gold sickle:

sharp and bright.

She cradled his head

darkened, faceless

and dead,

400-billion

milkyway

suns shone instead.

Wordless Weds. = Tues. Toes

2011-08-02T07:25:00.000-07:00

Serendipity in a Paradox, 3.

Grounded in bronze,

stillness is an art

I think.

(Rodin's Thinker's Feet, Philadelphia)

Serendipity in a paradox 2.

2011-07-31T08:58:00.000-07:00

Their cars passed in the driveway,

one window rolled down

one window, broken, rolled up.

The doors remained closed.

The Hubble deep space telescope is looking at galaxies forming. "Dark energy", unseen, might hold pre-galaxy gasses in a "web", visible only by the pattern displayed by the spaces between the molecules.......

yet we cannot see that our spirits interact across spaces?

May you recognize Serendipity when it comes your way......

Mindfulness

2011-07-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

Serendipity in a paradox 1. :

Feet are buried in the mud, enabling us

to peer closely at the lotus petals.

"If we are thinking only of the cup of tea that awaits us, we are incapable of realizing the miracle of life while standing at the sink

-actually incapable of living one minute of life."

(-paraphrased from the teachings of Thich Nhat Hahn)

(photo: 2008, Mineral King backpack trip to glacial-fed Monarch Lakes

Time out of mind

2011-07-28T08:21:00.000-07:00

Slam the car door, leave the house behind.

Leave the job filled with injured limbs.

Double and triple check

the odometer gauge and the second hands.

Push a safe pace through the fog,

to breach the clear coastal sky,

to bona fide, heart-pounding evidence:

I breathe, I have arrived.

I’ll hike a new trail, void of ravens,

under heavens, immensely blue.

Time out, silent with herons:

my sanctified time with the truth.

The glorious green and the changing wind

brought anew, the smell of the sea.

But I’ll give them away, to you this time,

today, it’s too much for me.

For when angels ride the skies

to uplift and give you peace,

they’ll show you heaven on earth,

and pull you out of your shoes in pieces.

I’m falling down, just looking around.

I must be out of my mind.

Every step feels like I’m rushing in,

and I do fear what I’ll find.

I need a time-out

just for the day,

but it’s never out of my mind:

Time’s too short for all I want,

and I don’t know what I’ll find.

(This is an old poem, resurfacing for me as a priority. I have a new goal, serious exploration of meditation. Anyone know of an authentic class near Central California?

Mind over matter. Inner Peace. Oneness with the Universal source of Love. Whatever you want to call it.....

what brings you peace?....)

Sea-ing You

2011-07-24T17:20:00.000-07:00

Waves retreat, darkly deep,

drawing me in, like eyes,

beyond foam green

beyond blue light

beyond churning life.

Silky soft voices

susurrant highs, like gulls,

blending undertones,

like resonating

waters turning sand.

Reassuring,

like rocking in cradling arms

or like hands reaching forth,

as recurring rows

of white, line upon line.

Immersion

is a wave crashing gasp

of requisite awe.

Momentarily, a touch of an ocean

is enough.

Dianne Gross-Giese, 1-2010/7-2011

Briefly back to blogging, after a grueling work schedule, wrestling with the economic downturn. A forced vacation after appendectomy had awakened my muses.

Chthonian Skin

2011-05-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

If I could touch you now,

I’d touch your face,

find your cheek

pressed into a plum

when you smile

so softly.

The scent

the soft brush

the round curves

the raised coat

of your skin.

My skin crawls,

seeking touch.

To turn it off is futile.

Never turning the key - IS the key.

Mindfulness in the moment -Is the lock.

So lock it.

How can a hunger start so softly,

and reach so deeply,

through the surface of a well?

Foreign and unformed:

hidden

in chthonian skin.

But feeding or fasting,

will it abate,

negate

or satiate?

To live with crawling skin,

a hungry well,

takes an open heart:

Touch my heart, to quiet my head,

perhaps then I can think myself fed,

and lay my skin to rest

upon the memory of your chest.

.(Chthonic: of or relating to the underworld in pre-Apollonian religion, from earth-based religions.)

why write?

2011-05-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

To bring darkness to light

and put to rest the night

to focus youth's might

to make beauty bright

to bring form to sight

to set a wrong right

to charge a fight

to propel flight

to seek a height

to burn a blight

to open insight

(Missing my Muse, I had to turn off the angry tapes running in my head. One way I do this is to explore the wilderness. How do you find your muse?)

Anger is only...

2011-05-03T00:32:00.000-07:00

a momentum you feel

on the last straight spoke

of a broken wheel.

a tool to dispel

the rain hitting level

under the umbrella.

a pill to make you ill

when hard feelings

can’t get their fill.

an interim storm

of desert grit

to keep words warm.

an instant switch

to start a charge

with a hurl of spit.

a shocking drug

you shouldn’t share

off the chopping block.

How do you deal with anger? What makes you incessantly angry? hmmmmm.........I could go on and on and on, why don't you?

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2011-04-12T23:33:00.000-07:00

One foot in front of the other.... standing on rocky ground all we can do is move forward one step at a time.

Spring weather has hit central California! Time to enjoy it, today!

Photo: H.G.Giese

Flash 55 Friday

2011-04-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

Five O’clock P.M. Release

Submerged in the quiet

of the humming fans,

the impatient clocks,

the papered dins,

Let go of edicts,

unclutched handles,

passing breaths,

unloosed grins.

The pulse buffets

as the mind expands.

Embodiment molts.

The view spins.

Cued by the respite

from hands and sands,

swaddle the soul

to refill it again.

Drug free,(except for carafes of coffee), and alcohol free, a queer let-down occurs at the end of the day. Triggered by hypoglycemia, fatigue, solitude from a very public job, or rare isolation, the feeling is heady and disorienting at the same time. (nursing mothers, think of the "let down" sensation) I decided to stop fighting it and honor it with a sigh, a nap, a tear, and a poem.
This is a poem in exactly 55 words. If you write flash-fiction or poetry in 55 words, post on Friday and let your flasher with the fastest 55's know, Mr. Knowitall, HERE

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday toes in Calif?

2011-03-30T06:44:00.000-07:00

see prior post about alienation in Spring.....

Lost Spring

2011-03-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

Strewn

sprouts

in loam

of tiny green

mounds…

Sheets

of linen

hung in clouds…

Shrouds

of light

beyond

near sight...

Recall a lust

held in trust.

Winter lingers, a liar

to a Spring of

Saint Elmo’s fire.

I have a sense of alienation this Spring, as though nothing will ever be the same. Winter is lingering much longer than usual in central California, with rainstorms reminiscent of the Pacific northwest. This shot was from our usually barren front acre, during a freak hailstorm last month. It was followed by an even rarer snowstorm the following week, tricking the flowers and trees to retreat into dormancy even longer.

sunday 160: life's minutiae

2011-03-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

Hospital monitors don’t soothe a newborn cry.Mothers don’t cry at dinner tables.Loud drunks don’t listen.Did postpartum depression have an evolutionary purpose?

(This is a flash fiction in exactly 160 characters, including spaces. I took liberty with the spaces between the sentences for a better rhythm in the grammar. For more fascinating stories and poems visit the host with the minute 160, Monkey Man HERE .Try one yourself, and let us know!)

Tuesday Toes = Wordless Weds in Philly

2011-03-15T05:27:00.000-07:00

In my muse's absence, I revert to my version of Wordless Wednesday: Tuesday Toes.

Where have YOUR toes been?

Today I actually have a gift from my travels to Philadelphia. I thought of my friends in blogland as I snapped this shot outside the Sheraton Hotel downtown. Of course the highlights of the trip: friends, the Rodin sculptures, and Hand Surgery/Rehabilitation Symposium. (this was street art, emerging from the sidewalk and walls like the "Gates of Hell")

Toe photography began when early travels took me to New York. I was newly married, headed for a college buddy's wedding in New Jersey. I had not traveled out of California. Tired of the familiar profile shot for perspective in the forground, my buddy Kim and I began to shoot my foot with famous landmarks. So what next? Sisterhood of the traveling feet?

In Rodin's Hands

2011-03-10T08:59:00.000-08:00

When I miss you,

I miss your hands to curl
my heart into.

-bluegrass blues on mandolin.
-drawing designs for a higher view.
-reconstructing tools into instruments.
-cuddling cat fur.
-morphing into tighter spots.

-compressing into vicelike strength.

-spreading a pyramid of support.
-pressing flesh with delicate fasciculations.
-articulating to tap, trace, scrape, slide or ruffle.

I miss inter-lacing through the windows of our souls.

Missing someone can take all shapes, forms and feelings. What do you notice most when you miss someone?

This poem is generated from a trip to Philadelphia, and the Rodin museum. Before I spent 4 days studying hand surgery and rehabilitation, I spent 1 1/2 hours circling the bronze figures of hands, feet, nudes and faces at The Rodin Museum.

This is what I miss.....

between the first and the last

2011-03-06T17:57:00.000-08:00

Harmonic murmering - swinging open the doors
Soft eyes - in the vortex of the windstorm
Steady gaze - held in a familiar hammock
Slow motion blink - film strip strobing by
Upturned corners - grinning over and over inside
Inhale the scent - to lift a balloon above the sky

Owed to my teachers: of yoga, friendship, and love.

peel me an onion Friday 55

2011-02-17T22:33:00.000-08:00

I’m static, frantic,
magnetic, shielding
shards of heart
with recycled refuse
            (just onion tears)
We’re refusing reclusion
collecting letters
upon utterances
unpeeling splices
           (over onion tears)
Our juices rise
like pungent repellant
solely with olfaction
flavors are favored
          (taste onion tears)
He’s spreading splines
ribs of mine
are tearing free
revealing me
          (in onion tears)

sometimes communication is hard. sometimes assumptions are easier. sometimes solitude is safer. but always, always, open honest communication is really living.

This is a poem in exactly 55 words. To visit the host with the most, Mr. Knowitall, look HERE . Post a Flash Fiction in 55 words exactly on Friday and let him know it all!

Schmallentines

2011-02-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

I think that I shall never see

a love as true as we now need.

What truth be known
is perceived by each own.

What I may need now
will change the morrow.

Actions speak louder true,
than words silenced, though due.

If I see eye, touch hand, hear breath,
I’ll love truly until death.

take a bite

2011-02-08T08:52:00.000-08:00

sharply pierce the rind
gently ease the zest
from the membrane.

stab it open
feel the sting, the spray,
the cutting scent.

if sweet or sour,
it's yours to discover,
but a bite is required.

share it
with me
entirely.

I am reading The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz. If you have read it, please share your reaction. If you have not, there are four codes of conduct explored. Stemming from ancient Mexico's Toltec teachings they are: Always do your best, Don't take anything personally, Don't make assumptions, Be impeccable with your word.

have a fruitful day, Dianne

sunday 160, re-ride and rewrite relationships

2011-02-06T16:48:00.000-08:00

Buccal bugged, butt bumped, bone droned, toe tingled, face braced, eye dried, lung fumed, ear jeered, ankle jangled, skin numbing, heart starting, nerve-verve.

This is a poem in exactly 160 characters, spaces included. If you want to read more or try the challenge, post on Sunday and let Monkey Man, our host for this event, know HERE .

After 24.5 years of marraige, baggage too heavy to carry, and children almost flown the coop, I decided to review and renew my spousal relationship. My spouse builds motorized bicycles for the past 5 years but I never took on the 30 mph ride. (I prefer the silent, clean but sweaty type.) ....I'm finding out I didn't know what I was missing............in more ways than one, WOW.

Groundhog Day, half way to spring

2011-02-03T06:58:00.000-08:00

half shadows sharpen

greening paths disappearing,

step attentively

post traumatic stress

2011-02-01T08:40:00.000-08:00

Sleeping, demon slain?
She screamed in the dream, awoke,
to own it again.

Some of us have recurring fears, resentments, triggers that threaten our inner joy. Peace with ourselves may be elusive, and fleeting. I am learning to face, name, depersonalize and let go of past wrongs. However, the power we give the inner life of our minds and souls work on. A nightmare awoke me this morning, reliving a current anxiety with the roles reversed, at which point I realized all the characters in the dream were elements of myself...............
Peace,

(image: google. Edvard Munch The Scream)

endover epitaph

2011-01-30T21:03:00.000-08:00

How do we roll over?

Is this the end?

Is it over?

How to say it all

in one day:

in the darkness

where we only feign sleep

How the coffee tastes
better before
they get up

How cold, her egg
his cereal

their bagels

How the words choked off:
Please look over the choices
keeping us safe

How the rain on the car

or the sun on the walk
seemed unending

How the motocross racer
with the most wins, passed,
rolling end-overs

Endlessly.

In honor of those who truly take risks, do their best, fight the odds to win, and love their careers, families and friends.
In honor of Nathan Woods, who died this week in a practice jump before the World Off Road Championship Series in Calif. He won the WORCS twice, over all other riders. He wore the tatoo of a photograph of his infant son's face on his forearm. His wife and two young sons are in my prayers. Photo: courtesy of google

conciousness

2011-01-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Sunset at shoreline
roaring even after dark
sunrise's story.

pathfinding

2011-01-20T08:34:00.000-08:00

How long does it take to find a path to travel?

1) Pick a destination: forward.

2) Obtain a roadmap: experiences vs. unknowns.

3) Choose routes: 70 mph?, Yosemite and Grand Canyon?, visits to kindergarten buddy and sisters?, downhill and straight highways?, rocky, wet, overgrown, unmaintained? known roads and pre-mapped courses?

4) Organize gear: money, map, car, bike, foot, phone, bedding, food, water, friend.

5) Take action: take a step.

…….. 1) Choose a Destination:
now

Photo: J.T.Giese

Winter Ripe

2011-01-17T07:32:00.000-08:00

Persimmon branches

honey heavy, suspended.

Turning brown untouched.

Patience for my Patients

2011-01-16T18:30:00.000-08:00

This is not any love song,
nor any psalm, for me.

A 20-something’s rush to the office store,
replace the paper to write a score.
A truck turns, and broad-sides his legs,
rescuers drag him, footless and burning,
not to sing, not to beg.
Not a love song, nor a psalm
…..of a poet - not better off dead.

In a still, lone bed of a rural ICU
a patient with a lung-implant
gasps a poem I do not know.
The Rag is passed and the new ear listens.
Is it a better love song or psalm
sought after the author's gone?

From a month spent in coma from a stroke:
springs one man, with one wife,
a universe-city of students, twin boys full of life,
to teach, to talk, to hug, to walk,
to reach:
only one-armed not,
but for a love song, and a psalm for all.

She cuts on her arm, not for physical pain,
but release of heart’s balm on her psychic longing,
of a new moment dawning,
again…not better off dead.

Not that I cannot live without you,
today.
But knowing I can see you again
tomorrow,
is a love song
and a psalm
for a better-off day.

Quixotic

2011-01-14T06:47:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlf_F1lVen0

Phoenix fire burns down,
swimming upstream no longer
riding waterfalls

Just a Cat

2011-01-12T09:21:00.000-08:00

For now, just think of me
as your cat.

I’ve always wanted
to be a cat:

sleeping all day, fiercely independent,

climbing trees or curling up

in a drooling frenzy

of oblivion in your lap.

Think not,
that we'd paid the bills,
nor of the questions
we might ask of tomorrow,
upon waking with eyes wide open.

Deny the averted smile,
the downward gaze,
the deep sigh
so easily shielded by our arms.

Tonight for this moment,
just think of me as your cat,

full of rumbling affirmations,

shedding softness and warmth,

grinning behind Cheshire whiskers

for you alone.

fire and ice

2011-01-09T22:25:00.000-08:00

Fire and ice

don't mix you say?

I've met fire

with icy frost.

But this time they're merging...

when an iceberg is melting.

You can't see 90% of

the ice below water's surface.

Melt the tip

a bit at a time...

and the surface area
in view grows flatter.
Easier to stand upon
with surer footing.

I doubt we have enough
fuel to melt it all down,

but the steam is flowing

becoming droplets to the sea.
And the sea is infinitely
vast enough to carry
our tears away...

I face my birthday tomorrow with hope and trepidation, as a new life lies ahead, one moment at a time.

jabberwoky-meditation

2011-01-04T08:39:00.000-08:00

Breal

startep

infull

expanourish

holdergy

exhaleans

releasflow

intendknow

livenow

Ibow

This is a poem of made up words. Two actual words combined if you look closely, addressing breath used in healing meditation, to calm and energize. (for those of you who don't get it, ask and I will translate.)

Somertimes you have to remake yourself, from something familiar but undesired, into something you didn't know of or have before. I am not talking about a trite New Year's resolution. But by letting go, accepting change, chosing a new path, seeking peace, healing from loss, we may have to envision unfamiliar territory.

Breath/heal.

out of darkness into light

2011-01-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

Before the dawn,

the land is void

shifting between chasm
and cliff face.

From undifferentiated darkness
a vaporlit film forms
in the vanishing points:
sourceless, pervasive.

Sensing massiveness

evolving:

onyx edges
cut the firmament.

Moving through emerging

valleys, vales and voids:

envisioning indefinite shapes

into illuminated forms.

Hills metamorphosis

into volumes

to touch

and circumscribe.

The pearling vault

extrudes green from
below transposing

illusions of black.

Flushed-tinged

cheeky clouds

blush to barely touch

the unrevealed sun.

Facing the evanescent
blooming dawn

gives the most brilliant

gift of sight.

(another take on the theme, it’s always darkest before the dawn. Thankful for a new dawn and the drive to see it in its entirety. Never give in to the darkness. Let the light change your view.)

they never saw it.

2010-12-28T06:52:00.000-08:00

She never saw how big his nose was……

she was longing for his lips.

She never saw how he talked at people….

she was listening to his brilliance.

She never saw how he kept his hands to himself….

She was watching how skillfully he could build with them.

She never saw how he grew tired of waiting …..

She was keeping up with his skis.

She never saw how he turned his tongue to attack…..

She was looking for his sense of humor.

She never saw how he hoarded his time….

She was admiring his independent spirit.

SheI never saw how his heart wandered……

She was watching for his eyes.

She never saw how his decision was made….

She was alone.

the woman in the moon

2010-12-23T08:04:00.000-08:00

see, full moon eclipsed
after longest night returns.
how brightly she shines!

what is the stuff all about?

2010-12-22T03:29:00.000-08:00

“A room is not a person,”

said the voice.

Opening the door to find no one there,

but

the room was filled
with photographs of
faces, quilts and crocheted afghans,
boxes of clean books about cooking,
clothes bursting from the closet,

closing the door against the effort
of the crooked frame
and the stuck handle

decidedly,

the voice was right.

Scrooge Finds Love on a Rooftop

2010-12-20T22:38:00.000-08:00

give it all to charity,
all the stuff we hoard
behind windows
walls and doors!

give it all up
if it ain't
needed
no more!

live without it!
but, need it, we think?
like a warm coat,
or a stiff drink,

even hugs, and talks
and some hot soup?
- trash it like ashes,
- like cat and dog poop!

but some lights pull you upward,
eyes lured like a fish
to a rooftop's lights
a target "X",... for a wish.

inside the house, mother
three children and dog,
who gave up to cancer
their dad and his love.

Don't give up on the light
don't tear up the cards
don't toss out the touch
don't hold back the words.

Sunday 160: rain heals (revised)

2010-12-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

Hellish tears
shudderingly shed
spill over, damned
out my head

cleansing hands
of fear and dread
depressurize deepest
longings abed

to loving
forgiveness
ahead.

This is a poem in exactly 160 characters, including spaces. This meme is hosted by Monkey Man HERE . post your own on Sunday, and let us know!

In 55 words 25 Gifts in 25 years, no charge, unreturnable.

2010-12-16T23:23:00.000-08:00

Winking

Wading waterfalls

Laughing

Tenderly leaning
Listening to our days
Cooking side by side
Serving our family
Tasting your omelets

Puppies and kittens

Sewing Halloween costumes -
character paired!
Sci-fi fascination
Skiing faster speeds

Sharing Pachelbel

Reviewing the Renaissance
Exploring space

Opening a gift –

handmade!
Awakening naked
Touching pleasure

Electric currents

Gently

Creating

Offering

Admiring

(no refunds if thrown away or broken.......even if sorely missed?)

tear down the veils

2010-12-16T08:22:00.000-08:00

Wish I had a time machine

Turn around and you’d be gone

Before I saw you through the curtains

Surrounding my life, shading my soul.

When I sink down in the fog

Blindness dogs me with it's veils.

Buried in my opulence,
It’s simply Clarity I crave.

I’d lost my mojo, further gone
More than you’ll ever know.
I know exactly when I found It,
Borrowed from a friend’s soul.
Boys are cute and men are strong

But seasoned souls have lived the song

What I’m seeing, never before

The colors are clearer without the veils

When they return I fight and moan

I writhe and run to arms or home,

To open expression of honesty and love

To find my way to the Clarity I crave.

It’s a Rent, a rent in the veil

You’ve torn a Rent in my veil

I posted this older poem before, but I've cleaned it up for the general public. I'm dedicating it to the counselor I'm seeing for the first time today. Today is a good day, one step on the path.......

New word of the year:

2010-12-13T21:30:00.000-08:00

I know there's a poem in here some place,
I just feel like refudiating anything creative today,
...but I'm gathering up steam to work on it!
...

...

I repudiate
any refute
from you
and refudiate
condoning
your behavior!*

( The new word of the year, of those chosen by the New Oxford English Dictionary, is 'refudiate'

CBS news: "From a strictly lexical interpretation of the different contexts in which Palin has used 'refudiate,' we have concluded that neither 'refute' nor 'repudiate' seems consistently precise, and that 'refudiate' more or less stands on its own, suggesting a general sense of 'reject.' "the New Oxford American Dictionary said in a press release..........While Palin may have made “refudiate” famous, she is by no means the first person to coin the term. According to the New Oxford American Dictionary the Fort Worth Gazette was the first to publish the word in 1891. Nor is Palin the first politician to combine refute and repudiate; in 2006 Senator Mike DeWine asked “Fox and Friends” viewers to “refudiate” comments made by Senator John Kerry.)

*ugh! Ha, told you so.

Give up?

2010-12-12T08:49:00.000-08:00

Give it six months she said.

If we can’t feel

a warmer sun,

budding branches,

flowered gifts,

give it up,

and take Spring.

This is a poem/short story in exactly 160 characters. Read more HERE at Monkey Man's blog. Write your own post on Sunday and let him know!

friday flash fiction 55, Filling Space

2010-12-10T18:10:00.000-08:00

all the stars

in the sky,

all the space
in between,

all the galaxies
hidden in telescopes,

cannot fill the void
in my heart once filled

by your voice,
once held in your hand.

Today, in full view
of the hollow room
empty words form a single
galaxy between us

a heartbeat
fills a universe.

This is a poem in exactly 55 words. Post on Friday, and let our host G-Man at Mr Knowitall blog know it all. Have a great weekend! I'll work on the humorous edge of my writing from now on, this piece just sat on the keyboard waiting for me to turn on the juice.....I had no control over the little monster.

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2010-12-08T02:20:00.000-08:00

Alas, these are not mine. I am a pedicure virgin.

This pedicure was the decoy for my room mate from college, while we set up her surprise 50th birthday party.

How many of you, male or female, have had a pedicure?

For Dec 8th

2010-12-07T06:33:00.000-08:00

death of suffering

enlightenment renewal
bodhi re-birthday

Dec 8th is the celebration of the day of enlightenment of Buddha. Happy Bodhi day coming up to Buddhists out there.
In this picture is a huge black sea lion, and a tiny young white one. My 16 year old son took his two friends and I on a grueling hike 4 miles up the canyon above this coastline. (see "Take Me", last post). At 50, I found for the first time my knee failing me on the way down.....
hopefully just a wake up call to build up to this by staying in shape.
enlightened,
peace.

photo: P. Spaulding

Take Me

2010-12-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

Take me to

the ocean's side,

into
primeval rain,

beside the surf
above cove's curving

rocky shelter of
egret and seal,

below the source
of vapor's veil,

to life upon
the misty trail,

past rivermouth,
to the source

of springs,

climb among the creeks,

beneath the peaks

of wind and rain,

where clouds still
covet the ravines,

past dessicated-white
coyote scat,

over slashed
shale shard and quartz,

pine and redwood
form paths and beds,

with yellow bay leaves
and banana slugs,

upon which sycamore's
phosphorous furnace

illuminates the sun's

chlorophill catalysts.

Take me to

the mountainside

to face life's struggles

with sweat and pride.

Quiet

2010-12-02T08:23:00.000-08:00

In the quiet
I listen for you

I reach for the filament
Through the firmament

Of course you are not there
Not really

But when I can touch It
Something moves

A vibration of
Our oscillations

Your scintillation
my conflagration

And then
in the quiet

all the unrest
has burned away.

First Freeze

2010-11-30T08:55:00.000-08:00

Crystalline phases

white frost, turning greens to brown,

water as slayer.

Poetry Bus: "Not yet"

2010-11-20T21:59:00.000-08:00

Not yet, Yorick,

don't clean my bones,

someday, but not yet.

Someday, you may bury me

in rainbow socks

to feel our dance.

Burst bubbles

like a belly laugh

crests the surface of a lake.

Bounce a rib-bone
like heartbeats,
on a drumhead of goatskin.

Wind me 'round
with beads of amber
breasts to navel, warm as sun.

Store rain enough
to quench thirsty kisses
in desert glass of O'Keefe's sunsets.

My genes alive beyond
my life won't recall
nursing from my breasts,

sleeping in my crescent lap,
nor private words of lullabies
to quiet tearful nights.

Someday, they might
wash my flesh,
cold and heavy, but not yet.

They may dress my remains

in a tie-dyed tee,

and tomboy's cut-off jeans.

But for a princess
of the earth, please add a
crown of flowered wreaths.

They will smell my ashes

in the smoke,
heft my bones to rattle.

But I am cycling as
the full moon glows,

and the insistent, crisp wind blows,

as guitar notes strum,
as pen and paper hum.
I’m still saving my life,

not to lose it yet.
Not my bones, poor Yorick,

don't clean them yet!

Chris Alba, at Enchanted Oak HERE hosts this week's poetry bus. Her prompt is:
Poems that address your existence on this earth. Good, bad, or indifferent, tell us something, anything, about your life here.

Poetry bus comes from blogger Totalfeckineejit http://totalfeckineejit.blogspot.com/

("Alas poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio." a famous quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, in which the subject of the play holds the skull of his nursery servant, jester, and castle clown in a graveyard at night. In certain southern Mexican communities, and in Pomuch on the Yucatan peninsula, the bones of the ancestors are exhumed on the Day of the Dead, "Dia de los Muertos", cleaned, redressed with new clothing, fresh food and favored items, to be reburied again.)

Happy Birthday at Enchanted Oak

2010-11-19T07:06:00.000-08:00

Today is Chris's birthday at Enchanted Oak blog. HERE Wish her joy that we share the earth the day she was born.

EARTH SONG

Listen to things more often than beings.

Hear the voice of the fire, hear the voice of the water,

Listen in the wind to the sighing of the bush:

This is the ancestors breathing.

Those who are dead are never gone;

The dead are not down in the earth:

They are in the trembling of the trees,

In the groaning of the woods,

In the water that runs, in the water that sleeps,

They are in the hut, they are in the crowd.

Those who are dead are not ever gone;

They are in the woman's breast, they are in the wailing of a child,

They are in the burning log and in the moaning rock.

They are in the weeping grasses, in the forest and the home.

Listen to things more often than beings.

Hear the voice of fire, hear the voice of water.

Listen in the wind to the sighing of the bush.

This is the ancestors breathing.

(traditional song from Senegal)

my first post, 1 year ago

2010-11-17T23:20:00.000-08:00

The rhythm of the light

rolls away, rolls away.

An orange orb bounces
on the road, on the road

Signaling the way to begin
or end the day, end the day.

The strain of my feet
chips away, chips away.

My heart heats up a blanket
which drags down, drags down,

While the rhythm of the light
rolls away, rolls away.

Skin’s cold dark drink
renews my speed renews my speed

In center of the road,
tempting pumas, tempting pumas.

Trees are hiding frogs
croaking song, croaking song

and merge with humming crickets
strumming beats, strumming beats

To Night’s rolling blackness
Infinite, infinite:

The rhythm of the light
rolls away, rolls away.

Thanks to my inspirations, Pablo Neruda's Pumas in Love Sonnett XI if you haven't read it. Blues musicians.
Chris at Enchanted Oak, happy birthday! Running before twilight when the earth glows. Death when the blackness rolls infintely. Fellow poets and writers and bloggers who take me under their wings and fly with the wingbeat of the rhythm of the light.......

for Wordless Wednesday (aka Tuesday Toes)

2010-11-16T07:16:00.000-08:00

Do you recognize

the coastal trails,

estuaries,

sand spits,

bays,

famous landmarks,

and Tuesday Toes?

(volcanic morros, seven in all, the "sisters" they are called, here standing upon the black one....)

2010-11-15T07:09:00.000-08:00

My seeds are flying.

Windy forces lift them high

to find fertile ground.

Sheilds and swords protect

in battle and hunting games.

Minds must find their own.

my two boys won art awards in a county-wide annual scholarship contest this weekend, you have seen some versions of their work, another of the lake in snow won 1st place for all high schools in the county, it took time and effort and attention to help them pursue their goals, what a return!

Gratitude for:

2010-11-14T07:50:00.000-08:00

for the fertile crescent in the desert

crescent moon changing my tune

crescent smiling when I touch

crescent rocking into crescendo

crescent of your arms at rest

This is a flash fiction, poem in exactly 160 characters, spaces included. Our Sunday 160 host is Monkey Man HERE . Visit, comment, and try your own on Sunday. Let him know of course.

Friday Flash Fiction 55, for poets

2010-11-12T21:57:00.000-08:00

We can’t all be poets, but

with only one,

we can live…..

For the poet takes us

to the deepest, dankest

worm’s stank bed,

drags our fingers

leafing through

the crumbling acrid yeasty loam.

He overturns bones

to dig us out and

quenches with liqueur

distilled in dew

from the bud

of the deepest red.

This is a flash fiction poem, in exactly 55 words, hosted by Mr Knowitall, HERE . Write your own story or poem, let us know, and post on Friday! Should I change "red" to "read"?
Photo by J.Giese.
I am grateful to the talented and truthful poets I heard tonight, who lifted me and shredded me and wrung me out. I am ready to get up and face another day...

shields

2010-11-10T03:14:00.000-08:00

Aura is a veil
proximity frames the day

ravens hide inside

Photo: Shaver Lake, CA. by J.T. Giese

veiled threat

2010-11-09T22:16:00.000-08:00

Close enough to touch

veil of fog shields nearer threats

horizons will wait.

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2010-11-09T06:06:00.000-08:00

Leonardo knows, the smile Mona Lisa shows, and today's lack of prose, are due to Tuesday Toes!

This is my answer to wordless wednesday, to say a brief Hi and check in mid-week my fellow bloggers. I am ok, not in any hospital (unless working) and not writing (unless on a new computer charting system - aack!)

I don't travel much, but started these photo shoots after college, to add humor and a foreground gage to scenic travel shots. These lovely piggies are compliments of my college roommate, Anne G, taken from the Louvre last month! Thank you, Anne. As Kim said in response, I bet the guards thought they'd seen it all until now!

Feel free to comment, or send your own shots of life in your shoes! Ha!

Magpie Tales: cock cold

2010-11-07T06:28:00.000-08:00

Cockeyed, she scries,

as if a diesel fume plume

filled the colorless sky.

Her skin shivers

in a spidery twitching,

awash in a wasabi sinus scald.

Should she shave her head,

rub ashes until pimples puss,

lay prone and moan over a backless grave-

-as women in the past had done

when their man was gone?

It feels like pushing a steam roller

wading upstream in the river-mud

to shove a suitcase down the hall.

Why do we only

call men

cuckold?

This is a Magpie Tale, read some fabulous other tales, and enter your poem to this image promt HERE

Friday's 55 flash fiction: Apathy

2010-11-05T06:18:00.000-07:00

To avoid apathy, I have conversations with myself.

Apathy isn't

A Pathetic Ye

A-pathetic Me

Chronicity of the late last minute deadline…..

Dead line/transeunt

Disarticulate/repair

Pre-postulate/prepare

Dis-intelligence/disguise

Disintegrate/improvise

Indifference/recognize

Transience/stabilize

Pathos/Aperture

A Path
To sadness/Is in a bottle or a stimulant or a week in bed.

(sorry if this doesn't make sense to anyone but me. blame it on a sleepless night.)

Theme Thursday. love is rough

2010-11-04T06:24:00.000-07:00

The ocean is rough today:
the wind blows sand from my hands through my heart.

Sea clashing, frothing the rocks, leaping into the air:
the sound continues as I move out of sight.

The wind brushes its fingers through silvery grasses:
a snare-drum song carries upward.

It transforms in the moaning of the bare cypress branches,
still in view of the sea.

Rocks rattle in a pocket against languid fingers,
after a sky-bleached day.

Once dried in the wind and sunlight,
a cotton towel rasps my steamy skin.

A rope swing tightens as it’s wound,
before dizzily spinning out.

Eyes spark to instant attention,
as if a finger or a foot pokes into the comfort zone.

A joy-juiced hug, rocks you over your feet
without knocking you to the ground.

Share a whisper of fear in a doorway,
Shhh, don’t tell anyone.

A touch of coarse hair raises
boar-bristling, blood-tingling life.

I sink my teeth into the source
of my hunger and my satisfaction

I like it rough, I’m finding out.

This is a reprint of a poem I wrote at the beach a while back. I adjusted the first line and it fit for Theme Thursday's writing prompt HERE , Megan provided the photo above. Visit her and the other writers of Theme Thursday and comment, PLEASE!

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2010-11-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

The best part of Halloween is making the costumes, the worst part is finding out only 1 in 10 of my family had actually SEEN "Avatar" (sigh).

Microfiction Monday: Switched

2010-11-01T06:43:00.000-07:00

If Ophelia traded sugar and spice

for the eye of newt and tongue of frog,

it would’ve tasted awful
switching her from fairy tale to real girl.

55 to Enchanted Oak and Steveroni

2010-10-29T21:01:00.000-07:00

Listen to your cries at night

Hold a candle to the light

Throw open every window in sight

Capture hatching thoughts in flight

Accept the wrongs you can’t make right

Arise today to win one fight

Aim higher than the imagined goal’s height

Release the demons guilt and spite

Face each addiction as a blight

This is a flash fiction poem in exactly 55 words. Join us with our host Mr Knowitall HERE Post on Friday, and visit one other 55! This is a response to Enchanted Oak's intense and honest series this week HERE and Steveroni's farewell to blog land HERE

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes. Trick or Treat

2010-10-26T21:08:00.000-07:00

Smell my feet, give me something good to eat! (crab, anyone?)

Photo: Thanks to Kim.
I'm speechless and MY blue toes are working on their Avatar costume....hee hee hee.....

Sunday 160, Look what the low pressure system blew in

2010-10-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

clear horizon a day away

I want to be

where sky touches trees

the wind whips my face

the ground meets me

scrambling granite

shouldering pack

leaning back

into the sky

Photo: D. Gross.

This is a flash fiction poem in exactly 160 characters with spaces included, all I have time for by the way.

Visit our host for the Sunday 160, Monkey Man, HERE, write your own, post on Sunday, and let him know! My doesn't that feel better?

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2010-10-20T01:01:00.000-07:00

After our early rain, in a region known for drought, my rose bush explodes with a second generation.

Each bloom goes out to my friends with breast cancer, survivors and fighters in the front lines.

by any other name, she still smells sweet

2010-10-19T19:56:00.000-07:00

Here is a poem for my breast cancer survivors:

such a bloom to caress, a velvet mew.
stems uphold, even cut through.

thorns exposed, outside of you.
nectar infused, elixer to renew.

water to quench, in droplets of dew.
rosebuds to kiss, one
or two....!

(for some reason, our photo upload for Tuesday Toes doesn't work tonight)

Sunday 160, leadership

2010-10-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

Terrified by too many of them, holes in the tactical plan, only a backup prevented casualties.

I surrendered to a tiny hug, & an adoring grin after Sunday School.

(This is a flash-fiction poem in exactly 160 characters, spaces included. I cheated with the ampersand. To try one, or see more, visit Monkey Man HERE . Post on Sunday, and let him know!) For those fellow bloggers who follow me, these are rarely fiction. I write what I know, and what takes me deeper into life by observing..........

Rapping with Buddha

2010-10-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

What I want now

has nothing at all

to do with anything more

I can do for anyone else

other than myself.

And it has to be more
and it has to be now
and it can’t be for nobody
but for myself.

What I wanted was
never a reality
and never received
and never even asked, for
fear of disappointment.

I've always asked less
and hoped for less
and expected less
to be happy with less…
than what I ever wanted.

Now what I want
is connected to everything
and connected to nothing
but that which I hunger for
and am driven to want.

What is satisfying?
…addiction to wanting
fuels the hunger for wanting
for more than enough,
when life ain’t so fulfilling.

And it will be more
and it will be now
and it won’t be for nobody
but for myself.

Or else I’m not alive,
and I won’t find my path
and I won’t feel like anyone
and I won’t be myself.

Still seething from the turmoil in our community, but keeping my writings to myself. Here is an older poem filled with agressive drive. I'll need all the drive I can get, to leave behind Macbeth's "Gentlewoman" and find my center with the Buddha.

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

2010-10-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

No poetry today, but a question. Have you ever felt like you've had a second birthday? A "rebirth" worthy of commemoration every new year? I think mine is 10-10-10. I have many reasons why, some too private to post here. But here is a fun reason why: I choose it as the start of the second half of my life, as a birthday of my own decision. It has a logical reason for a landmark, it is 9 months exactly after my 50th birthday. If we look at the average life expectancy for the year 2060, it might be 100 years of age! (Whether that statistic is for those born that year, or of a certain population, I don't know. I just looked at points on a graph and continued the graph another 15 years forward, and 10 years older.....)

It is food for thought. I am impressed with the 90-year-old women I meet today! So, don't get me wrong, I don't want to live to be 100, just looking at the 2nd half of my existence with a new life....

What would be your second birthday? Write about it.

Sunday 160 Accepting Motherhood

2010-10-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

Solitary night

walled insight.

Hissing words

the dragon came.

Faced it unslain

burned to the core.

Ride its back

anticipate each tack

dousing fires

my offspring

devour.

This is a flash fiction/poem in exactly 160 characters, hosted by Monkey Man, post on Sunday, and let him know HERE .
This is VERY metaphorical, and no, my offspring are not dragons! Three events brought the reality of motherhood to my awareness, and a dragon image emerged. First, the "calling" that I would not be a spiritual leader after high school, but a mother. This was God's message to me, on a retreat. Second, the actual labor and delivery should have killed me, and the courage to continue naturally felt like walking through dragon fire. Third, the dangers our children face are sometimes self inflicted, by accident or intention, from playstructure fires to drinking and drugs. The dragon flies on......

55 flash fiction friday, what am I?

2010-10-06T23:03:00.000-07:00

I resonate like a drum:

Thrum thrum, thrum thrum,

singing in stone cellars

to echo my abandon.

I satiate hunger in a tick of time:

for those seconds “we” become mine,

like a flash in a pan.

I warm like bellows on a coal

from a torch at the core:

into the chest, from the hand.

This is a flash fiction poem in exactly 55 words. Meet the challenge by G-Man at Mr Knowitall HERE , let him knowitall, and visit one other 55. Post on Friday, if you dare!