Sunday, January 6, 2013

#365Poems Weekly Archive January 1-6

On Losing Small Things

Small things are
problems:  The minutiae escape me.
Cloud-sighting eyes, mind
faraway in myths and leaves
of paper or burning in trees.
Grand castles in
sand
glass
ice
pull me from my
little nest littered
with paper scraps.
Those are my small things: in them, keys
to big worlds. Keys to flight and dream
and memory. And now
I find I’ve lost
the sweet magic of small things.


How To Believe Everything and Nothing At All

In the dark, light a candle and feel that magic is a small, personal thing the size of the halo around a dancing flame.  

Say a prayer and feel the age on your tongue and imagine the mouths
that have whispered the same prayer. Know the power comes from that flesh, those teeth and lips,

and that God is the art of those lips. Forged by shared will,
we made them, Words and the Gods the same.


Courting the Dark

I want to say it’s hard in the dark;
No, it’s easier to draw it around me, to hide in creature comforts,
in soft things. I pull warm and soothing things into me: 
Bed clothes. Warm food. Whiskey.

It’s much worse, the harsh light,
every blemish & sin in stark true contrast.
Every lost chance written in the skin in deepening lines.
It’s painful courage to say
I’ve been courting the dark
because it is easier.


Solace

The black lacework
of bare tree limbs, back-lit
with barren sky
is my cold, beautiful solace
in the stark, bitter winter.


On Dangerous Wings

The flight isn’t to be;
The wings artificial and frail.

I want to be dared
to challenge the world-
the small, nested world,
and to fly instead
in dreams and strange magic.

I made wings from reveries
and molten wax, delicate feathers
that are pages from stolen books.

The nest seems far below,
a tangle of life:
The small, mundane world.

I was meant to rise,
I cry, wings catching a dashing wind.
I’m not for the small nest
and solid simple things. 

I think I want to burn
and feel until I hurt and
the sun blinds me. 
I want the sun to be a god.
In these wings I’m wide
and wild as the sky and rising.

And then my patchworked wings,
a construction of myth and story
melt and boil. I’m falling
wax bleeding out and down.

The nest below catches
dropped feathers,
softened wax, and lost dreams.

The nest below me opens,
holds me tight and whispers:
“Tell me of your dangerous flight,
of blinding light & burning.
Line the nest with fallen feathers
and fall quiet into this.
You are always safe
and you can always fly and fall.

I will hold you always.
Be small and safe and still.
And tomorrow again
you will craft new wings.”


Six, at Night

What did I dream? A sudden crash
startled me awake, and then your
small body shook against me and 
I cradled you. Your little hand
clenching mine, we explored
the dark house and laughed at
the fallen basket that had clapped
like thunder on the wooden floor.

It took long to settle you,
your bird heart beating 
fast and tiny warm arms 
clinging to me. You talked 
stream of consciousness
until exhaustion, 
and I listened with such fascination. 

Your young mind holds 
such large ideas,
your words are so well made.
I held you tightly until
your eyelids fluttered in
dream sleep and I wondered
What did you dream?

On the #365Poems and More Questionable Habits

{Click link to daisybones.com to read the post & leave your comment.}


Warning: MASSIVE triggers for addiction.

Shit. I skipped yesterday's poems AND drawings, because I forgot them completely. I had two missions yesterday, which is one more mission than I can perform, actually. My first mission was to aid Shane and Bird in folding, sorting, and tidying the massive mounds of laundry in our house. We then tackled the toy chaos and arranged her room with a gorgeous little vanity table my dad gave her for Christmas.

My other mission was to remain conscious and human while my body hated me so hard from the inside that I think it tried to escape, which would explain my entire GI system attempting to leave my body. My guts were justified in their attack because the previous night I'd flooded them with enough whiskey to fell a large elephant.

I want to be clear- 95% of the time if I drink, I have one or two. I like yummy things and beer, wine, and whiskey are lovely. Rum, you'll know if you've followed me for long, was my liquor of choice until recently I rediscovered my old favorite in whiskey. I now pour it over ice and add a splash of water, and that is My Drink. Look: So elegant.


Friday night, however, I had an intense talk regarding the recent vagueblogging and liquid courage is a cliché for a reason and I swigged from the bottle and then it was empty and patches of time after that blurred and then I survived yesterday and now I'm back in life and run-on sentencing like it's my job only obviously it's not my job, but in my head it's my trademark.

It's like a verbal version of those single camera no-cut film scenes that rock so hard like the opening of Serenity and other movies Joss Whedon referenced in the commentary of Serenity that I haven't seen because I am a sci-fi nerd and not a film geek.

Fade to black, resume normal structure. OK.

On top of toxic levels of the cheap and less delicious Jack Daniels green label, I'm taking the third round of post-op antibiotics which is wrecking my belly parts and I also quit taking my pain pills because I don't need them. That completely delights me in that

  • I'm hurting so much less. The stimulator is a medical fucking marvel.
  • I had (am still having?) physical withdrawal symptoms but no psychological panic which is reassuring because I've been worried I'd be a junkie when I quit them.
  • They made me really cranky and Shane was visibly relieved that I'm no longer on a constant dose.
  • I don't worry that if I go in public and have a huge prescription bottle in my purse someone will knife me and steal my stash. (Shit is real in Appalachia. We likes us some pills. I actually had some stolen from my old office at the shop.)
So, I'm doubling up on poem composing and doodle making today. I forgot, I believe, to link the poems here. I'll do a weekly post to archive them here, but I'm posting daily (excepting idiotic hangovers) at my Facebook page. It's public and you can visit it without an account. The poems are in the notes tab.

Happy Sunday and I wish you good, good mojo and better decision making skills than I have had of late.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Choosing Silence and Smallness

{Click link to daisybones.com to read the post & leave your comment.}

I've been struggling with wanting to write around an event, circling a wound without touching it. I can't write through it, not publicly; It's not my story. You know that sharing my world is how I vent every hurt. And it's distasteful and artificially coy to publish that I'm in some secret crisis. But at some point I need to say that I've been in an ugly place that is completely new and alien and horrible, so that I can stop forcing myself. The lapses in writing come from the fact that every moment of reaching out or making light commentary feel like pitiful whitewashing.

There's a circular tangle of paradoxical not writing in words. Can we just let it sit there and be there in its loud not-being? Let's do this:

poetry. Every day.

I'm going to figure out where to do that, maybe on my Facebook page as notes? The idea comes from Schmutzie and Amy Turn Sharp and participants are tagging it #365poems on Twitter and G+. My poem maker is rusted and sore so I'm excited to see what I have to write in that format now.

Follow #365poems on Twitter.
Follow @schmutzie and @amyturnsharp and me on Twitter.

Then, to understand about this need to share personal everything (or some things) on blogs, watch (Schmutzie) Elan Morgan's insightful TEDxRegina talk in the video to follow.