(alternative title - Hew Seep What Chew Roe)
After drafting previous poem describing effort
to brainstorm (grossly analogous to draining
a swamp), expound, and incorporate avast ga
mutt of threads into fabric when literary in spur
ration most profuse (temporarily exempt from
anxiety, famished and fully rested, perhaps not
necessarily in those exact words nor alphabetized
order) post anorexia nervosa (minus bulemia),
this faux south paw aimed, and beastily strove
to be a two fisted ham handed, double barreled
eating machine way beyond where I could stow
mach, one more forced mouthful of food into
gullet forsaking comfort (at the expense of former
starvation), nonetheless robotically, obsessively,
mechanically knocked worst, imaginary transcept
posts, when unwittingly, ignominiously, and
defiantly disobeying crossing guard (steepled
finger hut arc). Intolerably excessive caloric intake
compensation sans zero sum game when meal time
rolled around. The deliberate refusal to eat (purpose
fully attempted to disappear) undermined requisite
nutriments. Upon supposed recovery from restraining
necessary sustenance, the deficit attrributable depriving
prepubescent body of necessary food attempted
to be counter acted via stuffing my measly under
sized physique way past stated satiation. Despite
feeling sick to the stomach (yet luckily no instances
of regurgitation occurred), a reflexive gorging ceased,
when every other person in the household, (or visiting
friends of parents nobody but this poor soul) remained
painfully pushing forkfuls or spoonfuls of this, that
or other ample menu item. This aha awakening asper
obsessive compulsive disorders prompted loosening
mental restraints, and avoid perfecting burst of
awareness until complete with the epistle. That com
ment mentioned because no intent arose to dash off
another writing assignment. A goal of one missive a
day (to keep...what? Ghosts of past away perchance),
I discipline with some degree of tolerance. Rather
than feel fixated and fanatical (indicative of refraining
from adequate eats, or forcing self to take an excessive
number of platefuls), I accept that maybe some deficit
of energy, a bout of minor unwellness, or fatique means
that obeisance to thee bodily temperament must
be accepted. That philosophy also applies to passions
of exercising and reading. Although a natural euphoria
usually experienced during and/or after the self crafted
routine (best attempted as an natural aide to assist sleep,
which utilization of two ten pound dumb bells alternating
every other late evening with jogging/marching in place.
If you wanna a good laugh, I could possibly rig up some
precarious getup to create a short youtube blog. Until that
time just envision a middle aged older mwm bee bopping
in with the rhythm of music (usually fm 102.9) – soft
decades old rock and roll tunes. Information gets triggered
as of this moment, whereby regular efforts to publicize
the life of one ordinary older chap fuctions therapeutically,
holisitically, cathartically plus an unknown reader may
invisibly share a bond (even if she/he stock key) pertaining
to quandary written in a fashion much more under
stand able than usually the case. Impossible to
categorize style, yet each screenful of purged
sentiments, a sifting how to express emotions, ideas,
thoughts, et cetera seems to settle, akin to a capped jar
of blended tiny pieces of matter, whereby specific gravity deter
mines how lightest to heaviest particles settle according
to unwritten precepts of chemistry and/or physics.
Dear moon ,
If the sky itself could collapse
And you could fall
I would hold you on my palms
Cause only your daises and twilights define me
The fade knows my darkest secrets
The reflection kisses my wildest dreams
The scintillate stares at my deepest desires
Just look like plaster of Paris
So dirty with footprints
ugly with no color
But still I like you the most
And still love your dark side
Small and quiet, fluorescent,
the room holds anonymous faces.
People waiting for flu medicine,
hopes and fears and minor concerns about rashes
that we thought would go away.
a tremor in your left hand.
A business man closes his eyes and kneads his brow.
He sits tensely in a blue upholstered chair
and smiles at me when he catches me looking.
Ruffling pages in magazines
like a moth's wings.
No mayo, rye bread, a nurse says.
Tapping her lavender acrylics
to music just low enough not to recognize.
Mind on shuffle, dreams achieved and
failed dreams of medical school,
little ones tripping and laughing out of double doors,
lining up to be whisked away in Suburbans or Geos,
carrot sticks uneaten at the bottom of a backpack.
A doctor sets a clipboard in front of her
and words are hastily typed into a computer.
And I wait for her to call my name.
I hate that I miss you.
No-- I don't hate it;
It just seems trivial.
I missed you this summer,
then you came back.
Now you're gone again,
and I'm anxious for you
to come home.
I say "home"
as if we built it together
but in a way, it's true
None of this would be the same without you.
I'll never claim to own you;
You are free. Be so.
I only know
there's an echo of longing
for you to return.
I didn't plan to miss you,
yet here we are.
Just know that when you return,
in the moment allotted,
I'll cling to you
and cry out with my embrace
how I wish you wouldn't go
Covered in my shining armour,
carefully hiding all the love that I harbour.
Straight back, head always held high,
never showing them how hard I try.
Don’t offer a smile, they may not smile back. It’s better to fake the strength that you lack.
Pushing away the dream of true love,
covering my heart like a hand in a glove.
“Resting bitch face”, “intimidatingly fierce”,
sunglasses covering all of my tears.
“You’ll be happy alone”, I tell myself,
dreams of marriage pushed back on the shelf.
But then how is it, in the end of the day,
when I lay down in bed, it’s of true love I pray.
When the armour comes off, and I’m true to my soul,
I feel something missing for me to be whole.
I stretch out my body, my muscles are sore.
Bruises and marks from the armour I wore.
Like light through a crystal, it all becomes clear,
my shining armour was created by fear.
What I thought was my helper, was always an enemy;
pushing potential soul mates far away from me.
Keeping me away from all that I wanted,
all caused by memories of which I am haunted.
“Strong independent woman”, “single by choice”,
most times I don’t even believe my own voice.
But at night without the armour, I see the true me;
my soul and my heart both rejoiced to be free.
It’s time to be brave, let them all see;
the love. the kindness. the vulnerability.
I’ll take off the armour, piece by piece, over time;
true strength comes from within, and I see this is mine.
As I look across the waters
and watch the sun reflect across the sea,
it brings me to wonder if you ever think about me.
We shared so many memories,
yet still have none at all,
because the foundation our relationship was built on,
slowly began to fall.
You were oblivious towards my feelings,
and what was happening in my soul,
and always failed to see the crumbling of our friendship.
And as our once whole foundation became separate pieces of dirt,
our friendship ceased to exist,
trampled into the sand.
We've always been the kind,
To walk it off.
For what's so heavy in our chest,
Is much lighter with our feet,
We've walked together, in the sun,
And the rain.
We let the winds carry our stories,
Into forbidden categories,
But now these streets are too cold,
For our feet.
Light words have turned to heavy breathing,
Vocal affirmations to silent pleading.
And all of our meaning has blown away,
Like color at the end of fall.
The winds that have our stories carried,
Now drag them through dust, coarse and arid,
Slowing us to a crawl.
You must wonder, if I found any joy,
In burning all our bridges down.
I just prayed that this heat,
Would find it's way to your feet,
And would help you get around.
You've always been the kind,
To walk it off.
For what's so heavy in your chest,
Is much lighter with your feet,
Each year, we arrive at the same knot of woods, having drawn the same straw.
We grasp, trembling, at what we imagine to be certain death:
A leaf, edges curved up, orange crudely splashed across green.
But would you spare a second thought for the falling leaf that subsumes your life?
Think. Why would the world continuously dash herself
Into pieces, render herself to ash, if she were not made of
Such stuff as phoenixes? Nature goes up into flames each year
With little to no ado, and heals herself without fuss.
Leaves throw themselves from great heights not in pursuit of ruination but of
Revival. Year after year after year we are asked this much:
Allow me to unfurl the fist with which you are clinging to this tree.
Comfort lies in confiding, confessing, and conceding. There is no need to be
Stronger than the Earth’s heart when she is offering it up
To you so singularly. Grant yourself this: that she wants you to
Smile and shine and grow.
Do you fear your fate in this moment? You misinterpret.
The blameful breeze you imagine you feel is, in actuality,
Earth’s unremitting whisper, pressed into your skin:
“Do as the leaves do. Follow, and fall. You are forgiven.”
Let me go back to the roots: deep, deep, deeeeeeeeeeep within the soils of the ground, weaving in and out of each other and then, finally, intertwining at the end of it all.
Just to reach as deep as roots, see all that the Nile has seen, feel all that the oceans have felt, how then would I feel about throwing a rock into deep water or stealing a seemingly small fish?
Reaching far like the snow covered peaks of Everest; but seemingly never ending like the brave leap off the cliff ...
hi. [funny thing about chancing upon that particular title is my first boyfriend used to wrestle with my brothers and I]
Ah, silver twilight! mists like to a veil
Down in the valley, maples nod from hence
Their greener boughs as rain 'non whispers thence--
That voice my soul harks unto, low and frail
Yet oh, how sweet! If only in betrayl
I could 'gain lose me on that haunting sense
Which tugs at nary sleeve, yet knows fr'intents
What I sae yearn t'embrace, light waxing pale.
My brother sez thet all does change as twere,
Um, after we are one, though neither to
Effect know truly, 'cept by what, in poor
'Scuse, others say. The Word of God is true.
I'm sick of waiting...yet. Leaves dimly stir,
This half-light all I cherish, without you.