Incandescence warms and glows soft yellow
Soft yellow butter yellow canary yellow
Yellow roses and jonquils and buttercups
Yellow is the sun shine after rain
Yellow golden yellow is the light that spills
From inside of me to help me find my way
It draws those near, like moth to flame, who need
The warmth and cheer of softly yellow glowing
Light through liquid beer.
Lemon curd whipped with sugar
Warm lustre on a golden ring
A monarch on fragile wing
Honey dripped in teas
Flickering flames from candles
My heart burns always bright for thee.
Thoughts like shards of broken plates jumble in my head
Mess and confusion abound
I am searching for brown paper bags and packing tape
The dust pan and broom sit idle as I search
I cannot mend these broken thoughts with glue
The best idea is the hardest and that is to clean
Clean up the mess and throw it away
But every now and then in this heap I see
Images and words , a baby’s first or a loosely scrawled I love you
And I turn the bits over seeking a salvageable treasure
Avoiding the dustpan and broom
These are my fragments I am not trash and yet these bits
These bits are useless and full of pain jagged edges
It is why I am looking for brown bags
Sturdy brown papers to safely hold the shattered pieces and broken bits
The tape to wind about the bag so slivers do not poke through
So, should anyone be kind enough to offer help
They are protected from the worst
Sipping black coffee until it grows cold an ocean away, a continent too
Sandwiches on white bread cigarettes close at hand
A footie match is on the tele Man U v the Saints no contest there
The smell of pine evokes the memories of Christmases past. There is no place other than in the mind and heart that these snippets of time live laying dormant until the time is right to grab you and pull you to another place. For me it is the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking and the sight of a dark mustard colored table cloth where mom set the cookies to cool. The heady scent of vanilla and sugar and egg brings a smile always.
The idea that Christmas is most important and magical things should happen has always left me with a sense of disquiet. Sure there are parties and times with family but the chasm of spiritual fulfillment on this day is astounding. This is the day in which Christians are supposed to find joy in the acknowledgement of Christ’s birth. So many times I hear people say that they cannot find the Christmas Spirit. This elusive ghost caught in songs and images in art and film seemingly hard to capture and hold is not so ephemeral as you might think.
For those of us who have children Christmas has a deeper connection. Birthday parties are why all these other out croppings of holiday symbols beyond Mary and the Christ child abound. Parents go to extraordinary lengths to celebrate birthdays. And that is what Christmas is, the celebration of a birth of a child. A child whom some call a myth, others a magic mushroom, some deny his existence, some martyr themselves for Him. Christ, be he real or a symbol, exemplifies sacrifice. Parents know this all too well, no matter your religion, when you have a child you sacrifice for it. Women give time and space within their body to nurture and then bring forth life. Fathers give up freedoms and pleasures to be able to provide for the life they helped create. Even parents who are not there, junkies, whores, selfish individuals, or even just genetic donors, still have made contribution to some end. The pain and loss all children bring is off set by the joys they inspire.
So anymore when I think of Christmas I think of Mary. Mary as a woman scorned for her pregnancy as an unwed mother. She is a woman of strength and courage who fled in the night with a young man, Joseph, who was willing to love and care for her and her child. This woman who ultimately watched her child die for his own peaceful teachings humbles me and fills me with courage and awe.
In giving so much and holding no expectation of anything other than the hope that a kindness might one day be returned I wish you all a Mary Christ Mass.
Still, motionless and silent
My own movement would be a crime
A disruption in the force
There is no quiet whir from a motor
No voices muffled behind walls
I cannot even hear my own heart beating
Color on walls means nothing
Even the words in my head
These sentence fragment thoughts
Not a thing repeat nothing
The emptiness makes me a husk
A thin shell fine like the small white wings
Children find sea shell wings
She sells her wings to save a soul
Crafted from strings and glue and odd bits of paper
A light bulb of thought
Arcs energy creating synergy
The repetitious pulsing coming from the radio
Bounces from speakers off dashboard then out
Open windows give access to free flowing blowing
Kisses stealing kisses kisses feathered, planted, and air
A cloud floats by
Bilingual trilingual quad
Rain patters softly on window panes
Pain eases under the soothing hands of time.
All lies sewn to make a pretty patched tale
To hide the black to mask the pale.
Mustard please, no ketchup
trim the crusts
hand wash only
close the door
speak in soft voices
trim the meat from the bone
mind your pronunciation
do not interrupt
wash your hands, scrub your nails
refrain from shouting across the house
keep quiet the television is more important
all surfaces clear
vacuum twice daily
no running inside
can’t you see I am doing something
Now he calls three times a day he misses these things he’s sorry he says.
I run into the same brick wall, not every day, but often enough. I am not stupid, it is just that sometimes I do not see the wall until it is there in front of me and I am forced to deal with it and even though quantum mechanics says we are all atoms and fluff and nonsense I cannot pass thru the wall. I hit it dead on full speed and it hurts. You would think this brick wall would be easier to pass through when it is in the invisible plane of interpersonal relationships. This wall often hurts more.
I suppose, if I stop being nice, stop caring about other people and pretend things do not hurt I will be better off.
I find myself standing not at a precipice but on a platform of a railway station. I dream of this station often. It is an open air platform. The low building is brick with a metal roof it is sided by 4 round silos and one tall square tower. Grass fields all around and an arterial road which runs parallel to the train tracks. I think it is a real place. Though I have never been.
Dreams are an amazing escape.
My favorite dreams are waking dreams in which I become so entangled in the construction that I cannot hear what is around me. Many call this day dreaming,
There are certain friends I dream about over and over again. In most bizarre fashions, Sometimes they are whittling and smoking, others they are disembodied voices coming thru the computer. Just odd.
I think I have worn a hole in my soul.
Here, right here, a gaping hole.
I feel the cold wind rush in and settle.
I wonder if Clotho will loan me some thread?
Maybe the Norns will be so good as to give me a needle?
Will there be pain when the needle sinks in?
Is the hole too big to mend?
Will God notice the damage?
Do I mend it myself or find a good tailor?
I am torn
Indecision, hesitation muddle causing frustration.
There is no one else.
For better or worse.
I am my own surgeon.
I am my own nurse.