Dirge

He was a sad and mournful song

A lonesome whispered lilt

The mountains

Streets

Bereft

Haunted

Carried on

 

He was a solitary sound

A single keening note

Through walls

And hallways

Wearing down

With pure and

Plaintive soul

 

He was a sad and mournful song

A sorrow filled refrain

No country

Home

Forlorn his name

A Dirge

He carried on

 

Inspired by a line from Ssly.

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What People Will See

okay, kalei, try this and think about it a bit:

every day, take a moment to breathe very deeply. and then reach deep down into yourself- that part of you, you love about you, and just be there for a few moments. every day. deep, loving breathes welling up from the deepest, loveliest, sweetest, strongest, part of you. picture your heart center as the center of your favorite succulent or other flower/plant/tree reaching down into the soil and out into the sky.

every day, breathe your beauty out into the world.

it is an endless supply.

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What Do You Want People to See?

Maggie,

 

Interesting question to my own question, and I’ll to answer it.

What is it that I would like people to see?
I guess just me. Not dry, stressed out skin, or makeup, all though I have no problem with make up. I just don’t like it much when it’s what you see when you look at a person.

And I have not adjusted to “aging” where my looks are concerned. It’s shocking to watch them change, even slowly, and wonder, “Who will I become?” Maybe it’s even harder when one somehow bypasses so many of the signs of aging, for so long. It’s been this way for me.

What do I want them to see?.… You have me thinking hard now, Maggie, about what THAT question means.

Maybe that’s the answer, for me to think about; what I want people to see…and why it matters to me.

What I have always had a hard time with where my face is concerned is this: always, my every emotion has played out there in high relief. I don’t do deadpan.

It makes me feel very “un-private”, all though I am not, by nature. It makes me want to withdraw from humanity when I am not feeling well, because it makes me feel too vulnerable. It makes me not look as well as I’d like, when I am sad or disturbed. I can, to some degree, consciously control this, but with great effort only, and then only when I am feeling strong.
Hmm….I wasn’t expecting the question, or my own answer.
There is no moisturizer or make up for that “skin” condition. LOL.

What do you think of that?
Is it a bad thing? I would not rather have a robot face; I just wish it were not quite such a conduit for my feelings…

My skin.

I don’t mind when I am around people who are fine with however I happen to be, feel, appear at any given moment. It is difficult when working, say, with the public, or around people who are uncomfortable with what they perceive as “weakness”. It’s also bad when encountering people who are um…. predatory in nature. Hard to protect myself. They tend to home in on anyone who wears their emotions on their sleeve.
Interesting question, Maggie—you’ve made me think. Such a simple question, yet so much to answer.

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The Best Amends

Sometimes the best way to make amends to someone is to leave them alone.

 

This isn’t a passive-aggressive thing. It doesn’t mean just stop approaching me directly. It means do not approach me through others. Do not use/drop my name. Do not approach me through media, internet, skywriting or notes left under rocks. It means stop the forced association of referring to me, identifying yourself with me, giving me a role in your life that doesn’t exist and really never did.

If your relationship with me is long dead, why define me by it?

I was insignificant enough to you for you to end our relationship, disposable enough for you to destroy even friendship between us, unworthy of any honor from you even in marriage. Yet once dead, you hold it and me up as something worthy of citing again and again.

Fodder.

 

I have news; I am not flattered by this. It doesn’t warm my heart and create imaginations of special-ness in me. Not about myself, nor about you. I merely makes me see you as having less character than I already thought.

Leave it dead.

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Haiku, Too

I too hate haiku

haiku, I hate you, haiku

So haiku, fuck you

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Push

I scream the streets

Of Hollywood

Push my old Impala

I’m on my way

To meet the man

But on my heels

Another seems

To follow

 

I can’t shake

The imprint left

Your fingers

On my skin

I need the heat

I’m on my way to meet

The man

And stuck in high gear

 

I’m in the wind

I’ve got those high heels on

Oh, I know when

The feeling’s gone

I scream the streets

Of Hollywood

And push it

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Tough

Tough Love.

I know what it means. I know how it feels. I know sometimes you have to care enough to give it.

But it’s tough, tough love. And it hurts too.

What kind of friend am I? Am I the kind of friend who stands by, longing for you to find your way, wanting to give only encouragement? Or am I the friend that will jerk you up out of the hole when I can see that you’re drowning, and say “No. No more. Get up! Now.”

I don’t know. I’m both.

I don’t want to hurt you. And I want to turn away.

Sometimes I think I can’t bear to watch another friend, or even stranger, slide down into the pit. We have our own personal pits, each of us. When you’ve been in the pit as many times as I, you learn. However deep you slide, the end gets deeper still. The strength to scratch back out is strength that takes everything. If you lose your strength, there’s no hope for anyone else to help pull you out.

It’s not that you have to do it all alone. It’s that without you in the fight, it matters not what another’s efforts might be. You have to get up.

Sometimes, you get up and fight, or you lay down. For good.

So I’ll say it now, because I care; Get the fuck up.

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Unwanted

Don’t touch me

Seriously

Who do you think you are?

Don’t touch me

Just don’t

If you are unsure, ask me

I’ll tell you, that yes…

I do mind

 

Don’t touch me

I’m not touching you

What have I been saying?

You have missed

What my eyes

Do convey

 

Step back

A few more steps

Or go away

I’ll remember

To be polite

And I won’t hurt you

 

Get back

And stay there

Make a space

My warning

Gives you escape

But I could burn you

 

Don’t touch me

Just don’t

Again

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The Greatest Show on Earth

You escape

Her becoming real

You take

Her image with you

Packing sparely

Your traveling show

 

Barker

Illusionist

Sideshow

Freak

Lion

Tamer

Acrobat

Master

Geek

 

Once more

Performing

The Greatest Show on Earth

Sailing overhead

In daring feats of skill

Hoping you don’t fall

Hoping you do

 

Always finding another

Willing to risk all

For promised glory

With more at stake

Than you

Trusting

In your grip

With faith

Your senses won’t fail

 

Safe in your arms

And reassuring words

They fly

A thrilling moment

Suspended

 

Space and time

Dismissed

Mere notions

Easily seen through

They believe then

What they see

And they fall

Over you

 

You escape

Them becoming real

Take care, their pictures with you

Pack them squarely

In your traveling show

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Kissing Frogs

Kissing Frogs

Well, no. I am not really kissing them. But petting them. Carefully, with one gentle fingertip.

They look on, silent, occasionally perched on my arm where they landed, jumping from the wake of my more vigorous watering and weeding.

They don’t seem to mind the petting, but I try never to subject them to my affections. Rather, I ask them. Not in words so much, but approach.

OK, sometimes I speak. Who knows what they hear. But they don’t flee, nor do they freeze. I seem no different than the fern and the moss, for all I can tell of their response.

Sometimes they turn their heads to me, and I do see them move their eyes. Surely they know I am a creature larger and hungrier than they. But it seems to matter not. They accept my attentions with no alarm.

They are tree frogs, tiny and charming. They bring the garden to life and I’m thankful for their little appetites, because I can always use less mosquitoes. And wherever I live I consider it a good sign when they appear. They appreciate lush plant life, water, hiding places; I feel I have done something right if they move in with their chirping voices.

 

One year I had a one-eyed frog here. I saw him almost every day. He wasn’t missing an eye, but born with one large one. I gave him a name, of course. I imagined him a special frog, and saw him all season. Perhaps he was really a prince. He certainly acted princely; he sat on my hand quite calmly, and looked regal.

I considered kissing him. Just because. Could it hurt? That particular fairytale came from somewhere, after all….and who really knew? I mean, how many can say they have tested that magic?

 

Some time prior to meeting my princely frog, my mother gave me a silver ring. A wee silver frog, long legs stretched to gird my finger. Adorable. Everybody knows I like tree frogs. Yet I asked her, what had possessed her to buy this ring?

“Well, you’ve had to kiss a lot of frogs.” She answered.

This is true. Yet I had not given those kisses to the small green and brown ones. And they weren’t the frogs she’d meant either.

 

But I’d stopped kissing frogs of human ilk.

 

My princely frog contemplated me from the palm of my hand. Maybe I had been going about things all wrong. His look seemed so sure, so knowing and calm.

 

I admit, I considered him. God knows I’d never found a prince through conventional means. Nor any other means. So, what? I might strike out again?

 

In the end, I set him back down in the ferns.

I’d see him, gazing at me serenely and steadily. There in the moss, then on the porch railing while I sat and smoked. He seemed always to say the same words.

“wait wait. wait wait.”

I didn’t know what to wait for, yet wait I did. And finally he appeared no more.

 

I finally found my Prince. But he was never a frog. In fact, there is nothing remotely frog-like about him. And I know his parents.

But I did have to wait.

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