Tag Archives: My Life

Subsistence

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I know what it is to subsist under the weight of darkness.

I know about the exponential effort to drag yourself through the day,
limb by leaded limb.

I know about that magnetic force that paralyzes you,
into the chair in front of your computer screen:
a planned paramnesia,
as your only antidote for this suffering,
when you “can’t make it,” again.

And I know how these very words- “I can’t,”
become a repetitive reel,
ruminating and rising,
ton by laden ton,
they build bars,
around your soul,
you struggle for air,
yet all you find is anger.

But I also know what it is to live.

I know what it is to bathe my spirit in sunlight,
and breath the sweetness of serenity.

I know about allowing oneself to be carried, by wisdom,
gathered of seamless connection,
the common pulse of all living beings,
and the oness that confesses,
that light and darkness are the same.

I have been held by the healing energy,
of an embrace,
washed in the humble purity,
of children’s laughter,
reveled in my own worth,
and in that of every other,
seemingly insignificant life,
of this whimsical world.

I also know enough,
to know that I know less,
than what I don’t,
and that I cannot live in,
perpetual poise,
because to do so,
would be to fall into deception,
and roll again,
under the weight of darkness.

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Solitude

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As I crossed over the Portsmouth bridge into Maine this afternoon,
I saw a flock of white seagulls fly over the deep blue river.
They dissipated into the grey winter forest,
somehow making me feel at home,
along with the muddy patches of melting snow,
and the vivid shifting sky,
over permeating stillness:

Solitude at peace with itself.

I used to see it all as a trap, an icy prison,
of timber and water.
But today there are moments,
in my messy world of cement and tangled bodies,
that I long to disappear,
like the gulls,
into the wisdom of these ancient pines
and crispy thawing streams.

Music, Love, Faith

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sheet music, construction paper heart, rosary

Music gives me the power to love.

 

Love gives me the courage to fail,

the permission to be flawed,

the insight that there are many Ways

and more than one answer.

 

Faith gives me the wisdom to be patient,

to believe in signs,

to learn from my emotions

and to simply be.

Change

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sleepingMy voice is hidden behind the curtains,
in the corner of the room,
quite aware  you won’t notice it is missing.

But that’s what happens,
when you let yourself sink into the covers,
never to rise,
until the world shifts its course.

I try to change the paintings on the walls around you,
quietly,
as not to disturb your fitful slumber,
but so that when you wake,
you will be overtaken,
by color.

Nevertheless, the world will continue its course,
with or without our feelings,
so I just let my voice cower under the cool draft,
sinking in from the cracked window.

In the bathroom,
I let my sight,
spill on to the  floor.

It makes me lighter.

That way my ears can float,
on the adagio notes that waft in,
from the kitchen,
in our sticky apartment.

My body continues,
its assiduous routine;
wishing its agitation will stir you back,
to life.

Heartache

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The gray textured mountain ranges and ravines,mother and baby hands

of our Sunday morning bedspread,

envelop my sick toddler.

 

She whimpers in her light sleep,

her binky quietly chirping,

as she suckles it.

 

My pajama top is clutched,

in her pudgy little hand,

to ensure that I must remain at her side.

 

In the kitchen,

there is a disaster scene of an early morning breakfast,

prematurely expelled.

 

In the bathroom there are also remnants on the floor:

soiled baby clothing, a damp hoody towel,

and droplets of sticky cherry medicine.

 

Later I will plan my escape, then my industrial cleaning fury.

For now, I succumb to her tiny,

but powerful grasp.

 

Letting myself melt into the folds of the comforter,

I snuggle close to the radiant heat,

of my stricken cherub.

Maine

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The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,maine

Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,

The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.

One step closer to the sky.

 

It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.

They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,

At first you are not sure of having seen one,

yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.

 

Then came the tremors,

electric and charged,

pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.

I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,

the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean

or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.

 

By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.

Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.

At the time I did not understand what was happening,

nor the power I had found in my falling;

I would be saved time and time again

by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.

 

Life would pull me through twists and turns.

Poetry would make me stay the course.

Hardship would not find me helpless.

 

I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,

Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,

Dreaming of what the future would offer.

 

Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,

not much has changed.

I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning

to be, to love, to create…