Tag Archives: Random Thoughts

Peace

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Speeding down the coast,
I was gritting my teeth,
Deepened by the hollowness of worry.

With a swoosh my car veered right,
And with it, the flopping alarm,
of a flat tire.

I pulled into a dirt parking lot,
beside the sea,
called and waited to be rescued.

The sun was just drooping below the clouds,
behind the black, baby islands,
with streaks of orange and crimson.

The sound of rounded rocks,
fumbling for the earth,
below the weight of waves.

Simple silhouettes in the background,
gliding gracefully,
before each frothy ocean pulse.

Somehow the worry seeped out,
and lost its weight,
Between stones and water.

Darkening mist,
tickling my nostrils,
soothing my tired chest.

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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…

To Wring a Poem From My Gut

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open mouth

To wring a poem from my gut,

there’s nothing like infuriation,

with acid reflux burning,

comes a verbal deviation.

 

My words seethe from every crack,

I say only in a sarcophagus,

would you be able to silence,

this woman’s throbbing esophagus.

 

Wrenching impotence,

in the face of calamity,

give me a Pepcid Ac

of God’s magnanimity.