You’re dead.
My head
a kharmic muddle
I mull upon
morality,
your despair,
a pall
wrapped ’round
mortality.
You’re dead.
You’re dead.
My head
a kharmic muddle
I mull upon
morality,
your despair,
a pall
wrapped ’round
mortality.
You’re dead.
You’re dead.
You’ve bled
a carmine puddle
that pooled and
dripped down
the road,
drained
under my door
and into
my head.
It gets better.
Whatever pressure
is crushing you,
whatever frustrations
are tearing you apart,
will end.
Permanent solutions
to temporary problems
are a waste
of who you could be.
Don’t take drastic actions
when patience could prevail
and provide purpose
for the brilliant future
you deserve.
Whatever burdens you,
buries you,
bullies you,
will end.
Call for help
It’s here.
Hold hope in your hands.
Give your future a chance.
Trust time to release you
from pain,
not death.
.
.
In an exercise of hope, I wrote this in present tense, though it is a letter to a brilliant young man who once sat in my class room, and sadly did not trust time: so much potential, crushed by despair, frustration and anger. I am mourning the loss of his shadowed light in our world. It only needed time for it to shine brilliantly, but he did not wait to see.
Apparently,
someone arrived at my blog
yesterday, having used
the search term
“Fluevog addict.”
Ouch.
That seems a little harsh.
Addict?
Really?
Couldn’t we just say
“aficionato?”
or “connoisseur?”
Addict?
Come on now.
That’s definitely over-stating.
Seriously.
.
Um.
Did I tell you?
To celebrate my Master’s placement
I have Prepared Hi Steadies coming ?

Aren’t they gorgeous?
Way cheaper than a party to celebrate,
and I get to enjoy them for ages!
years!
Rather than a single evening.
That’s not addiction.
That’s just…
happiness.
😉
Oh, and
John Fluevog thinks I’m awesome!
So there.
.
(Well fine, he probably thinks you’re awesome, too)
.
.
.
PS>
Fluevog liked this poem so much, that they sent me a mug! Yay! 🙂 They know how to feed their addic… >>cough<< …fans. Many thanks to Preet at the Vancouver Granville Fluevog store, who takes good care of me, AND sends me presents! (If you look closely, you can see that the mug says “Juan Fluevog” I think that’s hilarious. Vog humour. HA!)
Hot water tap turned with a toe,
A fairy tale is unfolding
In my brain, page by page.
Dusty Dog is curled into a ball
Hubby snoring through the wall
A suspicious rustling
heard down the hall.
“OJ? Are you getting into trouble?” I call
to my incorrigible canine,
plainly awoken from his nap on the couch.
He clicks nearer, ’til he’s
outside the bathroom door.
“Were you getting into something?” I ask softly.
Slow feet start to move away.
“You need to stay out of trouble. Go to your bed, OJ.”
I say in a firm whisper.
Click click
Two steps toward the living room.
“OJ.”
Pause.
“OJ. That’s the wrong way.
Go to bed.” Spoken so silently that
sleeping husband will not hear.
Oh, so, slowly OJ turns
And strolls, almost like it was his idea,
Into his room.
I hear him jump onto his bedroom futon.
Good bad dog.
I turn the page in my book,
and add more hot water with my toes.
Dusty sleeps the blessed sleep of the innocent
on his own bed towel, dreaming dog dreams.
Later, warmly water logged,
I investigate the disaster,
Dusty at my feet.
My purse on a chair, formerly zippered closed
Has been opened and disembowelled.
I pull out the camera to photograph
The scene of the crime.
OJ wanders down the hall,
hopeful.
He meets my eyes.
“OJ. This is bad.” I tell him, shaking my head.
“Very bad.”
He looks at the floor.
“You need to be back in your room before I get angry with you.”
He soulfully studies me, sighs
then takes the circle route,
through the kitchen,
Back to his room.
Such a bad, good dog.
.
.
That black/gold cloth bag is an organizer. Each compartment is usually full of something- pens, makeup, business cards, shopping bags, keys, flashlight, notebook, etc. so things can be transferred easily between purses. The bag was a mess, the organizer as you see.
If you click on the Category POODLES >>> on the right>>> you can read more of OJ’s adventures. He is an incorrigible counter surfer, and food scrounger. He opens packages (he loves ziplock bags, even if there is nothing edible in them). He likes to investigate my purse, whenever I am foolish enough to leave it within his reach. After I yelled at him for eating through linings (on my brand new, expensive bag!) he has not once eaten through another lining, but carefully manipulates the zippers, sometimes a series of zippers, and occasionally buckles in order to explore. I have no idea how. Poodles are considered the second most intelligent dogs (second only to Border collies), and it’s because of their phenomenal problem solving abilities. OJ plays dumb and lazy much of the time, but he has some amazing skills. (I call these “bad talents” and there is a blog series about them.)
Do you have an incorrigible canine character at your house?
.
Dusty Dog and the oh so innocent looking incorrigible OJ:
The glistening of sunlight upon the pate,
is not so much a follicular challenge
as it serves to demonstrate
a follicular abdication
as the hormones re-arrange
to prove the superior state
of follicular proration,
that razors duplicate.
.
.
I casually mentioned a ‘follicular challenge’ to a man who responded that it wasn’t so much a challenge as an abdication, and thus, a poem was born… 😉 For what it’s worth, I highly endorse the natural state over wigs and surgeries. Shine that pate with confidence, and damn the ads that prey on insecurities!
I wrote letters to poets
Sandburg, Dickinson, Twain,
Shelley, Petrarca, Yeats or Keats,
it was always the same.
“Thank you for your words.
“I like what you say.
“Your message was heard.”
Each time someone’d said
“You can’t send a note
for those poets are dead;
it’s been years since they wrote!”
.
On the blog roll are poets
who live and who breathe
and I can write them notes
and some encouragement leave.
“I like that you’re writing
“I like that you’re here
“I like that you’re sighting
on truths without fear.
“Thank you for your words.
“I like what you say.
“Your message was heard;
I’ll be back here one day!”
head in vice
waves of fire engulf me,
then ebb, and I’m left drenched
boiling in my skin
head in vice
.
.
I’m home sick today. This is why. 😦 These debilitating waves have been coming all morning. It’s horrible. I was in bed until noon, when the need for pain killer forced me to move. It is not pretty. I hope you’re having a much better day!
(If you should see a line from your poem in this, please link to it in the comments!) Each line is taken from a poem on the blog roll, in order, backwards in time.
.
I can’t sing you a sad song.
patience for life’s lovers
all these people,
opened up,
howl like children
for something different in these places.
Mermaids only dream
our burning love.
I will not take
first dandelions,
each one a kiss
weighing heavy on my heart.
Warm breath on my neck,
I have burned.
I could write between the lines
the many masks of the broken child:
Rainbow sprays in the garden.
I love you still.
Lullaby sea
has aged gracefully.
Time has taken
the dewdrops of sadness
awaiting damnation,
silencing the crowds.
Blink of an eye,
what was wholly irrelevent
blossoms in the mind:
I never see you smiling.
Life makes us cynical,
oddly balanced.
That impossible moment
lights the trees,
the sky looks like me.