Good luck to you, Carol Anne!
hi guys
i’m almost at 2000 followers! I cant believe it!
Can you get me to 2000?
can you share this post, for me?
Reblog it?
I’d be so grateful!
for those who want to follow my blog maybe, I am 37, blind, I blog about mental health, my therapy journey, i post quotes, recipes, life updates, songs, hilarity.
please follow along if you can!
carol anne
i tella you one a’ stoopit ting
you nevva wanna do
and dat’s forget the valentines
and her 60 birthday too
and dat weddin’ anniversary
was forty one or forty two?
i always gotta scratcha ma head
if it’s all the same to you
and when she gimme grocery list
and send me to the store
i need a damn interpreter
’cause i never can be sure
she calla me on the telephone
says ‘pick up thirty more
the sale she ends on Saturday
we only got forty four’
‘hey- who’s a’ dat girl you talkin’ to
you better watcha you mouth
or I’ll be packin’ all a’ my bags
and headin’ for the south’
but now she has forgiven me
I’m such a handsome guy
i tell her she will never ever
catcha me in a lie
i buy us tickets to a show
and take her to a dance
she fixes makeup and her hair
and puts me in a trance
but i tella you one more stoopit ting
it doesn’t make no sense
dat hundred dolla perfume
don’t mix with flatulence!
i won’t complain no more, no more
you see
only should i say what i have
that so many have not
a modest house
whose roof does not leak
and holds the heat in winter
a rusty car that still runs
and a license to drive it
someone with whom i have shared 40 Years
adult children who care
a body, still somewhat serviceable
enough faculties left to feel what is real,
discern what matters now,
scribble a few poems and stories
i hope my kids will read one day
and the strength given me
to overcome some of my weaknesses
someone said
“I used to cry because i had no shoes,
until i met a man who had no feet”
i was selling seashells by the seashore
in a big sombrero
under the rakish palms
i was wearing broken teeth
and a black moustache
there were many flies
my sister weaves baskets
and she made my hat
the air is hot and fishy
and something moves under the sand
we’re hiding
scared to death
in a room
in a building
with walls and halls of tin
they are coming for us
we have six kittens in a basket
all are quiet except one
I hold it tightly
we are shaking with fear
i have to smother it
now it is done
within the horizon’s heat wave haze
there’s an untrustworthy form or shape
we do not want to guess its intent
so we climb into our egg shaped capsule
made from galvanized garbage cans
and naugahide sofas
the two of us pull down on the big slot machine lever
and up We rise with fluidity
hovering above the uncertainty
ah
sometimes i write just to show up
then post it anyway
Sometimes I write, then scribble it out
God, what hogwash, flush that one
Sometimes the hesitant pen
Puts down one word, then a few
And thinks
This should be written
But, in the end,
I always think
They will know the difference
it’s a sore feeling
in a life lived
when you have seen your kin
suffer and die slowly
one by one
fogged by the killers of pain
and you have perhaps distanced yourself
from it, at the bitter end
because of the shame of helplessness
not knowing what to say
what to do
how to support others
what you will do
when your Mom, Dad, brother, sister, spouse, child
is gone
this clumsy desperation
this unworthiness
then you feel your own time coming
sore of mind and body
you make the hard choices
feel your pain, ride with your pain
or let them put you into the fog too
the chemical death of the spirit
You begin to see the cycle come full circle
others, even close ones, want to look away
denial in their eyes
you do not want them to feel
that helplessness, desperation, unworthiness
you love them, and do not want them to feel
the way you once felt
you say go home
go home to your families
do not stay here
go home with my blessing
and, let me go home too.
me and me buddy
we are twenty one
we have freckles like Alfred E. Neuman
we are atop a kids’ slide
we climbed the long long long ladder
with the knurled steel steps
it’s a double we are excited
we grip the railings stand up
look almost straight down
upon the gleaming tin
heat waves rise from it
we see at the bottom through clouds
perfect miniature villages and farmland
we turn toward each other eyes wide
i’ll race you we say
and down we go
helter skelter
Godzilla and Rodan
god, we are so high
me and me little brother
inside a mile long china shop
locked in and vacant
it’s darkling outside
all the walls ceiling floors
are just cabinets and drawers
we cry a little we wanna go home
strange knocking sounds strange sweeping sounds
a grotesque shadow moves rapidly around
floor ceiling walls
it scares us before we even know what it is
we try the drawers
we open cabinets, trash the china
find the cabinet has a back door
Narnia? or escape?
we go through, feet first
we’re in another long room, empty concrete, one candle
at its end a door with sunlight and green plants
we look back through the glass cabinet
and there’s the face
black robed black hat
slowly sweeping
it is the Season of the Witch.
pale pastels in the mist
seen through a screen of whimsy
still, we follow, with flagging eyes
light mauves edged in silver shimmer
what will take form
from this impressionist’s
master hand?
The music of the singing strings
the melody and rhythm brings
and prints a pretty pattern to the ear.
The poetry of metre fine,
of effortless and flowing rhyme,
is close akin- to music very near.
The two together make a song
so well connected, seeming strong,
and memorable for all of us to hear.
Then, in a waltz, they consummate
a marriage of the intimate-
a swirling sensitivity, so dear.
A short introductory blurb for my first newspaper column, which will hopefully be a bi-weekly gig for me. Thanks for reading.
Aremyfeetofftheground 