Category Archives: Uncategorized

Items to check off my list

Read volumes.
Get lost in them.
If you don’t, pass them along as mathoms.

Let a cat keep you company.
It’s the icing on the cake.
If you have no cake, it’s still icing.
Yum.

Walk when you can.
It keeps those Tin Man joints from rusting up.
You might meet the innocent open gaze of a three year old.
People will say Hi, and give a wee smile.

Give what you can of your time.
Especially to children, and those troubled of soul.
Even if you yourself may be such.

Tell someone, somehow, that you love them.
Even if inappropriate.
When words fail, or may be unwise,
Actions will show.

 

 

 

 

Lose the Carnation, please

Should I be ashamed of creating, and of taking a little pride in it? (Cometh before a fall). Of making a poem, a story real or fancied, and putting it out there? (Don’t do it on Facebook, you’re seeking attention. Yes, I am.  Look, I have done this.  Is it not better than looking at pictures of my breakfast or my cat, or endless political flame wars?)

Of being in a musical ensemble, wanting to sing, be heard, create songs, but being called out for performing? (We prefer a singalong, so don’t take center stage).

Why do painters paint? (Rhetorical)

When I see someone else’s beautiful work, I am sometimes at a complete loss as to how to show my love and appreciation of it, lest I appear clumsy or redundant or high-handed.  (Note to self: if you like something, don’t read the comments, just go for broke.)

(Another note to self:  false modesty is sickening.  If someone gives you public praise, just smile)

Once, I was at a wedding reception, dressed to the nines, with a carnation (I think) pinned to my lapel.  I was the best man, and had a prepared speech about the groom.  Afterward, our band played off and on for the evening.  Someone came up to me, looked at my flower, and said something that cut to the quick, and therefore perhaps has some truth:  “You should be wearing the Narcissus”.

A Blessed Bench Of Boredom

This post spoke straight to me, and evoked the islands we sometimes need to be.
By Paula B. at https://thetemenosjournal.com/author/thetemenosjournal/

paulaB's avatarby PaulaB

Some days I sit here, after scrolling through the multitude of things that flash by and find myself drifting off and staring at this framed print I’ve had for years. Noticing the details of the flowers, the way that one flower in the lower right-hand corner looks like it’s dancing. How the artist used the blank spaces, how the alabaster type vases are different, and how with the strokes of light and dark I can almost imagine their weight in my hand. Can almost imagine the room they are in, with light streaming in through an open window, perhaps in the morning, or late in the afternoon. The wall behind with its rustic wash of plaster could be a room within some ancient dwelling, far away, such as an Italian Villa, or a Parisian apartment.

The last couple months I have wandered about, picking at the fringes, ran my eyes…

View original post 1,194 more words

Little green wings

The tiny green glass bottle rests upon the dusty chest of drawers, well and surely away from my nightstand.  It’s where I once kept the precious tablets, cut into halves, that I had saved for a rainy day, when a little extra help would be a boon.  These halves came from skimming a few whole ones out of a newly prescribed bottle, then cutting them up for clandestine storage.  Thinking the doctor would not notice that I was in the habit of renewing a few days early, on occasion.  Sleeping drugs.  Hypnotics.  Prescribed nearly five years back, but apparently not meant for steady use.  No one to blame, really, but me.  Such a heavenly help, at first.  Then the mind starts to look on them as crack.  The trouble was, the rainy days would come more and more often, and the little green wings were following me with the first flush of a promise.  Convincing me that the extra help would be so soothing and sure.  The waking dreams were drawn vividly with an artist’s brush, and always lead down the gently sloping road to deep slumber.  Hence the name hypnotics, as that is how the hypnotist would lead you.  And so, I played a foolish game with myself for a time, keeping the little green things in their little glass bottle well away. Well away.  Suspecting myself of automatic trancelike pilfering if they were by my side.  The isolation worked well for a while, with my visits to the bottle coming only a couple of times in a week, but eventually, of course, I put it on my nightstand “for convenience”. Not long before it was every night.  Then I knew I needed help.
Guilt and acknowledgement of addiction came swiftly.

Now, the tiny green glass bottle rests back in its place, and contains slightly diluted dosages.  In a month’s time, these will be lowered again, and, soon, if my willpower holds, I will have to sleep on my own.  Fitfully, at first, I expect.  But, I am determined to defeat the grinning Jester of addiction that showed me what a complete fool I could be.

Very superstitious…writing’s on the wall

Petulant pride
assures me
I am not superstitious.
Don’t go for any of that
mumbo jumbo.
Open the umbrella
before I go outdoors,
wife all the while tisking.
Pick up black cats,
scratch their chins.
Walk under ladders.
What do I care?
Broke a mirror, not on purpose.
Seven years bad luck?
I proved it wrong.
Maybe the seven year itch, though.
Yes, seven’s about right,
and I sure have the itch,
and that could be bad luck.
Ahhh….makes me ponder.
No…only a fool could be so gullible.
Wake up, fool, you’re in charge, aren’t you?
Put your confident smirk back on.
And so, I go about believing
the helmsman’s in control.  But.
There’s a little niggling thing
that pick pick picks away
at the mica-like layers of my built up shell.
As if it had a fetish for peeling off scabs.
Am I not like the Gollum-Sméagol in one mind?
Under the scabs, the former finds fresh evidence
of some of my cultivated peculiarities.
How I have an aversion to making plans
for some future date,
because it’s bad luck.
This is a thing I cannot shake,
a quality of a social pariah.
How, when at a party,
I choose the strategic position
in the corner, closest to the exit.
How, when out and about, I always
keep the gas tank filled, every day or two.
You never know when you’ll have to go
to the hospital in the middle of the night,
or drive two hundred miles to
save someone from themselves.
I was taught to always have on clean underwear,
and to make sure it isn’t on backwards.  Hospital again.
Once I dug a grave for my old black cat,
second-guessing the almighty.
Providentially, the cat received divine intervention.
Ran about like a five year old, climbed a tree,
found the hole I dug, and pissed in it.
Superstitions don’t always pan out,
but some are good to have.

Outsmarted

I’ve three fat cats

Used to be four

The skinny one passed

I have turned them into kitty crackheads

(Too liberal with the treats)

Now I see the error of my ways

How they manipulate me!

Especially the the fattest one

Cunningly, I think “we’ll skip a night for the kibbles”

I go to bed, close the door, soon drop off to sleep

There’s a knock

Wearily, I uncover, open the door

To darkness, no one there

I mutter “you miserable little bastard thing”

Back to bed, turn off light..

Another knock, more forceful.

Up I jump, in a tither

This time, glowing eyes light the hallway

Annoying meows beckon towards the kitchen

I resignedly follow.

Fluffy tails circle my feet

Looking like periscopes

Or shark fins closing in on their quarry.

I dole out three piles.

The ringleader refuses to eat

Until I add a few more.

I now have to get a second job

To support their habit.

I wish I may, I wish I might….

this heart has slowly settled
it wants to be at peace
pride and envy, jealousy
it’s willing to release

scriptures read and understood
’tis not a fairytale
their lessons are invaluable
companions without fail

I feel remorse for those who’ve died
without the chance to live
and I still here and need you now
my failings to forgive

my love’s been shown to some that were
impoverished in soul
and I’ve been given in return
their own, when they are whole

the call to judgement tugs at me
with spiritual strings
it mayn’t be long before it sees
my ghost upon its wings

and so I will not rage against
the dying of the light
or think that I am better than
the ones who’ve lost their fight

take me when it is my time
and leave the rest to me
I wish I may, I wish I might
your holy Presence see

 

The eyes of a stranger

Perhaps the paranormal believers are onto something.  Do we all have auras?  It’s an easy explanation for a thing that’s puzzled me for a time.  To you, it may not be a puzzle at all, or maybe not something you would think on.  Most likely, just a projection or an assumption on my part.  Call it naïveté, superstition, overthinking, or all of those.

Ah, but it could be (and I do feel it this way) a moment of true clarity.

In even something as simple as a shopping excursion, I pass by hundreds (if not, thousands) of people, and casually make eye contact with many.  Those who leave an impression, for good or ill, are retained in my mind for a time.  I consider myself neither hostile, nor overly kind.  Some who I meet have a welcoming nature, and will return a casual smile.  I like the little scenes that people inadvertently create.  A mother struggling with two kids, one in a stroller, and a full shopping cart, trying to get through the checkout.  A very old woman with a different kind of struggle, peering into her purse for money, while her groceries are sitting on the belt unbagged.  The cashier may or may not show patience, and I see if their eyes are kind or absent.

It seems to depend on the day, or maybe it is truly my own outlook, but the dark side of things is at times more prevalent.  When I come upon a person and lift my eyes to theirs,  what’s returned could be a look of challenge or unreasoning anger.  Or, they may swiftly look away, as if not wanting to be probed, perhaps because they’ve seen something within my own eyes that has disturbed them.  Lastly, they may seem to be shuttered, unreadable, aloof, with the aspect and the Zen of a fleeting animal.

The mother could be whacking the kid’s behind, or the father could be yelling at them.
The Yin and the Yang, but why the seismic shift from day to day?

There was a song, by the Payolas.  “The eyes of a Stranger”.
My friend once said to me, offhandedly, “You know, that’s you sometimes”.

Picture credit:  Deviant Art

The fall and rise of Johnny

Johnny is a little sissy

(Said the Bullies Three)

He runs from us and then he hides

It is such fun, hehe!

In the schoolyard, there we got him!

Cannot get away

The carousel we make him ride

We spin him ‘round for play!

Johnny is a little different

Has no friends you see

Shy and awkward (quiet too)

He shrinks internally

But a seed’s been planted, unintended

Which way will it grow?

Will Johnny turn out like a “Carrie” ?

None of us will know……..

(Picture credit:  https://www.theodysseyonline.com/bullies-are-human