He was alive once
Had friends, influenced people
Now just memories.
Caught the odd virus
Strangled in his own vomit
Died in agony.
But that odd moment
Between life’s light and death’s throes
He found peace at last.
All That Remains
Tag: life
Small One
“Small One”
words by Leslie Noyes
Precious is this tender life with which we’ve been entrusted.
Within every whispered sigh, every tender flutter lies the question:
Will sanctuary be offered through all the trials of time?
My breath is yours. My heart has your name inscribed.
But, life is fleeting, How can such solemn promises be kept?
Hold fast. Cling with heart and hand, in sickness, in health.
And when we expire? What becomes of our love then?
Energy refuses mortal boundaries and so remains.
Keep me then; I am yours, you are mine, and our ends untimed.
Precious is this tender life with which we’ve been entrusted.
This poem is the latest in my collaboration with photographer, Julie Powell. Please visit Julie’s site for more of her beautiful work: https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/
Written in Meat Loaf
I’ve gradually been reducing my dosage of the anti-depressant, Effexor over the past year and just last week stopped taking it altogether. There have been a few shaky, brain shivery moments, and a couple of emotional outbursts, but knock on wood, I’m finally done with this mind controlling drug.
Vivid and unusually scripted dreams have accompanied every step down in dosage. Several nights ago I dreamt that I was in my hometown of Floydada, Texas, for a reunion of sorts. There were a good many people present with whom I’d attended school, as well as several family members. All of whom are now deceased.
Maybe that should have creeped me out, but I found their collective presence comforting. They all appeared to be having a good time.
At some point a former physical education teacher approached me, and we visited for some time. I hadn’t particularly cared for her, nor did she like me much back in my junior high school days. Our dream conversation was convivial, though, until she took umbrage at something I said and assigned me the task of writing an essay.
“No problem,” I smirked, “I write essays in my sleep.”
So I composed a quick essay on the prescribed topic of the Joys of Exercise and submitted it to her. She refused to accept it, saying she’d clearly demanded it be written in meat loaf, and that I wasn’t free to return home until I’d accomplished that feat.
Painstakingly I etched the attention-getting introduction and overarching thesis statement into an unbaked meatloaf, followed by three supporting paragraphs, and a resoundingly strong conclusion. Then the meatloaf was cooked to perfection.
My words disappeared in the cooking process, but Ms. P. E. Teacher was satisfied and I was allowed to leave.
Now, my amateur dream interpretation skills have led me to conclude that my subconscious was dwelling on the temporary nature of all things. Or maybe I was just in Effexor withdrawal. You be the judge.
Peace, people, but wait, there’s more!
There’s meat loaf, and then there’s Meat Loaf.
Taking Stock
Taking Stock
I can’t remember
was this the afternoon the
sun obscured my view?
was this the time I
needed to shade my eyes
with the flat of my hand?
some evenings I brace
myself for sol’s onslaught;
moving to another chair
would be too simple
instead, I squint and grumble
while sipping Merlot.
but I’m almost certain
that clouds obstructed
the rays yesterday,
and left me in peace
for once.
Keeping Count
I measured out the moments, one by one and piece by piece
Too many to count and too many to be dismissed.
Life slips by in those imperceptible increments,
And now I’ve lost the numbers so how will I know
When the sands have run out and I can no longer account
For the seconds left in the reckoning. It’s anyone’s guess.
Making Memories
Someone should have told me all those years ago
When fevered toddlers ruled the day and all they said was no!
That too soon would they be grown and gone
And the tasks we hastened through all done
Memories were being made yet I grumbled, griped, and whined
About their childish faults and the endless daily grind.
I had no idea that second chances were not guaranteed
That time would pass by in a flash and my regrets would only feed
On recollections of opportunities lost, never to be regained
My heart aches for the past and the memories we should have made.
Peace, people.
Calloused
Calloused
hands that carve or dig or plane,
roughed up, describe a textured
tale of hard years and harder days
whether laid end to end or stacked
in geologic layers: holocene, triassic,
permian. no oil struck or fossils
unearthed. jutting epidermal extensions,
thumb worn, subconsciously worrying
round and round. callous, unfeeling? or ultimate badge of survival?
Things That Make You Go Hmmm
I’m just going to let this sit here for a bit:
Peace, people!
Catch and Release
Hold my hand,
Say the right lines.
Give me something,
Solid to believe in.
Scramble my brain,
Realign the stars.
Make me question
Heaven and hell.
Parade my intellect
Along with my form.
Chastise my tastes
In music and art.
I’ll sip discreetly from a
Chalice of champagne,
Inhale collitas rising
Through the refrain.
Loosen the bindings
My soul in a slow burn
Chafe my wrists
Until feeling returns.
Don’t be surprised
If I don’t reappear
Even if I do
I won’t be the same.
http://youtu.be/lrfhf1Gv4Tw
peace, people!
Path? What Path?
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Alma Mater
You’ve been asked to speak at your high school alma mater — about the path of life. (Whoa.) Draft the speech.
The Path of Life
There is no path, no paved road, not if you live your life.
In the words of C. G. Jung,
Instead, you must forge your own path, laboriously clearing trees and climbing over boulders in the rain, but occasionally enjoying stretches of level ground in the warm sunshine.
There will be times when you believe you can climb any mountain. There will also be times when you are certain that the next step will be impossible to take.
Through it all you keep going. One foot in front of the other. Good days and bad. Mountains and valleys.
Of course, I prefer to dance and skip as often as possible. No one said the journey had to be boring.
http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/prancercise-joanna-rohrback_n_3351722.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 