Get into the game

Ok, get into the game. Stop taking vacations from yourself, take a vacation for yourself. The meds haven’t worked, don’t work, won’t work. Get over it. Get over yourself. Get on with your life. Dance with the gypsies, study the stars. Buy yourself a nice treat. You don’t have to spend a lot of money. Peruse the dollar store. Better yet, shop at the local thrift store. Dress up for Halloween. Go to the movies, one you want to see. Eat some popcorn with extra butter and brewers yeast. Take a walk and skip through the fallen leaves. Go ride a horse or a bike or a skateboard. Go to Mexico if the opportunity arises. Say yes to friends and no to takers. Stay away from doctors and shrinks, they will brainwash you and hang you out to dry. They don’t have the key. You do. Ride the wind. Snowboard. Clear off your drawing desk and put pencil to paper. Don’t say you are an artist and a writer, be an artist and a writer. Do the work. Create. Take a nap. Read a book. Love, laugh, avoid clichés, like stop to smell the roses. Be a rose. Take a hot bath. Drink ginger tea with honey. Go to meetings. Be true to yourself.

Slipstream

Everything flies into the slipstream on overdrive, hurling evil thoughts at my core, chiseling away with a hammer of venomous ideas--things I'd rather not think about. My failures and losses. No one listens because they don't want to hear.

Thanks

I'm so grateful for my family, friends and support groups for holding me up when I can't stand. I love you all.

Going, going, gone

Dark dawn followed by dim light.
Magpies plunge from silhouetted
trees and power lines,
their wings swooping
in graceful arcs.

A train howls out its old lament,
“going going gone”
never stopping to say hello
much less goodbye.

(Goodbyes are over rated)

I ate some blueberries for breakfast,
squishing the skin,
black like the wings of magpies,
between my teeth,
savoring the bitter sweet slice of life.

(His life too short)

And dropped some lavender on the wood stove
the sharp scent reminiscent
of that persistent pain in my heart
that howls out its old lament.
Going going gone.

In Loving Memory

Guilty as charged

I long to reach out and touch you, Niko. Buster sits on the side of the bathtub observing the bubbles with a golden gleam in his cat eyes. He has white fur that curls from his ears and long whiskers. I adore him. Sometimes I think he is Niko reincarnated to console me and Cholo. I don’t really believe this, but somehow the thought comforts me. When he licks Cholo’s ears, I can’t help but think of the way Nik cleaned them out and playfully bit them.
I plod along, sometimes in my bulletproof led suit that protects and isolates me at the same time. I have broad shoulders that bare the weight grudgingly. Sometimes it is hard to get out of bed, and sometimes I envision a gun in my hand with one bullet that would put me out of my misery.
But that, I think, would be cheating. And the moment, glancingly brief, darts away when I see Buster cuddle on the couch next to Cholo or when I force myself outside to ride a horse.
Life is like that. The scenes keep changing. And I still haven’t left my mark. Haven’t finished, much less sold, the book to be or saved the world. Shit, I couldn’t even save my own son, what makes me think I can accomplish anything of note?
Today I feel like flour in a sifter. The hot bath smoothed out the tension but left my skin wrinkled. Two flies hound me, landing on the computer screen, my arm, my fedora. Three roses in mixed stages of their blossom remind me that life, is indeed, fleeting and can be oh so sweet yet riddled with thorns.
A part of me believes that something grand must be on my horizon, that God has not forsaken me and that I have a purpose. The committee that lives in my head charges into battle, screaming obscenities and laughing at my hopes and dreams. They call me a loser, a liar and a hypocrite. I bow my head to their accusations. Stand in front of my mirror with a towel wrapped around my thick hair. My reflection amuses me. Who is this sad woman with the red blotches on her right cheek, the somber blue eyes lined in pain and the stained teeth? What happened to my youth?
Guilty as charged, I say. I am, after all, human.

Something in the air smells a little like salvation

Perhaps the rain has washed away all sins
And flowers will bloom to cover the scars

But its hard to give a dam
To focus
To create…who will be my salvation?
They took a blood sample this morning
And I thought,
Why do I still get to bleed while my son
Is ashes in the wet garden?

His garden
Where everything seems to bloom and grow
Tall and strong

I tell the weeds to move along
And the rain, hopefully dumping buckets of my salvation into the ground
Where I can soak it up like a hungry Iris
And learn to live without his smile.