Interesting word...Sabotage.. "A weakening of; most usually, a workplace, by slowing production either by lowering energy or committing a physical insult i.e. loosening an important screw or sugar in the fuel tank etc."
How about sabotage of the heart? Matters so personal, yet completely relevant and of the utmost importance for heart survival. How does sabotage enter here? Subtle ignoring, not being direct, suffering in silence, or complete rejection...a slow unacknowledged numbing until only solace remains. .
Not an Archive
I think with cobwebs in my brain,
huge bubble gum motors...smiling
yakking nurses keeping the spotlight
on trivial matters while tears back
up behind my eyelids squeezed by
the webs (no room for the spiders)
and the nurse just keeps yakking.
So damn happy cause she escaped
with her job; and now I'm desperately
searching for commuter positions,
government, education, administrative,
or whatever. While my friend, forsaken,
is courting a Parisian Artist wearing a
beret for sure; and soon he will be
gone, I employed, and we will both
shake our heads because we left the
hourglass turning with no supervision...
turning with small chance of revision.
Sand sifting through a narrow cross
determining our founds and our loss.
October 3, 2010
I suppose self sabotage is the worst because, after all, it does come down to "self".
No one to blame but.......... etc.
There are outside pressures, however, and sadly they come from other people whom we allow to capture and influence our hearts, attention, time, views of all sorts: political, philosophical, religious, familial and on on on. .
I guess this is what is called "love". The stupid fuzzy lapse in time where you succumb to another's will and live to not only regret, but to hear the person who pursued and captured accuse you of the very same hypnotic conquest.
My eyes flashed
at the incongruity of your words.
Darkness cast over the sanctity of Intimacy.
Me, melting into sensual yet alert to intellectual,
feeling confident only in the Physical where
It is not allowed, whispered or even spoken.
And You, unaware of its existence yet completely
knowing that its impending presence will be.
And It will pose a problem that could either expand,
alter, or instigate a termination; which I, nimble-footed will resist
and you? I can not imagine.
Yet, when I saw your Picasso body with outstretched arms
demonstrating a certain airplane, my heart melted; and I knew
you were the Patron of my non-conformity, the Divider of my soul.
November, 2007
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Spring
Spring... the time of rebirth and new beginnings. We haven't quite experienced it yet, but the anticipation is killing me. I love the season mainly because it is a precursor to summer, which is really my favorite.
I love the heat(not the sun) but the heat. Everything is easier. There is no need for socks, shoes cumbersome sweaters or coats. Most transitions from home to car to buildings take less effort; unless, of course, you live in the more hot humid climates. Then, this blog is more suited for your autumn.
Having been in those climates, I have a deep respect for the long term survivors and their tolerance. They are not unlike the very robust people who live in the very freezing cold climates. I am humbled by the courage of both!
Nevertheless, spring deserves to be honored. In some parts of the world it is the New Year and in others a celebration of life, flowers, children, love and most of all; the end of another dreary, wet, cold winter.
Scism
I’m really much better in the spring
where hopes are high
and toes are free.
I’m really much happier in the heat,
where my limbs can breathe
(especially my feet).
I’m so elated in the sun
despite the warnings and fear.
The winter shadows are dreary,
the cold a pain. I guess
I can tolerate the rain;
but only if it’s followed by the
sweet sweet warming
rays of the sun.
2/14/07
Jasmin
Mmmm...delicious fragrance in the air.
I smell Jasmin everywhere.
It climbs on pretty petal feet
to doors and surrounding planter boxes.
Jasmin, smelling sweet
on the vernal side of the equinoxes.
Oh oh... there it goes again
sneaking up so very spicy.
A waft of perfume in the air
pleasing bees and noses nicely!
Spring 1986
Special thanks to Carl Sandburg for
inspiring my second line.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
By Carl Sandburg
I love the heat(not the sun) but the heat. Everything is easier. There is no need for socks, shoes cumbersome sweaters or coats. Most transitions from home to car to buildings take less effort; unless, of course, you live in the more hot humid climates. Then, this blog is more suited for your autumn.
Having been in those climates, I have a deep respect for the long term survivors and their tolerance. They are not unlike the very robust people who live in the very freezing cold climates. I am humbled by the courage of both!
Nevertheless, spring deserves to be honored. In some parts of the world it is the New Year and in others a celebration of life, flowers, children, love and most of all; the end of another dreary, wet, cold winter.
Scism
I’m really much better in the spring
where hopes are high
and toes are free.
I’m really much happier in the heat,
where my limbs can breathe
(especially my feet).
I’m so elated in the sun
despite the warnings and fear.
The winter shadows are dreary,
the cold a pain. I guess
I can tolerate the rain;
but only if it’s followed by the
sweet sweet warming
rays of the sun.
2/14/07
Jasmin
Mmmm...delicious fragrance in the air.
I smell Jasmin everywhere.
It climbs on pretty petal feet
to doors and surrounding planter boxes.
Jasmin, smelling sweet
on the vernal side of the equinoxes.
Oh oh... there it goes again
sneaking up so very spicy.
A waft of perfume in the air
pleasing bees and noses nicely!
Spring 1986
Special thanks to Carl Sandburg for
inspiring my second line.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
By Carl Sandburg
Friday, April 8, 2011
Feining interest... or other hazards of partial revelation
What is the process of true feeling revelation? Is it just " Sorry, I ate the chocolate that you were saving." ...or is that only a prelude to words that are too blurred to be expressed? "Sorry, I ate the chocolate you were saving because I really wanted to throw away everything I own and join a monastery because I don't belong in my life or anywhere for that matter because I really hate chocolate but you love it more than you love me and because........?"
We are fortunate to have language as an aid to expression; also, art, cinema, literature, cell phones, video games, substances, computers, poetry, music, philosophy, religion, therapists, meditation, exercise, marathons, dance etc. However, wouldn't it be ultimately more satisfying if we could really make clear the fuzzy words that are trapped inside?...if the words could reveal themselves a drop at a time; appear, disappear, and reappear again.. perhaps in a different form or at a different time...until finally, even we would know what we are trying to divulge.
Manzanilla
Delicate Tact lets Sooth cower
under absolute silence less the
"Tippler" appear.
From what Cocoon a Butterfly?
To what Jailer does she comply?
Asunder casts a Heart buoyant.
Brilliant Intellect argues a case
to Wind, Breezes, Bubbling Brooks,
Giggles, Teases-- who all so
freely care, listen sincerely,
contribute a phrase or two;
but are gone as before--the Air.
01/18/09
"Tippler" a tipsy character in a poem by Emily Dickinson He is Tipsy by either spinning or drinking, Interpreters argue as to which. This is perhaps my favorite poem written by Emily Dickinson. To me, her poems are the pinnacle of subtle yet intimate expression. She somehow manages to turn herself inside out; and because exposed, her flesh reveals her inner most thoughts.
#214
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From Tankards scooped in Pearl;
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of Air-- am I--
And Debauchee of Dew--
Reeling-- thro' endless summer days-
From inns of Molten Blue--
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door-
When Butterflies-- renounce their "drams"--
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats--
And Saints-- to windows run--
To see the little Tippler
From Manzanilla come!
by Emily Dickinson
I, not being as cleaver as Emily and certainly lacking her unique eclectic vocabulary, can only grasp the tails of wispy intangible stubborn cyphers awaiting their entrance.
2009
Your fading snores comfort me from a
wall behind vows taken lightly,
refusing your promise or any.
To what avail is this annex viewing?
Perfection from blue eyes,
blue steel eyes that miss nothing.
I was flippant with the poems because
they were lazily hanging around. I took
offense at their slovenly indolent after
the fact critique of my annoying loneliness.
I could have gone to see you uninvited.
I could have explained how my paralysis
caused an inconvenience; but you were
being yourself, and I hated you for it.
10-24-09
We are fortunate to have language as an aid to expression; also, art, cinema, literature, cell phones, video games, substances, computers, poetry, music, philosophy, religion, therapists, meditation, exercise, marathons, dance etc. However, wouldn't it be ultimately more satisfying if we could really make clear the fuzzy words that are trapped inside?...if the words could reveal themselves a drop at a time; appear, disappear, and reappear again.. perhaps in a different form or at a different time...until finally, even we would know what we are trying to divulge.
Manzanilla
Delicate Tact lets Sooth cower
under absolute silence less the
"Tippler" appear.
From what Cocoon a Butterfly?
To what Jailer does she comply?
Asunder casts a Heart buoyant.
Brilliant Intellect argues a case
to Wind, Breezes, Bubbling Brooks,
Giggles, Teases-- who all so
freely care, listen sincerely,
contribute a phrase or two;
but are gone as before--the Air.
01/18/09
"Tippler" a tipsy character in a poem by Emily Dickinson He is Tipsy by either spinning or drinking, Interpreters argue as to which. This is perhaps my favorite poem written by Emily Dickinson. To me, her poems are the pinnacle of subtle yet intimate expression. She somehow manages to turn herself inside out; and because exposed, her flesh reveals her inner most thoughts.
#214
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From Tankards scooped in Pearl;
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of Air-- am I--
And Debauchee of Dew--
Reeling-- thro' endless summer days-
From inns of Molten Blue--
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door-
When Butterflies-- renounce their "drams"--
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats--
And Saints-- to windows run--
To see the little Tippler
From Manzanilla come!
by Emily Dickinson
I, not being as cleaver as Emily and certainly lacking her unique eclectic vocabulary, can only grasp the tails of wispy intangible stubborn cyphers awaiting their entrance.
2009
Your fading snores comfort me from a
wall behind vows taken lightly,
refusing your promise or any.
To what avail is this annex viewing?
Perfection from blue eyes,
blue steel eyes that miss nothing.
I was flippant with the poems because
they were lazily hanging around. I took
offense at their slovenly indolent after
the fact critique of my annoying loneliness.
I could have gone to see you uninvited.
I could have explained how my paralysis
caused an inconvenience; but you were
being yourself, and I hated you for it.
10-24-09
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Trains
I am only writing about trains because I am really longing for a plane trip to Florida but can't commit to a date. I know that I have to get a jump on it early, so the ticket won't be too expensive. Whew! So, I got really excited when I saw my relatives getting free Southwest airline tickets from the web. I checked it out and ZAP nothing. Lies, hype and disappointment. Sigh. The nerve of marketing scams!!
However, I am not one to be rained out completely. I can be, but I am on a new trend of positive come-back. Therefore, I am going to write about trains.
I took a train two years ago to visit my son; and since I was alone, I got to absorb the scenery and muse on the passing buildings, the sounds of the train, and the ramblings of my imagination. Sadly, my son didn't rave over my poem and only said, "Neglect eh?"
My come-back? I am publishing my poem and dedicating it to Trains, Sons, and Travelers everywhere!
Fresno Train
All Aboard!
Martinez, Modesto, Madera, Merced.
All Aboard!
Backlands of the San Francisco Bay.
All Aboard!
Backyard Doughboys, puddles, sheds,
graffiti, leaning fences, neglect,
cul-de-sac streets, old cars, and trucks.
All Aboard!
New communities with no space for clutter or rust.
All Aboard!
The horn blows past factories, farms, seedlings in
neat wet rows looking up at the big Montana sky.
Its iridescent clouds' big fat cheeks ready to rain
some more or float away.
All Aboard!
O1-24-2009
However, I am not one to be rained out completely. I can be, but I am on a new trend of positive come-back. Therefore, I am going to write about trains.
I took a train two years ago to visit my son; and since I was alone, I got to absorb the scenery and muse on the passing buildings, the sounds of the train, and the ramblings of my imagination. Sadly, my son didn't rave over my poem and only said, "Neglect eh?"
My come-back? I am publishing my poem and dedicating it to Trains, Sons, and Travelers everywhere!
Fresno Train
All Aboard!
Martinez, Modesto, Madera, Merced.
All Aboard!
Backlands of the San Francisco Bay.
All Aboard!
Backyard Doughboys, puddles, sheds,
graffiti, leaning fences, neglect,
cul-de-sac streets, old cars, and trucks.
All Aboard!
New communities with no space for clutter or rust.
All Aboard!
The horn blows past factories, farms, seedlings in
neat wet rows looking up at the big Montana sky.
Its iridescent clouds' big fat cheeks ready to rain
some more or float away.
All Aboard!
O1-24-2009
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Apologies
A little too full of I am sorries right now, yet, wondering what for? I am sorry I am me? hmmm doesn't seem right. I am sorry for my mistakes. well, OK. We should all reflect and take stock.
We need to be careful with "I am sorry". It isn't always our fault. I once admired a friend who said, "I never say I am sorry." Wow! How bold. Yet, as time passed, I noticed a few "I am sorries" whispered softly from his lips. Did he suddenly become an abuser, or did he suddenly become more aware of his responsibility in social interaction? Personally, I think he realized the sensitive nature of humans and became aware of his ability to cause harm. I think he became human.
'94
Tip toe past the wind in the early morning hours.
See that by August God lopped off the flowers,
weary of blooming "y El Labrador sin horas".
Watch Mulberry leaves settle on a Sunday
afternoon. Make humble inquiries as to
the where-a bouts of the Moon.
08/94
Jardin
I planted Cosmos in a garden for you.
Became Sherlock Holmes. Unraveled
my arrogance into strands of silk dyed
by my tears in a rainbow of sorrow.
No apologies no regrets in a grey
endless hue. Should I be sorry that
I love you?
1994
We need to be careful with "I am sorry". It isn't always our fault. I once admired a friend who said, "I never say I am sorry." Wow! How bold. Yet, as time passed, I noticed a few "I am sorries" whispered softly from his lips. Did he suddenly become an abuser, or did he suddenly become more aware of his responsibility in social interaction? Personally, I think he realized the sensitive nature of humans and became aware of his ability to cause harm. I think he became human.
'94
Tip toe past the wind in the early morning hours.
See that by August God lopped off the flowers,
weary of blooming "y El Labrador sin horas".
Watch Mulberry leaves settle on a Sunday
afternoon. Make humble inquiries as to
the where-a bouts of the Moon.
08/94
Jardin
I planted Cosmos in a garden for you.
Became Sherlock Holmes. Unraveled
my arrogance into strands of silk dyed
by my tears in a rainbow of sorrow.
No apologies no regrets in a grey
endless hue. Should I be sorry that
I love you?
1994
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Centrifugal Force
I am not sure what this title has to do with what I want to say except that the meeting of and subsequent reaction to colliding realities move at a very fast pace for some and more slowly for others. Oh, how I wish I were the calm one that knows for certain my reality is the correct one; and that the other foolish Whirling Dervishes are simply SPINNING OUT OF CONTROL!!
Not so. I am the one holding on to resolutions like, " I have made sooo many mistakes by remaining silent. I am going to say what is on my mind. I am going to reveal my reality. It is the survival thing to do."
I only wish this were the true agreed upon course of action, and that patience could be taken with the stumblings and fumblings of first attempts.
Foibles
Reach out to the Heavens -
Grab the apron strings of Chance.
Pry open the the walls of Koppelberg Hill
I am tired of facts and "Crust" toothpaste, alas,
doesn't do half what it should.
Those enzyme detergents are bugs in my suds,
and I'm sure would eat me if they could.
So line up now with your concerns that matter.
Consult the Swami or ask the Mad Hatter,
who mirrors the Philosopher Stone.
He muses mid clutter in deafening clatter;
but oh, how in-sightly he does hone.
To a mountain that beckons
with each of us reckons
waiting for the Piper to sound.
Take us away in a hypnotic trance.
A whirling twirling feverish dance
to a wondrous, magical land.
We will throw away our crutches,
escaping the clutches of the likes
of the "Onec-lers" we knew.
We are granted our wishes on verges
and cruxes- A Mystical Whim pursue.
1988
Onec-ler - A materialistic insensitive Dr. Seuss character
from his story "The Lorax"
Koppelberg Hill - A hill outside of Hamlin, Germany where the Pied Piper brought the children after the town refused to pay him for relieving them of their rats. One child, a lame boy, could not walk fast enough and was left to stay in the town alone without play mates.
Not so. I am the one holding on to resolutions like, " I have made sooo many mistakes by remaining silent. I am going to say what is on my mind. I am going to reveal my reality. It is the survival thing to do."
I only wish this were the true agreed upon course of action, and that patience could be taken with the stumblings and fumblings of first attempts.
Foibles
It is time to climb the mountain,
Perform a ritualistic dance -Reach out to the Heavens -
Grab the apron strings of Chance.
Pry open the the walls of Koppelberg Hill
and squeeze our lame bodies through.
Enter a world of magic.
A Mystical Whim pursue.doesn't do half what it should.
Those enzyme detergents are bugs in my suds,
and I'm sure would eat me if they could.
So line up now with your concerns that matter.
Consult the Swami or ask the Mad Hatter,
who mirrors the Philosopher Stone.
He muses mid clutter in deafening clatter;
but oh, how in-sightly he does hone.
To a mountain that beckons
with each of us reckons
waiting for the Piper to sound.
Take us away in a hypnotic trance.
A whirling twirling feverish dance
to a wondrous, magical land.
We will throw away our crutches,
escaping the clutches of the likes
of the "Onec-lers" we knew.
We are granted our wishes on verges
and cruxes- A Mystical Whim pursue.
1988
Onec-ler - A materialistic insensitive Dr. Seuss character
from his story "The Lorax"
Koppelberg Hill - A hill outside of Hamlin, Germany where the Pied Piper brought the children after the town refused to pay him for relieving them of their rats. One child, a lame boy, could not walk fast enough and was left to stay in the town alone without play mates.
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