That Kind

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One of those times when you can't make sense of it.

One of those spots on your heart that's all worn and threadbare.

One of those songs that feels all the feelings for you so you don't have to.

One of those prayers where you scream at God.

One of those afternoons when your shoulder aches because you're carrying the mad world across it like a purse full of all the garbage you've forgotten why you even put in there in the first place.

One of those moments where you explode all over the place and wonder at the people who've told you they can't imagine you losing it.

One of those trips you take down the guilty road of Lost Self Control.

One of those looks that blows right through the threadbare spot like tissue paper.

One of those carefully composed posts that stitches up your heart a little bit.

One of those days....

Ode to Dinner

O Dinner! Why doth thou torment me so?
Thou art full of guile and unused pasta,
Mocking mine consciousness, so barren of ideas.

The loathing in mine heart knoweth no end, for thee, O Dinner.
Thy sneering countenance doth make my blood boil.
I perceive thy callous taunting,
Thy ridicule, in regard to mine own poor planning.

But I shall prevail!
Bested by thee, O Dinner?
It shall not be so!

'Tis not the chopping, the cutting,
The basting, nor the broiling that plagues the five o'clock hour...
But the PLANNING!
O, to be a planner!

I shall groweth in mine capacities.
I shall strive and stretch and amplify mine talents.
And then, O Dinner, Bane of Mine Existence,
It shall be YOU who laments!!!

Edge of a Knife

It's a hard line to walk.
And all you can do is walk it and wait.

Ring-Around-The-Rosie in whispers and giggles.
Duck-Duck-Goose in tears and anguish.

The longing coupled with complete aversion
Gnaws at every moment,
Both exhilarating and nauseating.
The unseen, unknown and unfathomable flood
Of unfounded fear and potential joy
Swirling in an incessant current,
Drowning it's succumbing victims.

Looming day whispers a promise of the Whole World,
Or one drop in the Ocean of Time,
But there's only the waiting.
For now.

Sleep Deprived

An all access pass to raw feelings, walls down, she's checked in when depleted completely.
But, Dead of Night married to Passing Years eventually fall out of love and drive head-on toward Divorce...

A problem for another day.

For now, a stinging film rests on her eyes like contacts that she doesn't wear.
Her shoulders clench like acrophobic arms wrapping themselves around substantiality.
Fingers continue to fly and she wonders at this, her mind's backstage pass accessed through lidless doors.

Manic Monday: Bounty

boun·ty
Pronunciation: 'baun-tE
Function: noun
Inflected Form: plural boun·ties

1 : That which is given generously or liberally.


Bounty sits high on a mountain, a continual spring, pouring her soul into the valley of humanity. Do I notice as her waters rise, running across my feet, or am I looking at my neighbor and believing the lie that there is lack? Am I aware of the unlimited capacity and the magic of letting go, of giving away, of freeing myself? Am I giving to add to Bounty's rushing waters, or for my own gain? Can I keep faith and focus on the flow around me or do I lose myself in useless eddies of accumulation? Do I stop and drink up her gifts with gratitude or do I drown in self-pity and remorse for what I think I need and do not have?

I pray for the faith. I pray for the freedom. I pray for the strength, gratitude, and perseverance in my cognition of the limitless bounty in my life.

From The Jar... #23

So I didn't do a jar pull last week. Well, I started this one, but didn't finish it. It's late, but it's here.

Do you like rainstorms? Why or why not?


Is there a person on this earth who DOESN'T like rainstorms? The answer to the jar is a resounding 'yes'. I love them. Why? The warm, snug, take-a-bath-by-candlelight type of feelings they evoke...

Storm

An exhalation of earth, her breath weaves angry lashes of impatience over the effusion of renewal. Eyes drawing closed, she darkens the sky. Searing and tempestuous agonies lash across her vast cerebrum, coruscations of burning illumination.
Internal laceration gives way to tumbling expletives, and, unable to sustain her fortitude, she weeps with unabashed vulnerability as her children stand, oblivious to her torment, marveling at the mystical shroud her pain has wrapped around them.


.

Walking Forward

It seems random.
It appears to have no rules.
It looks like a mess without order, without laws.

Stop.
Take a breath.
Look back and see perfection.
You see rightness in all the wrongness that turns out
to be not so wrong.
Simple orchestrations of little disasters, crazy frustrations, and small bursts of sunshine creating a moment by moment symphony that you only hear when you turn around.

Are you listening Now? The song is in each moment.
There is always joy.
There is always beauty.
And there is always a choice to see it.


~CL