Poetry’s Power

Language has such power

Crafted with a thoughtful hand.

I Shape words with fingers or tongue

Each expression finds form.

Still my fingers shake

My sculpting of stories.

Waiting for release.

Waiting to be done.

While Poets Dine

 His appearance is of a solitary man as he presence himself.

He’s wrapped in a studious cloak.

Vast knowledge and collections spill onto the table.

My radiant companion scripts his language.

I watch and listen.

I’m here to remember; emptying more than filling.

Poetry begins and pretense departs.

Links to scripts placing memories of verse; a trumpet ignites.

Words from our Diner girl, who is she?  

Flavor captured in confidence.

Never known when I was young.

I look inside the man who references a feast of his own.

Still I slip to envy and awaken perceptions of my indulgences.

Diner girl where are you?

Do you dance or create?

Do you facilitate or construct?

Why do I ask? You do both.

The universe takes care of Poets

They need to see in the night. 

Menus

Food

My banquet is words.

Peter & Gordon

My memory takes me back to my first concert where I couldn’t go backstage. No amount of stretching reality could get me backstage for there was no backstage, just a motorcade letting the Artists Peter and Gordon walk between armed guards escorting them to the stage. Girls screaming, crying while Peter and Gordon, guitars over their shoulder, stepped on stage in the middle of The War Memorial which often doubled as a sports arena. They began to sing. “World without Love” I only remember the beginning words;

“Please lock me away

  And don’t allow the day 

  Here inside where I hide 

 With my loneliness 

 I don’t care what they say I won’t stay

 in a world without love.”  

Written by Lennon-McCarthy

This song gave me the attention I had longed for. A thought of a world of loving.  It was the beginning of a free spirited life for me. The question I have now is how I hid being a shy young woman only wanting to live in my fantasies, dreaming of a life that opened doors to Rock and Roll and loving the world enough to make changes in how I was to become freer.  It became a theme for myself and my generation. Loving everything that came to my experiences followed. After the show I went back up to my radio station where I hung out with excitement.   While I was there, Jessica Savage, then called the “Honey Bee”, walked into the station as she was the first female disc jockey as I went up to the station in visible disappointment and one of my radio announcers, who I had adopted, told me when Peter and Gordon would be at the airport the next day.  Off I went the next morning to the airport with two of my girlfriends.  At that time no one was protecting the teen idols  from teenage girls.  We went to the airport and P&G were hanging at the bar.  Gordon was at the end of the bar with a drink in his hand, openingly welcoming young girls.  Interestingly, Peter was sitting at the other end of the bar and I remember him in his solitude. He seemed shy; he was not like Gordon.  Peter sat quietly with his red hair and dark horn rimmed glasses. We chatted to Gordon and he was brazen with charming comments. In England they would call him “Cheeky.”  He definitely was bold, brash and a bit rude to me. I got my photo taken with him. Now the photo is long gone but not my memory. As he stood with me for my photo, he talked into my cheek and whispered “ I bet you're a virgin.”  Well, shocked as I was, I still hold on to the memory of asking me. ”How did he know?”

So here I was decades later watching Peter Asher reliving his past in a Visual and Musical Autobiographical tour. The fun came back to me.  Peter was now at a bar where tribute bands are often saluted.  I stood in line while others asked for autographs and in my still brazen self I got up to Peter to tell my story. We were both much older and I wanted him to hear me tell him about Gordon. After we talked about Gordon, he said if I had 20 minute alone with Gordon I wouldn’t have been a virgin. There he was with a drink in hand when Peter asked  “Well are you a virgin now!” I laughed as he told me of how Gordon was gone and he was the one alive with successes. His now cheeky self after questioning my virginity,  I told him I was not a virgin. “You slut,” he said.  Now thinking about myself as a Good Girl, he shocked me.  Not much shock but more amusement.  He then asked the bartender for another drink.

Music an Art

Music an Art

The world of opposites came to visit me!

Memories of those I sought to impress

They all slipped away and I am free

Free to walk away with jeans

Diamonds hidden in drawers

Have I found a new center

Looking forward as I remember

I don’t have to look back

While confusion rests on the sofa.

We have forgotten who we are

Slipping away in rest.

Abstractions

I’ve crossed the divide that’s now moving me with memories as I pause allowing myself to remember the bricks and mortar which has brought me here. I balked and balked, finding hindrances in my defects and disappointments. Though I don’t really understand. I rise, seeing a new visions allowing my truth to unfold. Poetry and Abstract painting have been my first art form since I was 13. Now I found myself being recognized for manipulation of truths that challenge my perceptions. But for whatever reason at 13 the local Art gallery recognizes my abstractions. No more realistic paintings. This has been a truth I found causing me not to know where or how I fit. It didn’t matter because I loved what fell in front of me and it worked in my own imagination.

Are you still a Virgin?

  I’ve crossed the divide now moving me with memories and pause allowing me to remember the bricks and mortar which has brought me here. I balked and balked, finding hindrance in my defects and disappointments. Those I don’t really understand. I rise seeing new visions allowing my truth to unfold. Poetry and Abstract painting have been my first art form since I was 13. Now I found myself being recognized for manipulation of truths that challenge my perceptions. But for whatever reason at 13 the local Art gallery recognizes my abstractions. No more realistic paintings.This has been a truth I found causing me not to know where or how I fit. It didn’t matter because I loved what fell in front of me and it worked in my own imagination.

My memory takes me back to my first concert where I couldn’t go backstage. No amount of stretching reality could get me backstage for there was no backstage, just a motorcade letting the Artists Peter and Gordon walk between armed guards escorting them to the stage. Girls screaming, crying while Peter and Gordan, guitars over their shoulder, stepped on stage in the middle of The War Memorial which often doubled as a sports arena. They began to sing. “ World without Love.” I only remember the beginning words;

“Please lock me away

  And don’t allow the day 

  Here inside where I hide 

 With my loneliness 

 I don’t care what they say I won’t stay

 in a world without love.”    Written by Lennon-McCarthy

Decades later looking at the truth of this became a theme for myself and my generation. Loving everything that came to my experience followed as I went back up to my radio station where I hung out in my excitement. 

Later I went up in visible disappointment and one of my radio announcers Who I had adopted, told me when they would be at the airport and off I went to the airport with two of my girlfriends. At that time no one was protecting them from teenage girls. We went and they were hanging at the bar. Gordon was at the end of the bar with a drink in his hand welcoming young girls. Interestingly enough Peter was sitting at the end of the bar and I remember him in his solitude more than I remember Gordon. Quiet and alone Peter sat with his red hair and dark horn rimmed glasses. We chatted to Gordon and he was brazen with comments and charm. In England they would call him “Cheeky.”  He definitely was to me, bold , brash and a bit rude. I got my photo taken with him, long since gone but not the memory. As he stood with me for my photo with him he talked into my cheek and whispered. “ I bet you're a Virgin.”  Well shocked I was as I still hold on to the memory. 

So here I was and watching Peter Asher relive his past in a visual and Musical Autobiography. This fun came to me as a young radio personality told me now of his being at a bar where tributes are often saluted. I stood in line and in my still brazen self went up to Peter Asher much older not for an autograph, I wanted to tell him my story. I did and he told me “after he talked about Gordon and said if I had 20 minute with Gordon alone I wouldn’t have been a virgin. Then Peter Asked;  “Well are you a Virgin now!” I laughed and said no. Then he said with his drink in his hand: “You Slut” Wow”  Now he was Cheeky.

IN a Flash

In a flash life changes

Some of us skate with revolution

Some of us dance to transform 

Daydreams and playful expression

Alteration arrives in a blaze

We begin our illusions within the walk

How do we follow the prints

Defining who we are

Is it delineated by us or by Grace

My poems begin and end

As quickly as they come 

Changes when we feel we’ve just begun

Don’t run from these moments

They may twist and terrorize the soul

We are being polished for mercy;

Elegance in poise, stepping up!

Keeping pace!

Catching light in the flash

Performance reached and we fall

This is the beginning of charity

Wanting and embracing within a tunnel 

Have we ended or begun?

Life flashes

In a flash life changes

Some of us skate with revolution

Some of us dance to transform 

Daydreams and playful expression

Alteration arrives in a blaze

We begin our illusions within our walks

How do we follow the prints

Defining who we are

Is it delineated by us or by Grace

My poems begin and end

As quickly as they come 

Our life changes when we feel we’ve just begun

Don’t run from these moments

They may twist and terrorize the soul

We are being polished for mercy

Elegance in poise, stepping up!

Nichols and Dimes

  I can see some elderly couples sitting in rockers sharing stories of times gone by.  Where are those stories that are a part of my past? Repetition of anything has a boring effect in my family and sharing tales of any kind seems frightening.  As I searched for some old comfortable place to cling to, I remembered the story my mother often told me about my father and me.  My parents were in their forties and there I was toddling into their lives with a force that opened their eyes.  I can almost feel how much control I had over them.  They had a teenage boy who probably didn’t want much to do with them and there I was.  My mom, Opal Jeanne, was a proper southern belle and her little girl was going to be a part of very fine confederate tradition.  Patent leather shoes, little anklets, a smock dress with lots of crinolines, and white gloves with a little patent leather purse to match my shoes.  The story begins with the purse and my father taking me to his rifle range with him.  I was so loved by this man and can still feel the impact.

                My little purse became the essence of what connected me to the adult world.  “Do you have any money in there?”  My father’s customers would ask, pointing at my purse and sometimes even taking it out of my hands without permission.  Blonde, curly headed, blue-eyed me with all the feminine charms a three year old could muster would say, “Oh no, my daddy didn’t give me money.”  Every time my mother told me this story, I continually got the feeling that she harbored resentment as some negative feelings were attached to the story.  She was in competition with a three year old and I was winning, at least I thought I was.

                I can remember looking forward to going to my father’s rifle range where men would set down their guns and reach into their pockets, pulling out a handful of nickels and dimes.  Always noticing if they had quarters, I’d watch them carefully picking  them out of their hands,  before offering me my rewards.  Quarters to men who lived through the Depression were not to be given away.  Giving more than a nickel or dime to a three year old wouldn’t be thought of.   After all, a dime could buy a lot in the late 1940s. A candy bar was only a nickel. 

                Looking into the large open hands of these men seemed like a wonderful opportunity for fun. Sometimes I got a tap on the bottom to hustle me on my way. My mother’s story continues with my need to always pick the nickels out of these hands.  I was insulted at the dimes, after all dimes were smaller than nickels.  How could these men insist I take a dime and they couldn’t convince me it was worth more.  My temperament didn’t allow for teaching me otherwise.  It seems laughable now. I pranced around the rifle range in my cute starched dress, guns roaring.  I ran from man to man collecting my coins to fill my purse. My mother told me I was thrilled with my treasure but still held on to thoughts of the nerve of these men giving me dimes.  Remembering the game that developed between me and my mother and the men, Opal Jeanne would seize the opportunity to keep the dimes to help me out with my disgust.  Is this where my sense of money and men developed?  This must have been a grand position for me to have men sit down guns that made such loud noises and put holes in far-off targets.  The noise must have been tolerated for the reward of  money.

                Gradually the game between my mother and me became that of competition.  How many of my dimes and even nickels could she acquire?  She liked her position of power.  The purse took on a new meaning and I became very possessive of it.  No one could get it away.  The men also began to take on new statues of rewarding me with pats on my backside and unwanted kisses.  Nickels and dimes were a whole lot more complex than I ever could have imagined.

Martha’s

Stepping onto the dance floor, it was as if someone was winding my strings as tight as possible and soon I would be set free. I wanted to play and dancing became my vehicle to loosen myself and keep me in tune.  Still not knowing how to control my own inner drives, once again becoming a star in my mind. Only one of the few women there amongst a club filled with men who like men and I wanted their attention.  Bumping n grinding with them and then arms in the air jumping up and down. I wanted to be close to them and they never refused me, gay or not. Fashionable, free and fun, a presence exuding style, I certainly could dance. 

The bar was called Martha’s tucked away on a side street from the Main Street of Rochester. Easy to get to from midtown plaza, where I worked. Martha stood behind the bar looking matronly in her dress and pouring us all drinks. It was said she was rich in profits. My drink of choice was a slow gin fizz or rum and coke, they were an easy first drink. I was not much of a drinker, telling myself I had a personality high enough by nature. I had no body fat, probably couldn’t handle much alcohol anyway. The men floating from man to man didn’t bother me. Accepting it all. Twenty became a pivotal year for me. I had been to England and that gave me an automatic key to attention, as well. My pretend English accent followed for fun, pretense as a lifestyle, without a clue followed.

I looked like Twiggy as I walked to work knowing I would go out after dancing. I dressed in a wild backless mini skirt dress and my breasts were barely visible. Cars would drive by looking and rolling down the window and shout at me, “Is it a boy or is it a girl?” I didn’t care, for it was the attention I carved. My lost perspective with floundering direction also floated everywhere. Attention was the goal. My job loved my wild self because it attracted sales for the store, it worked for them.

Then one awful night a herd of Police found their way into the bar raising their guns; shouting “Queers”. Screams and running out the front door followed as the police moved into the bar. One of my friends grabbed me and pushed me into a small bathroom to hide. We expected the door to fly open, however, for whatever reason it didn’t. We had been spared an arrest.  Still the story followed  for weeks in every imaginable kind of drama, cursing the injustice of the police infringing on our freedoms. I became impassioned and looked for other explorations with men who were gay, however we became friend more in an exclusive way instead of  just hanging with all of the guys dancing and laughing. I felt like it was a boyfriend girlfriend arrangement and my fears about men made it fine. I had been trained to be a good girl with no abilities for allowing and understanding my feelings of sexuality. Dissociations from myself were hard wired early and only my dancing was a way to feel or distract.

The voice of 20

The Voice of a 20

I watched 

I watched

I stared

I saw her slender leg slip over his

I wondered why

What gave and held her to him

My life had made us one

So quietly now she was his

What was it

That made her his, and not mine?

Free love Forward

Language and stories find me remembering my longing for love and romance. In some synchronistic fashion I have found words that wrap me in my own love stories and I Yearn for my lost father and the attention and excitement he created inside me. The emphasis that I was special has lingered with me assuring me on the way. Life gave me all that it could to go forward and learn, still it was not enough.  There have been stories woven tightly within me. I have ventured into areas I was not ready for or should have traveled. Blind confidence shaking as I traveled, bouncing where I could hold on. My need for wanting love from my early loss continued. Yet life was telling me that reputation and sameness were boring, but needed. I fell in love with titles and all men who showed me attention.  Drama and self acceptance were not my friend. I was waiting for a structure that could only be found if I used charm or saw needs in living stories. I was having fun. Self acceptance appeared, finally declaring itself in order to ride my wave into living my life. I began not wanting to show my “home” movies.

 I had clarity in my poetry, hiding behind being understood for declaring who I was. Titles and behaviors no longer mattered.  Feelings became a distraction, making new experiences when facing the uncomfortability truth in learning what was before me. I had done everything possible to cover who I was to distract what was happening inside.  I thought I was excited. Practicing since I was a child to control my circumstances when I couldn’t find logic in what was happening. I went to my old familiar places of not feeling, or just making it up as I went. Also in the presence of grandiosity, habit lingered as I flirted with my experiences as that little girl in my fathers rifle range.  I took my behavior into the 1960’s, I was going to be famous and a lot of men knew how to excite or use my dreams. 

There is a wistful song 

I’ve watched in language 

The song is not mine to sing

I am amazed at my lack of understanding

Defects ignored while striving for work 

Perhaps long hours to resist the truth

There are songs sung by some with verve

Other songs in forbearing a body’s call

I wait for my tutelage in today and tomorrow's journey

This is my world of its own peculiar assumptions

This is my life known or forgotten

None of us are normal.

Sometimes I remember I am not young, but I feel young. Shall I cultivate reality.  I have a life force confused as memories come to me over and over again. As I moved out of my teens and into my life as an adult, the dance with men was not one I should have sung and now I look at what was courageous and what was just blind foolishness.

Again in the 60’s and 70’s we were the generation of freedom and that included free love. To paraphrase Joni Mitchel, she said on YouTube, Free love was conceived by men just wanting to get into our pants. I agree!

I wanted to be famous

 Language and story finds me remembering my poetic longing for love and romance. In some synchronistic fashion I have found words that wrap me in my own love story, Yearning for my lost father and the attention and excitement he created in my beginning  years before he died. I also realized that all the self help books that gathered around my relaxing chair with only  novels that gave me some notion of making myself bright were not simply stories of just getting to my feelings of having insecure needs. Simply said; now it was alright to have a longing and feelings. Every message embedded in my brain and heart is a hard wiring misconstrued to think I was not alright. A voice of can’t that lingers deep within me. The intonation that I was not good enough just the way I am and life would give me all that I need and has given me all that I will need for the future.

Terms of handling life, messy as it is, I can meet it all.  This was now a time I was looking back at my stories, finding expression when teased out by life as when I wasn’t looking instinctively into my primal self. I was young. Now I am looking.  My fear of failure must go elsewhere. There have been stories woven tightly within me. I have ventured into areas I was not ready for. Or was it fears in my historical need of wanting love.  Life was telling me that reputation and sameness were boring but needed. Insecurity, drama and self acceptance had not been my friend. I was waiting for a structure that could only be found if I used a compulsory drive as I saw my needs through past trauma and lifes creations, even in fun. Self  acceptance was now a new drummer finally declaring order for riding the wave of my final years. 

 Thinking and acting through chatter, over talking.  I covered up feeling what had happened to me in entertainment as a distraction, making new experiences, when facing the uncomfortability of learning before me. I had done everything possible to cover and distract living what I thought was excitement. Practicing since I was a child to control my circumstance and if I couldn’t I went to my old familiar of not feeling, just making up stories or stories to help me understand. Grandiosity became a habit.  This led me to excitement. I was going to be famous.

Existential Artist

As I sit in the evening thinking of my Day and how messy my life can be, I will let go of most of my harsh disturbances! I have allowed my creativity to be expressed with an external love and a wide net cast on the world to embrace it all! Now as I work in such a small amount of time; I see how I have cast my web which expresses my art! Abstractions in my poetry are found as I express my work. I know what is seen or read or heard depends on the eyes of those who look! There are many meanings to even one sentence, one brush stroke, for me. Clarity finds words spread in circles stretching across the canvas of my life. I am an artist and am open to being seen by the eyes of who perceives my words. I release without expectations only hope! I do love the whimsy of my life and work! Yet now I will be defined!

The Art of Doctors

Standing where their feet daring not to feel. Designs etched in languages written, as a task, for mechanics who’s gears are organs, blood, tissues, muscles, bones: A body Revealed. Does the Doctor really see or craft a very dangerous Artwork finished in loss! A depressing generation watching an inbox. 

Standing

Standing with feet grounded

Grounded in emotions

Detached and released

Attachments arrogantly designed 

Idioms written as a task who’s dialect

Is written in the blood of the Medicine

A craft with dangerous Mechanics

Practice artistically finished

Renewal over time or lost

While waiting and watching

The realizations the Universe wins.

The Editor

Last time I saw you, or I thought so, you were Bill then. You became William instead. I was Donna, now I am Dona with one "N". It has been a lot of years and I blocked who you were. I have recreated who I am over and over. Once again recreating myself, coming to the computer at night, too tired for a life of assessments and memories. Yet when I get here I become free. I am keeping my commitment to myself in this long life. I can say I want to exercise my ability to write well at this time of night. In the morning I reassess. I'm not sure what I can even say, except in some far off memory. Logged in a distant file, I just ramble out whatever I want... Such control I have for myself as I write. I can be careless with my words and thinking when writing, unless otherwise being pointed into refinement. Then I remember you and your words. I am fond of writing poems when stimulated as my words form a poetic blaze. I love those opportunities. This is where I can be my own editor. Another purely selfish act sending words into the universe. I do wonder if there are any other rewards other than words here? Your words haunt me William, as you do; "You make too many mistakes in your writing.” If you pay more attention, you'd see them and correct them. Or, get a copy editor”! In William once Bill terms "Respect your Language." Do I have to pay so much attention? Oh I don't want to be so conscious and assessed. I have a husband for that and he is often my copy editor. It seems I need editing and always have. I need freedom as well. I respect words and the images they create. Perhaps that is what paralyzes me when writing… The assessment factor of a perfectionist. So what else do you have to teach me in this memory! A memory of so much unfettered action and emotion. Perhaps freedom was not at the beginning in our youth. I wish I could have let you take my virginity. It was lost in Spanish Harlem and he thought I was lying when I told him. I just wanted to have extra care. For it was my first time in the mystery of what was to happen because of fear. I wanted to give it in, for my skin was crawling. He didn’t care, too many ugly moments leading to that one, this became another. I told Franco and he didn't care as he pushed me only to discover I had been honest. I leaned against the sink and the evidence was complete. I wish you were my first, William, not only my first thrill. Now William you have become another editor of who I have been and who I was and what I want to become. Where are you now?

Who am I

I have wanted knowledge and discovery to substantiate myself. People became important as a means to affirm my process. To help myself  I thought I was on another adventure.  Experiences given my tenacious energy became a habit in educating myself through life. Still I had an ignorance of the implications I created.  This was a practice of incidental and formal knowledge while being passionate whenever I could. I sped forward devouring whatever crossed my path, whomever crossed my path. If you were important and had a title or fame I envied, excitement followed. Perhaps you were the image of the father I never had, someone to potentially take care of me.  The hungry child lived within my books, journals in self exploration. 

I moved from the world of others' excitement, shifting memories to living my life as it is. Vivacity has become a daily exercise in peacemaking with my aversion to change in feeling  abandonment.  I was questioning why I must do anything differently. Is this my aging wisdom,  grace or battle. Control and healing has been found in my story making, where it seems to be slipping  into memories and writing to accept what is happening to me.  Confrontation with my truth waits for the listener, the reader or voice of opposition for my learning.

  I need my stories as if they were my drug of choice.  I won’t stop my inquisitions until I have understood how to make peace with a story. Whatever is occurring within my life becomes a new chapter.  I was my own show entertaining everyone when possible. I would take custody with whomever was listening when I didn’t have any perceptions of what was happening. Creating fun through conflict for misperceived feelings. This was my default performance, or just dissociating. My evasive, distracting, activities found understanding to block my pain, hiding my real feelings? Becoming cute and funny or just giving up. 

I wanted to look good and understand what I did even though it was with great trepidation of thought and feelings. I fined courageousness in my exterior.  Really not understanding what perceptions I created. Often I would over think, when I did think, leading me to being paralyzed within my deliberations. If I couldn’t find an explanation, if something felt missing; my inner war began. Then I slipped into the external world of expression. I looked for any accountings’’ to comfort myself until my stories ceased.  Never did I realize as I began story telling for fun there would be healing occurring, healing in my past wounds, even in conflict. I healed. My amusing manner wasn’t always welcomed. I now know I could perhaps have arrogances in recognizing this new truth. I had to accept waiting while my process continued in its discomfort. I began learning there are no quick fixes in life. 

Life became my art form and attitudes from my past kept changing and each with vivid responses, stories. In all my discomfort I kept pushing and pulling with my illusions of control or comfort.  I would get lost in my chronicles, these dances in thoughts flowed only in poetry. I was carrying the legacy of the work it took to form the written word and thought and to become the writer I want to be. I no longer could be the cute old lady when I wanted another image. How will I do this, well I have begun.hav

In Love

Pathology is a metaphor on Pulse

There is space between the layer of my skin and my soul

Wrapping a breath I feel in your touch as I wait

Waiting for what is and what could be 

Only in thought I am alive, the essence of longing 

Surrounded by your skin as compassion seduces 

Focus slips off hinges attached to our doors.

Casualty lingers, calling to my core 

While speeches spring in labored declarations

Heads float into clouds wanting release from anchors

Mysteries of frozen feelings discharge our attraction 

Wisdom slips as we forget our needs in seductions

Arrogance believes we have the truth of who we are

Poems march for us all as we sing frailties songs

Life's concerns are forgotten and slip away

I’m in love with my pathology.

A Beginning

We have to learn to listen to ourselves, still I recognize our stories must be told. My stories, ah my sweet stories unleashed.  I've moved through my life; creating one tale after another in fact or fiction, standing in my excitement; I’ve held them close.  Now I’m beginning to see I’m more than the sum of my stories? Tales have become an anecdote. I’ve discovered within my focus a catalog of verbal accountings; shifting them in order to not be just a passive consumer of my life. While expressing my tales, I’m not always a conscious observance of the qualities of balance I seek. Now life has changed while aging. My experiential vision of life has taught me: “The world is not always according to Dona” I still live and breathe a desire for a life that boggles my mind. This is my continual education of self.

I had wanted knowledge and discovery to substantiate myself. People needed to affirm my process. I thought I was in an adventure in learning, creating experiences and giving my tenacious energy to education, formally or in a practice of incidental knowledge.  Speeding forward devouring whatever crossed my path. If you were important and had a title or fame I envied, I got excited. The hungry child lived within my books and self exploration. I am moving from the world of others, shifting memories to living my life within the immediate, the now.  Vivacity has become a daily exercise in peacemaking. Is this my aging fear or wisdom touched by grace? Illusions of control were found in my story making, they seem to be slipping away now into memories. Confrontation with my truth waits for affirmation.

  I needed my stories as if they were my drug of choice.  I wouldn’t stop my inquisitions until I had understanding. Whatever was occurring within each new chapter I loved the exhibitions into my past. I became the show entertaining when possible, I took custody when I didn’t have a perception of what to do, and this was my default performance. My evasive distracting activity found understanding blocking pain while hiding feelings?  I did it with great trepidation of thoughts, within intrepid experiences. Often I would over think, leading me to being paralyzed within my deliberations. If I couldn’t find an explanation, if something felt missing; my inner war began. I looked for an account  to comfort myself. My exploration continued  until my story ceased. Never did I realize as I began story telling for fun there would be healing occurring, healing  in my past wounds. 

My amusing manner wasn’t always welcomed. I now know I could have arrogances in recognizing a new truth. I had to accept that waiting existed while my process continued in its discomfort.   I began learning there are no quick fixes in life. Life became my art form. Attitudes from my past kept changing, and each vivid response reflected back on my lack of self knowledge in my discomfort. I would get lost in my chronicles, while the dance with thoughts flowed only in poetry. I was carrying the legacy of the work it took to form the written word and thought to become healed.

A Healing Hostage

Arms folded in sideline support

He’s holding onto an internal applause

Or boredoms appendages fold tight

Numbers and misfortune control

Pawns struggle into action

That moment his game begins

When his view jolts loosening his hold

Will it be healing or halting

Onto the field; no sideline prop

Halftime comes with or without action

Shoulders heavy walk out of site

He’s an unexpected soldier waiting.