I’m remaking myself alone, discarding patterns, forging others: Listening to waves, smelling rain-damp earth, talking back to crows, ignoring stumbles, I explore paths previously unsought.
Lament 12: Afterwards
Under noise, I almost hear the music. Walking down stairs, I sense a faint perfume. In the dark, my eyes cling to the fading ember. Consolations.
On the porch, at night in winter: A street away, the scrape of skates, the slap of a puck.
The terrible sting of sugar doesn’t erase my parents smiling into the camera, a cemetery behind them, my grandparents gravestone beside them. They all lie there now.
Lament 10: Anger
Anger is easier than being sad, like a boil you can ignore till it erupts. Grief locks your time into a blur of absence that can't be released..
Lament 9: Necessary Rituals
All my necessary rituals hold me, keep me standing. All my necessary rituals keep me rigid and stuck. All my necessary rituals are collapsing letting me fall, bruising me. What rituals can support what I need now?
Lament 8: On Writing
Writing at the raw edge opens the dimness for a brief glimpse of my now. Writing at the raw edge unlocks the gates of my whirling for a moment. Writing at the raw edge spews my dark lava onto a screen for a moment of now.
This Bleak Midwinter
Christmas lights the colour of twilight, and a heritage nativity set, - A bleak celebration avoiding plastic Santas or plastic regrets Awaiting a new year, watching changes from remembered winters, listening to the noise of fools heard on the tv news.