Sunday, December 21, 2014

coal black


night with bells on
rings back to center
wheels with zigzag anyway
a maze of sudden turns
part potion part sickness
cognac with lavender
and when I am fully lost
gold with sudden sunshine
tea time and surrender
sparkle trees with winter lights
minutes to hold, silence to hear
a music made of black

Monday, December 15, 2014

metadata


By Anne Lamott

Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.

No one tells you that your life is effectively over when you have a child: that you're never going to draw another complacent breath again... or that whatever level of hypochondria and rage you'd learned to repress and live with is going to seem like the good old days.

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.

It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.”
-----------------------------------

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
― Anaïs Nin

“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”
― Kurt Vonnegut

“Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”
― Franz Kafka

“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.”
― Anaïs Nin

“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”
― Thomas Mann, Essays of Three Decades

“When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.”
― Kurt Vonnegut

“Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.”
― Joss Whedon

In search of inspiration, or just hacking it, im blocked

Thursday, December 11, 2014

black paper parade


inside unsleeping eyes
close to a train of paper minutes
not quite listening for
the swish and rustle
of mellow night song
not quite sure if
more being less doing
a blessing by every yardstick
is a floating curse on
backwards paper boats
or a lecture on texture

Sunday, December 07, 2014

following fear


into the fade
on wobble legs
remembering there exists
locked up safe, for two decades
the diary, without daylight
where words of extraordinary cruelty
were scored with my involuntary hand
on a spiral evening
where the power of the moment
directed the power of the word
where there is no forgiveness
for extreme youth
following fear, forever
to subvert time
and discard weapons
at regular intervals
until I am defenseless enough
to come back to life

Thursday, December 04, 2014

motion sickness


reserved for change
into a mortal world
a solitude open to hairpins
for weaving braids into nylon lifelines
head first among the brush root
between the leaves of the conifers
in the center of a larger dance
a reverse circle of facile fear
slowly learning to draw
a snowflake from memory