Monthly Archives: March 2016

Daily Déjà Vu

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2001

 

 

One day a plane hit a building

then another plane

then another building.

 

My father sent me a newspaper clipping

a full front-page photograph with a caption

and an enormous bold black headline

as angry as a cold black fist in the pit of my stomach.

 

Since that day the grey tones of life have diminished.

 

Black and white is louder now.

 

Two bold choices scare me.

 

I get terrified when the comfort and safety of colors fade

when poetry can’t take me home

when coffee shops are tense with lying laughter

when the vice of black and white squeezes my crystal soul.

 

 

 

Your Time Here is Limited

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In contrast with the soothsayer‘s warning to Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March,I find no foreboding message in this day. In fact, I celebrate it!

Please join with me and find a bit of wisdom, inspiration and prompting via The Wise Old Owls .  .  . speaking the words of Steve Jobs.

 

 

Diagonal Sleeping

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Whenever I sleep alone, I love to sleep diagonally in large beds.

That slanted position fills the emptiness and stretches the soul in new directions. It’s no longer womb-like, fetal sleeping. It’s an assertive position that enters the world as a vector.

Bold and fearful.

It wants to travel alone.

But needs to fill the hole of motherlessness.

The dark kind of solitude that can haunt when the world is dreary.

And after awakening, I can dress in costume to comfort my panic.

Young beautiful retro lady drinking coffee

 

Pretend I’m young and fearless again.

 

Dance with my fantasies of fear and desire.

 

Try to lock them into balance  and steady myself for a new day.

Cutlery Love

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A waitress ponders behind a smile:

Standing at the counter, tossing clean cutlery into the grey rubber corrals .  .  . she thinks of how their relationships mirror the stages of humans interacting intimately.

In the first furrow, the spoons merge. Nesting into one another. Curving and fluid.

In the middle corrugation – the middle years – the forks predominate. They grow prongs. They have open spaces. And defensive weapons. And the capacity to weave into and out of each other’s wefts.

In the final trough, lined like slender soldiers, the knives lie in wait. Straightened. Having grown rigid. Having bared serrated edges. Living parallel lives.

All tucked neatly into a gallantly folded napkin.