Writing you have to like it better than being loved you have to like

it best when being shoved i cant find another line to rhyme

does that?

oh Bless, let it go

let go and let God,we say in aa

does that?

oh BLESS,LET it go

easy does it but do it

another saying we say in aa

i cant wait to break through the gate

the one that the horse whisperer

on the other side

whispers invisably through the breeze on somedays and like

yesterday,gusts on the mountainyelling,come through,come throughcome

through the gates of passion, for the craving,for complete surrender

to your dream of writing and reading .

the coyotes

on the other side

yip yip yiping me from the other side of the gate making me giggle on

some days and roar with laughterother days that when i finally

surrender to allowing myself to build the stamina when im submerged in

the craving and passiion of writing and reading that i will find

eternity and peace.

the pink thunder heads above are as ferocious looking as a buck

stamoing its leg saying come closer but not to close and at the same

timethe big eyes of the deer like the powerful pinkl orange purple and

silver thunde head cloud clap encourages me to stay and feel at home.

what does all of this have to do with an A degree from college of

marin hanging on my wall?

R.H.'s voice

5 more minutes

i dont know but the aanouncement reminds me of when i walked up the

high road while ago behind san rafael high schooland come upon a

uprooted pine,

was it alive?

i dont know

i git scared looking at the rootsthe needles and cones were laid to

rest beautifully, browns and greens deep

but

the roots

narley and endless

a long story to tell

history

as i picked up a eucalyptus buttonand felt the root hopeing for commmunication

the san rafael misision bell rang

5 oclock-quitten time

a sort of spiritual whistle blow

then the crow cawed a new beggining

ps

6 oclock ,actuallly-a little overtime

-Bless Krieger

Dancing feels so good, especially when I get the moves and the timing.  I felt a bit lost when I joined the Zumba class at the gym.  Now I can mimic most of the moves.  I learn more of the sequences in each class.  And the teacher even told me she sees improvement in my dancing.

This could be used as a metaphor for life: When we try something new, we might wobble and not know how to do all of it.  We might not move like the advanced folks do.  We may bet tired or confused before we get through a whole sequence of linked actions.  The truth is… I am really doing a lot of self-directed activity that I never did before and I hope to keep it all in a dynamic balance.  My mind is on, my body is alive, I can affect changes, albeit little, in my sphere of influence.  I helped a non-chore-doer roommate set up to do his chore and I stopped before I actually did the chore for him.  I praised him afterwards.  He went from a “never” to a “sometimes” and I did not break a sweat over his chore.

Little changes: milk instead of soda, fruit instead of candy, go to sleep before midnight so I can get up before noon, send thank you cards or say thank you to key good-doers in my life.

Less negative drama leaves more time for contemplation and doing useful, positive tasks.

The Girl

She is so small, ragged and dirty. Feral, really. Blood crusts over knuckles of clenched fists from cuts made by punching brick.

I lean down carefully, washrag in hand to clean the wounds. “Give me your hand – it’s bleeding.”

She steps backwards, making herself even smaller.She looks for a shadow in which to hide.  She is shaking, although it is not cold. She sniffs the air between us like a wild beast.

“Come here, give me your hand. You’re bleeding,” I say. I kneel down, trying to be small so as not to scare her.

“Am not bleeding.” The offending fist disappears behind her back. Her blue eyes glare.

“Let me see, baby. Must hurt.”

She shrugs. Slowly, I reach out and touch her arm. Gently I move it out in front of her. She cringes but allows me to take her left hand in mine.

I blot gently with the cool washcloth, blood staining it from yellow to red. “Oh my,” I say.  “So much pain.”

“Don’t hurt,” she grumbles. “Don’t feel nothin’ at all. Don’t exist.”

“Oh no, baby,” I croon. “You exist. You exist.”

As I watch, she gets even smaller. She shrinks and shrinks and shrinks.  Finally she is no more than a piece of charred remains – the child is gone.

I take the charred remains in my hand, then put them in my mouth. I swallow hard. The girl is gone. Only bitterness and the tang of blood remain.

-Jolene

THE LIE

In places, where the clouds had worn away,
We glimpsed the emptiness that lay beyond:
A sort of dullness, featureless and gray,
Polluted water in a stagnant pond.
Concerning God--to our dismay--we found
Thousands came forth who claimed to be the One;
Each drunken would-be Christ displayed a wound
Some doubting Thomas would then dote upon.

Robert Lavett Smith