PAIN
Tonight the valley of the shadows of death will comfort me.
I will never open my eyes.
My lover and I will dream as if alone.
The sun cannot peep over the horizon.
The end of the day immediately follows the beginning.
All sightless.
All darkness.
I will never drown in my best efforts.
Pills will refuse to overtake me.
Sleeping pills cannot force me to sleep all day.
Today is not now a beginning.
Someone will have to pry my eyelids open.
And that someone will then laugh
because that someone has conquered me.
The devil.
There is no life after death.
Only a living death.
I cannot see to swim through troubled waters.
I may force myself to be free of breath.
For it anoints me to be like a sad song.
The song comes to an end.
I plead guilty for all my trespasses.
For crossing your line.
Do not forgive me, god
For I am unforgiveable.
Only forget about me
and leave me in a fog of nothingness.
I feel sorry for myself as you should for me.
Something feeds upon me—it’s meat.
Tomorrow, please don’t come.
But take me with you into the black night.
Things and persons outside myself—Stay That Way.
Marsha Campbell February 6th 2011
Meditations on Monkey Mind
Convoluted flippin’ movement. Dag Nabbit. What?
Twisting thoughts and meditations on the attention span of a gnat. The chatter of a monkey mind and the frustration of its keeper – the monkey should be different. Really good monkeys can sit and focus. The monkey thinks not.
The subtle but undeniable toll of age and time. The widening of the belly and the drying of the skin. The fuzzing of the mind and the deepening of the habit energy which constantly bites us in the arse. Naughty monkey, but she is possessed only of monkey mind.
Oh, but there is beginner’s mind. She plays with the monkey out of curiosity and amusement. Feeds it peanuts and pats its head. The monkey chatters, but happily now. Unwilling to be tamed she can be amused, made happy.
And where is the disciple in all this? The one who is willing to do as she’s told. She is incredibly late for class. She has no excuses but it wasn’t her fault.
When the student is ready the teacher will come. The monkey will swing from the tree as she bows to her books. And that which is sharp will seem dull. That which is hard will look easy. That which is new will feel old. For the Tao which can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.
Jolene January 2nd 2012
A Matter of Taste
Taste the hole in the bagel,
I dare you! Taste the hole
in the doughnut, I insist! --
except the beignet makers
of the world have stepped
into the breach with their
little round dough balls
powdered with sugar
from the bowls of
life’s petit indulgences.
What happens when the tip
of your tongue licks
empty space and yields
the proof that nothing’s there?
Do you whine, or complain
that you have been cheated
or harassed by recreant fate?
Or do you do the next
best thing: pull it back
again into your mouth?
This exceeds metaphysics
I think; you have a choice
that is entirely up to you:
When you do not get
what you set out for,
what have you lost or gained?
It has been said by many
wiser men than I that
you learn more from failure
than you do from success,
but I cannot confirm this
with my tongue still sticking
out between my lips, still
waiting to taste the hole
in the doughnut dangling
before my disappointed eyes.
© 2011 Sheppard B. Kominars December 15th 2011
The Reserved Seat at The Moulin Rouge
Toulouse-Lautrec created a palette
of exciting, elegant, provocative colors
of the decadent Parisian times,
fin de siècle
Drawn to Montmartre,
the quartier de Paris
famous for its Bohemian lifestyle –
the haunt of artists
The Belle Epoque artists
laughed at his work
but The Moulin Rouge
reserved a seat for Henri
and displayed his posters
Henri excelled at capturing
the color and movement
of the gaudy nightlife
with the glamour stripped away
Crowd scenes
and highly individualized figures
identified by silhouette alone
Henri’s haunted reserved seat
his absinthe drink
and the “Can-Can” dancers
are still waiting for his return
to the Moulin Rouge
Barbara Belle-Diamond
January 1, 2012
Jump into the infected punch, that is, pain, circling the parched tissues of my throat. Fill all my rose buds with liquid exhalant dripping into the sore-eyed manifestation that is not now nor ever receding because of the tears that flow on majestically down from the surface of the chest in an act of meanness till I am flabbergasted with the drunken affliction time and time again perfecting a bodily stature lost that is like a shooting water fountain.
Pain is tears in every vein. It’s a system that moves against you, as people generally don’t like the sight of it and some folks even suggest you should make a quick visit to the local mental health technician.
“If you come back here again, I think I will call you a psychiatrist,” the ER doctor says. He has hooked into my deepest fears. I retreat, drying a tear with every step—each tear drying as I speedily remove myself from the situation wherein I feel I have just escaped playing the role of the drama queen that sucks death and yet goes on to live until the next appropriated crisis.
Marsha Campbell January 18th 2012
Heart's Knowing
Joe's sighs in the middle of the night
A hint of his dreams, his creativity, his mind
Like a hummingbird's wings
Toulouse's squeaks to get my attention,
Desperate for affection and validation
And maybe a treat
My mother's tears when she says goodbye,
the fear that this will finally, frightfully,
be the last
My father's laughter, a combination of bravado and joy
A sure sign there is something making him nervous
Challenging his understanding of the Universe
The garden's smell, dewey in the morning
Light, sweet orange blossom, rotting apples on the ground,
The pungent earthiness of peat moss anticipating the warmth of the day
Bread baking, flour, sugar and yeast combined
Rising in the dark recess of the oven
At the heart of the house, the center of life
The sinking feeling that comes before a confrontation
The same confrontation with the same uncle
That has happened dozens of times before
The memory of beatings, bruises, betrayals
That have defined a family for generations
And predestines it into the future
The sound of sirens wailing as the man stumbles into the street
Holding his chest as his white coat became as red
As the Santa hat that fell into the puddle of his blood
The growing emptiness of love fading
only to be replaced by defeat and resignation,
Like a thick brown blanket over our heads
As we move about our lives, denying its existence
Denis Paul
2/16/12
TROLL OF THE NIGHT
Bjorn;
Hear me O Troll...Troll of the Night
Come out and Play...come out and Fight
I have a Challenge for you... if you Dare
Bjorn is my name... and it means Bear
If you come Out...You Best Beware
This be your Last Time...in My Nightmares
Troll;
I'll come out Little Boy...this be no Game
If it's a Fight you want...You Must Be Insane!
I've Slain many Boys...very much like You
I Chop them in Pieces...then put them in Stew
One Boy Tastes Good...but I'd rather have Two
You're but a Small Boy...You're barely a Chew
So Speak of your Challenge...the one you Seek
Before I Grow too Hungry, Tired and Weak
Bjorn;
My challenge is of Strength and of Wit
So choose which Axe...Which ever you see Fit
First we throw our Axe...to Split that Tree
The Moonlit One...the One you can See
You Throw First...if you have the Grit
Then we will See...Who is Outwit
Narrator;
As Trolls are Dumb...as you will See
He threw his Axe first...Against that Tree
He Split the Tree...as Bjorn was Charmed
Because the Troll was now...Unarmed
Bjorn took his Axe...then Cleaved the Troll’s Head
For now you See...the Troll was Dead
Outwit the Troll was...the clever boy did not Fail
That Ended His Nightmares...and This Great Tale
By; Erik A. Steinmo with Bjorn at his Side
In Robert-Harry's W R I T E O N ! workshop, the creative writing class I've been going to, we do exercises or free writes after a guided relaxation and meditation--paying attention to our physical sensations as we travel with our awareness through our body parts and being.
We then listen to a short piece (poetry or story) land we are asked how we feel about a couple of words and what their association to one another is...what are their differences in meaning and each person shares their feelings.
Last night it was Connection & Attachment. We were asked to put pen to paper and write freely without stopping for 15 minutes...it is called a FREE WRITE and you never know where it will take you. The idea (for me anyhow) is to feel and write without plan or forethought finding clean inspiration or truth, unforced. It's Kind of Cool and Fun
This was my write
Attach...Connect
Fondling that which it feels lost; unable to put your finger on what's missing as if unhinged not free to move hindered and not hearing a squeak to localize what part is vacant diminishing the feeling of wholeness without color or smell reaching your touch no sound or vibration searching for notice sensing the weight of air gesturing the void calling memory to occupy the space empty from connection so attachment is felt.
Erik A. Steinmo
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