Tag Archives: poem

What I Know is Nothing

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When I look up and into the sky blue sky

full of fluffy white fluffy clouds

Space is full of stuff – stuffed stuff or unstuffed

Beyond the blue and white above me are other planets, other skies, other guys

Naked, I shiver in the hot summer afternoon – but it’s a dry heat

In a coat, I shiver among snow drifts – but it’s a moist cool

Above my head are twinkling stars that twinkle like a star

Vastness of universe and limitations of my body and mind – not parallel like a parallel universe

What I know for sure is that I know nothing – like I know what I know, and it’s nothing

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Sadness Has Shades – A Poem

 

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A painter uses color, texture -tangibles – to express herself.

I use words. My mind purges its stresses on white pages.

I sometimes think in gray.

Cloudy skies are the shade of sadness.

Sadness has shades, if you didn’t know it.

I’ve had sadness in blue shades. Blue, more intense than gray.

Gray has no passion, is sleepy and without great expression.

Blues offer bite. When dark, it’s angry sadness.

Light blue leaves room for improvement. Hope.

Black. Ever felt black?

Absorbing all light around you. Reflecting none.

Lack of light is black. I’ve felt black. I’ve lived black.

Black was the height of sadness, and all was dark.

Are you beige? Beige is boring. Not ugly but boring.

I lived beige for several years. It was a color of denial.

Same old. Same old. Beige. Sad but denying it.

Currently, I feel green. New growth is everywhere.

Soon it will be spring. Life has changed.

Green feels nice. Cooling and hopeful.

No sadness blankets this life.

But now and then, I do have other-color days.

Life is, after all,  a rainbow of colors.

Sadness can be in many colors and shades

But joy can, too.

Coloured air balloons

 

 

Alone

Where exactly is it? That ache that isn’t “real.”

The feeling of alone-ness

I hold and now reveal.

 

In the heart or chest somewhere

the heaviness sits hard

No respite for this weary soul

Yet, often, I’m off guard

 

Vices do I grab

To nothingness I hold

Weariness like weights

Inside me till I’m old

 

 

 

 

Spinning

I just spun around in my office chair – not once but over and over. My eyes closed tightly, my feet moving to keep the momentum. I was back in my childhood, when I’d spin on anything with a rope or chain. I was a notorious spinner on swings.

When I opened my eyes after going round in my office chair, I felt momentarily dizzy. Yet I smiled and remembered having a Kool-aid moustache, tousled ponytail, and tanned skin from spending days in the sun, playing, riding bikes . . . and spinning.

🙂

Wherever I Choose

Wherever I Choose

 

The ocean’s salty brine. Its cool and rhythmic waves. Sounds of seagulls, sandpipers, and faraway ships. I’m there in my mind.

 

Atop the breezy mountain. Among a field full of Black-eyed Susans. East Texas sand beneath my feet. The scent of watermelon in my lunch pail. I’m there in my mind.

 

It can take me anywhere – show me anything. Living in the moment . . . wherever I choose.

Hands, Hands, Hands

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There are people who have fetishes and then there are people who just pay more attention to a certain body part. I’d have to say that I notice hands.

When I meet someone and he/she shakes my hand, I look and notice my new acquaintance’s hands. Are the fingers long and thin? Short and stubby? Are the nails long or short? If it’s a man and he has “female” looking hands, I assume he has a job that doesn’t require much finger strength. A woman with dirt under her unpainted nails? I wonder if she’s a gardener . . . possibly herbs, my personal favorite thing to grow.

Hands say so much. I look down as I type and see wrinkles in mine. I see veins and red polished fingernails that need touching up. My hands say I have washed them many times in my forty-nine years of life. They say they belong to a short, full-figured woman who likes to look pretty. My hands have inner secrets, though; don’t yours?

My hands have done things they shouldn’t have. They’ve also done heroic things that few know about. They have patted the back of an infant, soothed a dying friend, and embalmed an autopsied murder victim (I’m a Funeral Science major). My hands have planted gardens, petted kittens, and made large pots of soup. They’ve scrubbed bathrooms, scraped icy windshields, and wiped tears from the eyes of a loved one in pain.

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Hands may not be the windows into the soul as the eyes are said to be but they carry out the work that needs to be done every day of our lives.

I love people’s hands. They’re wise and wacky, sad and happy, old and young – everything all at once. It’s hard to hide who we are. It shows in our beautiful hands.

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Toxins in My Tears – A Poem

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(photo from deviantart.com)

ARTICLEhttp://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2011/05/29/7-good-reasons-to-cry-the-healing-property-of-tears/

Maybe if I cry hard enough for long enough, I can get rid of ALL of the toxic feelings inside my chest.

Maybe that knot will go away. Just maybe the gnawing will subside.

There are toxins in our tears. Did you know that?

Tears of stress or grief . . . release toxins and bacteria.

I should be clean enough to stop the pain I carry around but it hasn’t happened. How do I cry enough?  I’ve shed more than my share of tears. What IS my share?

So, I fight the inner feeling that makes me feel like there is no beauty in the sun on the autumn lawn or the soft music coming from my laptop.

The fall leaves don’t matter – yellow or red. Used to be my favorite season. Now, I wonder if I’ll see another autumn and realize I don’t really even care.

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I am better today. That was yesterday.

Oh, the difference a day makes.

Denial, Floods, and Small Talk

Denial – the action of declaring something to be untrue

I deny so well that if the behavior were an Olympic sport, I’d have the Gold. Actually, no, we’d all be in the running for the Gold medal.

In this post, I’m wondering why most of us  walk around acting like we are perfectly fine, our world is 100% on track, and nothing is bothering us. We smile and exchange pleasantries but are inside often lonely, hurting, frustrated, confused, or angry. Why can’t we open up more with one another?

 

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“You doing okay these days?”

“Oh, yeah. Great. You?”

“Sure thing. How are the kids?”

 

 

 

 

The older I’ve gotten, the more open and honest I’ve become. It’s liberating yet embarrassing at times – because others don’t share their weaknesses or what’s wrong in their own lives. Leaves me feeling alienated, y’know, or different from the norm? What really “is” the norm?  I admitted to starting on antidepressants again the other day to a friend. She blurted out that she’s on about three! I felt closer to her immediately. The honesty was air-clearing.

Ever feel completely overwhelmed? I did about a month ago (when I got back on antidepressants). I felt like I was drowning in a flood of cold, dirty water but nobody paid attention. I realized I was denying my feelings to those closest to me, trying to make the bad feelings go away. But they didn’t. I reached out for help . . . before my chimney went under. 😉

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So, can we try to reach out to one another more? Share our truths more? I won’t judge you; I promise! I may suggest a counselor but I’d never judge you. 🙂  Let’s stop “pretending” everything is okay and going about our days in denial about how much something may be bothering us or altering our lives. Stop biking in the flood, my friend, and admit there are about two feet of water at your feet! The rest of us will help you dry off and find a canoe.

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