Widowed Without A Manual

Some of us grieve longer then others. I will not be rushed out of my love, that still inhabits my heart.

Fill Your Mind With A Moment

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Photo on 2017-05-13 at 9.04 AM.jpg

may 13 2017

the morning was young
the coffee fresh and hot
Bach: keyboard partita #2 in C minor
takes my mind to special places
glass marbles of indigo and sea blue
reminiscent of kisses in the water

a red winged blackbird descends
its wings stretched twice its length
falling, not like a leaf for it is light and sways with the slightest hint of a breath
more like a parachute falling with weight and precision

I can see the red brushstroke hopping about in the reeds
chasing undesirables from his home of cat tails and water grass
he is so busy this male
walking about on the cut grass 
calling and skipping to what seems as a gesture of fun
at least to these human eyes.
is there anything sweeter then watching the quiet moments of life?

I sit high near the branches
and pretend I am a bird

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Honey Waters

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Walking along the road
you saw what was perceived as a broken bird
watching it, you observed it was knocked out
still breathing, no broken bones
you picked it up and brought it home
the bird soon woke and flew out the window
wanting this bird for yourself
you continued to leave honey water in its path
diligence and patients are your strengths
offerings and honey water

One day a terrible wind came and blew the bird out of its home
ever so prepared you ran out and picked it up
comatose, motionless, unaware
this time you had prepared a cage for the little bird
lots of honey water was supplied
till this little bird began to heal
but there was something wrong
something evil in the air
the cage was kept in a deep dark dungeon
with only a sliver of light coming through a crack in the wall

Days past and the bird began to lose hope
all it wanted to do was see the clouds and the sky
to fly with the wind and be free
the bird was delirious, drugged 
all it could do was sleep
to sleep life away for it had no hope
confined and imprisoned behind the bars made of silk
panic started to race through its heart
everyday it got weaker
if it did not leave soon 
it would surly die
then this little bird began to conserve its to strength
everyday it would pull a thread from the ribbons
never drawing attention to its frayed edge
then one day while the capture was in a deep sleep
the bird gathered her feathers and flew
it flew high into the sky
it did not stop for a moment
not till all the poisoned honey water was out of its system
landing on the very top of a tree in the country
the bird was finally able to rest
you could hear it cry in the night
you could hear its cries in the winds
it cried so much that its tears turned into endless rains
its tears filled the rivers and flooded the lands
till one day it woke in a room so full of light
the bird could see it with its eyes still closed
the light rejuvenated the bird

Still, the memory of the dark cage will never leave
never again will the bird be hypnotized or enticed by honey waters
for sweet waters are not real

Morel of the story:
the water may seem clear
the water may taste sweet
but evil lurks
in waters dark and deep
may 10 2017

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On My Chest

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Today I feel beaten
I feel heavy in my thoughts
today I feel sadness
coloured glass that was my salvation
all those days and nights in the city basement apt
their colour and brightness offered hope
the sliver of light from the crypt
only reminds me of despair
I may have to repack them till I feel differently
It has been 8 years and 77 days from that white blizzard night
the night he fell and our world changed forever
People  mean well and friends want what is best for me
but please don’t tell me that I will find love
these words do not give me hope  it does the opposite
I can not survive another love
perfect was not what we were after
perfect is a story book tale
that is destined to fail
we  laughed and said we had compatible neurosis
days like this we would lie next to each other
we would feel safe in our love

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8 years…76 days

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Photo on 2017-05-06 at 11.53 AM

Its been 8 years and 76 days
since I consisted myself living here
there is a person in me
a busy one nagging at me to get things done
she is counting sheets of drywall needed
should she buy a wooden screen door
should she get a larger fridge
open the studio
clear the welding bench
order the tanks
sort out the metal

Its only my first day back
I say to ‘self’

Another part has her fingers on these typewriter keys
recording these precious first days back
reaffirming that she has made the right choice

Its only my first day back
I say to ‘self’

I want to absorb this immense light surrounding me
watching robins with their garnet bellies
looking for the perfect branch to nest and raise their young

I feel hypnotized by the moving water
the styrofoam iceberg Bruce carved and placed in the reflecting pool
marble offcuts fill the pie shape by the pool
trees that we planted so long ago
now tower over my home

Its been 8 years and 89 days
Its my first day back
I say to myself.

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Some Memories

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Some memories:

shoot through you like a lightning bolt
leaving your veins full of apple blossoms
your skin electrified with memories of kisses
your eyes a movie projector
playing thoughts, words, music

Some memories:
are so dense that you can’t breath
so compact that you can’t move

Some memories:
leave you in the forest 
with no compass
no ability to find north or south or east or west

Some memories:
leave you orbiting the planet
a satellite floating alone
so very far away
no contact, no feelings

Some memories:
are the departing gift that keeps giving
a gift that has you smile in a crowd
lost in your own happiness
oblivious to the world around

Some memories:
are not so lovely
trapped in that last breath
hoping he would inhale one more time
so you could rest your lips on his
and take him in
to let him continue to live inside you
two as one
if only you could

Some memories:
ay…

Photo on 2017-04-24 at 10.28 AM

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Time Is Running

Dear Fogo Island

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pale greys
blanket the sky
worn through patches
exposes the deep blue
of what could be

I see you
across the water
faded, alone
no one living in your home
your eyes show me sadness
no sparkle or reflection in your glass
I wish I could walk through your front door
bringing with me many days of more
washing you with love
exposing colours that once was
I see you

almost
I can reach across and touch you
there is tall grass
deep waters
wall of rocks
to climb
can you wait for me
will you survive another storm
wishing I could comfort you
to give you hope
to share with you my dreams
your chairs would be painted
the colours of the evening skies
your eyes would be bigger and brighter

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feeling
a knife tearing through my skin
reaching my heart
looking at you so far across the bay

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Inside I Feel

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mama and rosa 1980 copy

This morning I lay in bed
under the weight of my feathers
eyes closed
enjoying the quiet
the warmth
then I felt the strangest thing
I was my mother
I could feel being her
strange, not a frightening feeling
I was her but a small me was inside her
like one mitt inside the other
not a child in her mother
two women in one
I could feel her thoughts
I could sense her mind
my hands are like mama’s
my face is like mama’s
strange yet wonderful feeling

My fingernails are thin
mama would trim and file hers down
I chose to bite
so many attitudes
I have adopted
my grandchildren not calling
creates terrible feelings
I feel vindictive
harbouring such thoughts and filing them
plotting retaliation
I detested this characteristic of my mother
yet here I am sitting with my shoulders rounding
my face transmuting into someone I don’t know
yet I act as she did
I also know that the second the phone rings
we both cast away every sad thought
we become joyous and loving
we give many presents
as a penance for even thinking such terrible thoughts
I know how greatly saddened she was
I feel such sadness
we are the same mitt
I look in the mirror and see her face
we wear our heart on our sleeve
that is why it gets hit and bumped and bruised
perhaps I should put it back into my chest
where it will be protected

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