My Fair Lady

Aug. 25, 2010

I want to shake off your words and set life free,

feel the raindrops fall in Spain, know that you care

beyond the babble – I loathe its tyranny,

the studied separate sounds of the word “fair.”

You dissect the syllables and miss the sense

within the sentence of a well-clad frame.

A seamstress must always view at a distance

the total effect of her tiny needle’s reign,

yet you, so long enamoured by the small,

smart, comfortable hems of simple one

can’t hear the intonation in a call,

“Good morning,” sweet and subtley homespun.

Words are a sort of fashion – you’re obsessed

with their beauty, but look at my face and see the rest.

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For Jill

Aug. 15, 2010
C. S. Lewis’ The Silver Chair; Psalm 119:105; Exodus 20:1-17; II Corinthians 3:12-18; Isaiah 6:5-7; Romans 7:7 – 8:2
 
Four simple signs… short list of 10 stone laws…
a thousand ways of breaking each, or worse –
forgetting, never taking time to pause
and say them over. Comforts must come first.
Our obligations steal remaining hours,
and what the duties leave mist into dreams.
Soft-spoken, the shadows cloak their own dark powers,
beckon away from the all-revealing beams.
Who would be bothered with such blinding truth?
Veiling our faces can mute that great bright shock.
We whisper our hearts’ words, knowing them uncouth,
unwilling our lips be scorched by a fiery rock.
So we hide our mistakes and the laws that point them out,
miss the ardent Love that light is all about.

Extreme Hypothyroidism

Aug. 12, 2010

— 

How to explain

this process…

all I am is slow,

watching and hearing

            all the world whiz by,

while I

            but shuffle-walk,

do little,

            rest much,

never catch up,

learn that it takes

energy to clean the house,

            enter and exit

                        the car,

drive,

            hold a book

                        or even lay it flat

for more than five minutes,

brush my teeth without those battery-operated bristles,

will myself to roll

            out of bed

                        or force my head

                                    to overcome gravity

and sit normally?

It’s like those times

when you know you’re about

            to black out,

                        but you’re walking in the

                                    hall, propelling

                                                yourself weakly, urgently

                                                            to the nearest chair.

How to explain

motionless butt, rut-sticking

like being duct-taped

by your own muscles

and watching as a captive

the strange patterns of geometric shapes

that swarm about your eyes

on the edge of sleep

like mathematical demons

feasting on fatigue?

How to explain

the eagerness for freedom,

            yearning for the pills of life,

                        prayers for a short interval,

the returning of vigor,

            slowly filtering back,

thawing,

easing away the swelling,

banishing the sharp-pointed triangles

and restoring

            everything we take

                        for granted?

All Is Not Lost

From a writing assignment in 2002…

         All is not lost.

Not enough time has passed to drown a dream.

Only those dreams wash me out, and I can be alive.

              It is not that they drown me now—

                       they merely sweep through, quiet and unseen.

          The deep subconscious mind

that, feeling, felt hard, since it learned to feel,

needs currents, floods of rain to cleanse perfumes left from

long-traveled routes

             of neurons speeding up and down.

                                       The floods must loose the scent.

           Dreams carry refuse, dreams carry waste.

In sleep the cleaning resumes: the day has left its

disorder across my dreamland, and dreams will sweep

             the things I do not think by day.

                         Its healing tarries longer, freer, real.