Pocket Knives and Plath

 

As if it were just another day,

a child’s attempt to keep the monsters away.

Could say, this scepter of spirit, were for him.

But, truth comes laced with guile…

It is for me,

Wrapped in the words, ‘let it be’.

As the rain turns to sleet.

As the white lies repeat.

A childlike attempt to stumble a fall.

Awkward valor, lanky jabs,

to protest an inevitable stall.

At last, what of these testimonies,

languid walks,

poised crawls.

What if someone walked this very same road.

Read from Plath.

Listened with coerced ear.

Announced,

I cannot live within the bell of your fear.

awkward 3
the Girl with the Weight of the World in her Hands – 

She won’t recover from her losses
She’s not chosen this path but she watches who it crosses
Maybe move to the right, maybe move to the left
So we can all see her pain, she wears like a banner on her chest
And we all say, “It’s sad” and we think it’s a shame
And she’s called to our attention but we do not call her name
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

‘Cause we’re busy with our happiness and busy with our plans
I wonder if alone she wants it taken from her hands
But if things didn’t keep getting harder
She might miss her sacred chance to go a consecrated martyr
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

I wonder which saint that lives inside a bead
Will grant her consolation when she counts upon her need
It makes us all angry though we feign to care
But who will be the scale to weigh the cross she has to bear
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

-Indigo Girls

belize

Is the glass half-full or empty, I ask her as I fill it
She said it doesn’t really matter, pretty soon you’re bound to spill it
With the half logic language of the sermon she delivers
And the way she smiles so knowingly at me, gives me the shivers
I pull the blanket higher when I’m finally safe at home
And she’ll take a hundred with her but she always sleeps alone
The girl with the weight of the world in her hands

Ripple Monday

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Ripple Monday…

Today, something borrowed, something New England ice blue and

a little something for a harried world to hold onto!

Don’t get too lost in all I say…

BUT…

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine. And, my tunes were played on the harp

unstrung. Would you hear my voice come through the music?

Would you hold it dear as if it were your own?

It’s a hand-me down, the thoughts are broken. Perhaps, they’re better

left unsung.

I don’t know. Don’t really care.

Let there be songs to fill the air.

Ripple in still water. When there is no pebble tossed. Nor wind to blow.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty. If your cup is full may it be again.

Let it be known there is a fountain; that was not made

by the hands of men.

There is a road, no simple highway. Between the dawn and

the dark of night.

And, if you go

no one may follow. That path is for your steps alone.


You who choose to lead…must follow. But if you fall…you fall alone.

If you should stand then who is to guide you?

If I knew the way I would take you home!

Have a very fruitful day!

-RandomwordbyRuth

WE love you Jerry…Wish you were here to steer!

*lyrics by Jerry Garcia, Ripple

Medusa on the Run

This I know to be true…I over heard the angels say…She’ll walk with a limp and a gimp and a blind heart ’til the day she dies.
Autumn through rose colored glasses
Autumn through rose-colored glasses
The skies called for it!
‘Give her the serenity to accept the things she can.  The courage to change the things she can..And, above all, the wisdom to know the difference!’
All the angels knew of this…the untold true earth-bound story.  It occurs once in a Lunar Moon…Or, is it, once in a Blue Moon?
No one really remembers.  Other than the adopted heavenly cat, Lucinda…And, she ain’t telling!
‘Please, please, please, help her to be a better person tomorrow than she was today.  And, help her to keep all animals great and small safe and far from harm to the best of their ability.’
Or, so it is told that the oath, prayer, gibberish gibber-walky, goes on to say.
Again, how do the Goddess’s know and why are they telling?
Because she who walks with a limp but must keep on walking…is worthy of such a meditation of thanks!
A small town ego doctor once remarked,
‘I bet you one replaced ankle and raise you two broken backs for your spite and sprite!’
There were and are never any takers for the poor physician who cannot heal thyself.  For even the lower beasts, the heavenly scented dogs, know, imagination is far more encouraging than knowledge.
Free 'til Fall
Free ’til Fall
And so it goes, the story about the limping woman with a hitch in her ride and a smirk on her face.  Last of the great Lithuanian Native Americans, they say.
They, the Goddess’s and Hellish Angels, also say one other thing:
One promising fall day.  A moth, a caterpillar and a calico cat crossed our heroine’s path.  Right before her own legion of felines pulled out a May Sarton book on life…And, to the following page it landed
I turn your face around!  It is my face.
That frozen rage is what I must explore-
Oh, secret, self-enclosed, and ravaged place!
This is the gift I thank Medusa for!
Without a moment’s hesitation.  Without the winds begging for more.  Without being trumped on the head with a…duh, why the hell not?
It is said, that the limping woman with a pegged by Meg heart rode off into the sunset looking for America…Looking to get out the map!

The Living Years

I know that I'm a prisoner  To all my Father held so dear  I know that I'm a hostage  To all his hopes and fears
I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears

My life story in a line…believe in me because I don’t believe in anything!

Or, better yet, there is a fine art to life.  And, that is simply in between the things we choose to see.
As a child, we all long to be, the next president of the United States, an astronaut, Cher and/or Barbra Streisand. Some even dreamed the mission impossible dream of being like their father.

You are just like your father!
Better yet:
You are a spoiled brat…a daddy’s girl.

I often had been told this horrible premonition, it seemed so real, I ran from it via the bottle and blotter daily.

Crumpled bits of paper  Filled with imperfect thought  Stilted conversations  I'm afraid that's all we've got
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got

Fuck that and the horse the dysfunctional unit came in on.
This I know to be true:
Writers write to find truth. Writers write to discover their childhood again. Poets dream in order to make sense of their nightmares. Poets hide away in the light of day for the night-time brings safety.
I remember once a pushing match between father and daughter. Black hatred and white peace. Fists pushing into one another. Stair’s lingering eerily below. Making the drop from reality seem not so far out of reach. The pushing never seised and the hiding game began.
Behind ancient stone walls in Canterbury not full of tales, New Hampshire. Sliding off and out into the darkness ten speeds away…as fast and as far as my legs could pump.  Had I left my mother laying as she had the day she was born, fetal?  I had.  And, to that, another swoosh of air taken from the sails on the ride to nowhere.
Years later I reascend into the darkness. Pulling out the plug from the jug and easing the pain with just one more…I drink alone.  Just one moment with death for it seemed to always gather at my feet.

So often the threat of ill-will is more like the blade than the handle.  The promise of hate to come seems to be more like kin than the physical moments distant cousin abuse in between.
To some, I never received that many punches from my father’s bag of punch lines. Yet, the joke would always be on me. I have been waiting 47 years for a hit, hook, line and sinker…yet, the emotional ravaging of my soul had been what took its final toll?

You just can't get agreement  In this present tense  We all talk a different language  Talking in defense
You just can’t get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense

Today, I came upon a room that I had not opened in many a sober years. It had laid dormant behind my chips of plenty and my rented room of resentments.
The room seemed fresh but old. Borrowed and very blue. It held a man so small he almost seemed a ghost. A whisper of the past. He sat in a woolen and wooden within an expensive chair. A sitting device that showed the importance he felt for himself.
I watched from afar…as only a visitor to this planet would. I shivered with fear and disgust. I spoke my handmade Serenity Prayer. A mantra. A savior of words to my condemned to dysfunction soul.
What words were spoken needn’t matter. They rang out in literal stabs at the universe, wrong, bad, lazy, bitch, fuck and so on.
Usually, a strong person, I felt as though the earth that I had built on hope and spirit and love and imagination…was just another episode in the Twlight Zone.
Honest light and traveled tunnels filled the room and soon I would be that little girl again.
Touch by an angel? Brought back into the spiritual light?
A forever, NO!
I began to write.  Write as though my life depended upon every letter, every connotation and every meaning.

A family is only as dysfunctional as I can remember it to be.  I see it in the lines that cross between my sister and I.  The telling of horror tales.  The nights that went on and on without a hint of abuse.  The days that went on and on doused by my father’s angry past.

So often we try to make square pegs fit into round holes.

I am the Indigo Girl singing,

‘I’m trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you’ve ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it’s only life after all..’

And, my sister?  Well, the darkness has taken its toil to where it is amassed with trinkets and bobble and one month stands.

In truth, as I hope to always be, I would think she’d bang out a few verses of Meatloaf:

Stop right there!
I gotta know right now!
Before we go any further!
Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?
Do you need me?
Will you never leave me?
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?

Tonight, I lie down with dogs and I am blessed.  Abuse is such a unique and passionate item.  Many hold it like a diamond dangled above a rough.  Write I say.  Speak.  Sing. Listen.  Push yourself to where only you can find you.  You are all you’ve got!

It's too late when we die  To admit we don't see eye to eye
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

 

 

 

 

Get Out the Map

So after many, many years of marriage.  After the consoling.  The begging and the pleading.  The Misfits on the Isle of Misfit Animals and Lesbian women…will leave most of their brood home and head down to where the GAIETY began…Ptown!  The last stop on the Cape unless you plan on swimming to Cuba.  Been there many times before…this time however, the big boss has given the thumbs up to a bit of rustic romance in a tent!  My lucky day!

The other night I looked at my spouse as I am sure she has with me; thinking of how far we have come and envisioning the times I sing off key and understanding nothing would have been surmountable without my backup singer.    These now and again glances of quizzical comfort born from years of finishing each other’s sentences make up life.

With every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face We'll amuse ourselves one day with these memories we'll trace
With every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face
We’ll amuse ourselves one day with these memories we’ll trace
the Ambiguity of Love
love me love my feet

What is love after a decade plus of snoring, rubbing shoulders with Ben Gay, comforting one an another when a relative has passed?

Tough to say.    Yet, I think I’m beginning to getting the picture.

Could it be that accepting your partner’s not vain attempts at cooking while you’ve just come home from a shit day and a shit job…could it be that those slabs of crispy well done ribs, the pig sticks left in the oven too long, are parts of love’s equation?

Perhaps, at night when sleeping spouse beauty is near her twilight zone and you decide it’s time to draw circles around her breasts, an act she abhors, is that the twinkle in the eye of romance.  The twinkle that allows her to let your sophomoric ways continue a minute past her aggravation point.

Honestly, to me, I feel our love has grown with the frost heaves in the road.  The strange outfits, Hawaiian shorts and flannel shirts.  The days when there is little to say and that feels wonderful.  The nights when I can’t fall asleep and spoon my way into her heaven.  We aren’t big on fighting.  I preach.  My partner becomes moot.  Generally, we avoid a family discussion with all eight animals and the two human fools.  It seems far more peaceable to understand that the quirks and quips and eccentricities we all bring to the table are the perfect equation to a perfectly happy quietly dysfunctional home-built on love and duct tape.

Favorite All Time hit the Road Trip Song:

Get Out the Map

he saddest sight my eyes can see is that big ball of orange sinking slyly down the trees
Sitting in a broken circle while you rest upon my knee this perfect moment will soon be leaving me
Suzanne calls from Boston the coffee’s hot the corn is high
And that same sun that warms your heart will suck the good earth dry
With everything it’s opposite enough to keep you crying or keep this old world spinning with a twinkle in its eye
Get out the map get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down
We’ll leave the figuring to those we pass on our way out of town
Don’t drink the water there seems to be something ailing everyone I’m gonna clear my head
I’m gonna drink that sun I‘m gonna love you good and strong
while our love is good and young Joni left for South Africa a few years ago and then
Beth took a job all the way over on the West Coast
And me I’m still trying to live half a life on the road
I’m heavier by the year and heavier by the load.
Why do we hurdle ourselves through every inch of time and space I must say around some corner
I can sense a resting place
Poseidon and the Bitter Bug
Poseidon and the Bitter Bug (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

With every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face
We’ll amuse ourselves one day with these memories we’ll trace
Get out the map get out the map and lay your finger anywhere down
We’ll leave the figuring to those we pass on our way out of town
Don’t drink the water there seems to be something ailing everyone
I’m gonna clear my head I’m gonna drink the sun
I’m gonna love you good and strong while our love is good and young