Because I don't shy away from controversy...

Here's a compelling video on the Nestle Boycott.

She's a giver

My wunnerful prethcooler is thuch a giving perthon. She shares eferyfing with her momma. Including her head coldz.

A Conversation

Stomach (to me): "Eat. Now."
Me (to stomach): "What? We just ate two hours ago!"
Stomach: "Eeeeeeeeeat."
Me: "Okay, okay. What do you want?"
Stomach: "Beef jerky."
Me: "EW! Too salty!"
Stomach: "Jerrrrrrrrky. NOW!"
Me: "Okay, okay! Here's the jerky!"
Stomach: "Mmmmmmmm"
Me: [gagging] "You happy now?"
Stomach: [rumbling] "I think so."
Me: [belch] "Ugh! Too spicy!"
Stomach: "Then what did you have to go and eat jerky for?! Sheesh!"
Me: "You wanted it!"
Stomach: "Yeah, whatever. Oooo, look over there!"
Me: "What?"
Stomach: "Apple strudel!"

Mary Mary Miss Contrary

Every word I choose
is the
wrong one.

I cannot speak
except to
deceive
argue
dispute.

Am I nothing but
a cliché?
An adversary?

Is my very soul
distilled
down to a single
abhorred
memory?

My words are left behind
meaningless
dismissed
reduced

like a forgotten sauce
left in the pot
too long, crisp
and unwanted.

Baby steps

One day at a time. That's all I can handle. Focus on the now. Eyes down, one foot in front of the other. Don't think. Don't contemplate. Just go from moment to moment to moment and if the minds jumps ahead, make it land on the idea of what should happen (not what shouldn't) and use that to manifest/build/create the positive future that lies ahead.

I am never satisified. Even when things go well. I must change that and enjoy life as it is and as it is coming.

Introduction

I am in pieces.

He came to me
in a dream.

Taller than I.
Familiar.

He embraced me,
and spoke,

"Don't worry.
Everything will be
as it
Should.
I will take
care, of us
Both."

My fractured fibers
(nerves)
knit together.

In the spaces between words
there is a gulf
wide and deep,
broad waters
uncharted
where emotions
sink
and shiver.

What is the difference?
I mean
what does it matter?
What I say and what
I do
are the same thing.
Aren’t they?

There is a place
where I can float

(peacefully)

buoyed by
uncertainty
anchored by
questioning
waiting for
the one
answer.

A little bit of cleaning... goes a long way

I just finished cleaning my bedroom, for the first time, oh, since we moved here. I've vacuumed in there before, changed the beds frequently of course, but I don't think I've ever dusted it or removed much of the ever-accumulating junk.

It was time to reclaim the room as a calm, peacful, inviting sanctuary, rather than just a place to sleep. I decided to remove all the kid-stuff and did a methodical clear-sort-purge routine on each piece of furniture. There was junk piled on every nightstand, dresser and bookcase in there. Whatever doesn't belong in that room left, and what stayed behind was dusted and put into place.

I thought about putting a mood-enhancing tabletop water fountain in there, even got it out of the box, then discovered when reading the directions that it must be cleaned weekly or the pump will get clogged up. Forget that. What goes in must be low maintenance. I want to simplify!

Now that I am tired and need a nap, I shall retire to my room, a haven of rest and relaxation. Nite-nite!

Off track

At the trailhead
I pause
to examine two arrows
feebly nailed to an ancient post.

One points in the general direction of a roughish
path barely discernable
amongst the bramble

the other resolutely
precisely
angling
to the direction of a worn,
well-marked trail.

Instincts are silent.

I take the clear way, not wishing
for stickers in my
socks.

The walk is long
steep
wearing
despairing

there is no end

there is only dust
miles thick
from the shuffling
of feet before mine.

Rain falls in big weeping
drops

each falling into the thirsty dust
no trace of moisture left
they evaporate just as
they dent the surface.

I took the wrong path.
Unknowingly.
It is too far
to turn back
now.

Mute

When I open my mouth,
what do you hear?

Are my words as mangled and
torn

as the heart
from which they come?

Do they sound as distant and
shallow

as the soul
or the mind
or the senses

that project them?

Tell me,
is my sentiment as thin
as my translucent skin

as wavering
as my softened spine

can you even tell
that I am crying
out
below the surface
steeping my lungs
slipping into the murky
shadows
deep
beyond
reach?