Stripping away the rose colored glasses of denial concerning my reality. Getting in touch with truth. Reaching out to others in empathy concerning their reality and their walk to truth.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Dawn's Dock

I search for calmness in my soul. The need I have for dawn’s gold glow. And why do I not stop and ask: Can someone show me a place of rest? Pastel hues I love to see; whispering clouds to carry me. Bowed palm trees that lazily hang and I would climb their trunks. Pearly sand beneath my feet, with swooping gulls that skim the sea. The foam is cool and I wade in and hear their cries above. No one near I walk the dock and in my strength I ponder stock of what I’ll be when I arrive, to take the morning’s usual dive. A lonely porpoise swims nearby and I can here his lonely sigh, in answer to my life’s deep need, the calm I would possess. His fin is slippery; I hold on and travel to the sun. Once there I loosen my last grip, his duty has been done. My farewell is no secret, the restful calm is come.

I am a writer

I am a writer; blogs are just a place to lay my words, or your preference: places to blog my words. As in blah, blah, blah, or blog, blog, blog, a matter of preference or is it?

Stumbled I did, and before I knew that ‘stumbled” had its own meaning, into Zimbio I fell. I saw it as finding a place to hide my reality in a slather of words that actually told who I was. I’m not used to hiding, keeping secrets and there are those who probably think I’m dangerous because of my innocent outlook. I stumbled, and continue to do so because my ignorance of the ugliness of blogging.

Talent, who has talent? I am a writer of every thing in my heart, in my gut, in my head, buzzing around my being, and quite a large quantity of electrical stimulation that propels me forward! This is my fourth step; I’ll give a brief on the first three steps.

Do you know what it is like to lose your mind? Forget “going crazy” coupled with institutional jargon… I’m talking about the use of prescription drugs that literally renders one incapable of thinking or feeling. Think zombie. In 2000 a brother gave me a small computer where he’d loaded card games; just card games. He told me to focus on playing cards to regain my mind. I hated playing cards all of my life, but suddenly it was so easy to sit down and toss them around. My favorite thing was to watch them all flip about whenever I’d win a game. Amazing huh? By the end of 2001 I was off of all “wrongfully diagnosed, clinical depression” prescriptions and on the way to hell, having left the sides of the black pit. I crawled out fearing I would slide back down for the longest time.

In hell I took up pencil doodling, taking notes from web sites that were interesting and thought I might actually do full sketches again. Lo and behold I wrote a story with pencil drawings for a four year niece. Four years of stories for nieces and nephews and step two was done; the year 2004.

Because I like to draw so quickly I decided to go back to painting (from years and years ago); bought some canvas, paints, and step three got moving and is still taking me places I’d thought I’d never see.

Step four is tough; technology being where it is and my lagging in knowledge… often threatens to run me off. But I am a writer and even if paper is my only tool then utilization of it will still be mine. I will lay my words down; I will to give expression to every thing that has, is, and possibly will, haunt me, love me, keep me, kill me, because I am a writer.

Note: I often add photos or paintings with my writings; they are a key to what I feel or experience.
I have added the photo titled, “Glen of the Downs” in Wicklow, Scotland. There are ruins of a very old site; so am I. I step into the photo from the open side and can view the downs through arches. I think of the portals described on the internet and how each beckons me to follow. My insatiable curiosity is my own snare. . . I must follow. I must write.

The Net

I came here to play but the nets in the way
So I’ll have to go back to my life
A day of tomorrows is always the promise
Which only abounds in more strife?

The coaster looks ready and I’m feeling heady
Just crank up the thing and let’s ride
Still the net it surrounds and my shoulders are lowered
My heart is all broken inside

When did I stop playing?
When did tears become my all?
What was I thinking?
Living is painful behind this wall

I still want to play I must fine a new way
To have life and be wonderfully bliss
A day of tomorrows is always the promise
Please seal with a hug and a kiss

My long gown is flimsy and I feel such whimsy
The scissors I have are quite sharp
I snip and I rip and I take down the net
As I joyfully speak to my heart

Friday, June 13, 2008


In summer I like to work in the yard;
Humidity makes my gardening so hard.
The weeds have to go and under duress;
I fight for the flowers between lots of rests.

Then early one morning I felt oh-so lively;
The weeding went well until I saw poison ivy.
My two-hour spree of cool morning work,
Had ruined my life, I felt like a jerk.

The weeds were all waving as I left the bed,
With two guys who carted me off, and I said:
“I’m coming back soon… don’t think that I’m done,
And I will be toting my ortho weed gun!”