The Marmot Man

I’m a marmot man
From a marmot land
And I’m headed down this path to find some food

I got a little gray coat
And a couple of smokes
To light up when I wanna’ see Japan

There’s a berry here
Other berries near
But I’ll pick the one that’s closest to my mood

Grab your own gray coat
Catch a riverboat
We’ll be sailing up the river as we planned

Blank

Sometimes I cannot think.
Someone wants an answer and I don’t have one.
I might be lost in a small world, caught up in an old pain.
There might be a fog about.
I might be blank.

There are times that the damage I have suffered causes others to suffer too. They’re concerned and they write or call.
I cannot seem to stop hurting them with my damage.
My heart fills with compassion for them and I begin to let them go.
My mind goes blank and tries to forget the once joy.

I can never seem to play the games right.
No one gave me the tools to rein in my emotions, damn them all.
They jump me with both feet and their greed.
Poor misguided slobs in the world who hate children.
Hate them enough to make them learn blank.

Lucky Lochy

The Lochness monster came this way
One bright and sunny morn in May
I stopped to stare, up stood me hair
The Lochy swam in daylight fair

The Lochness monster talked to me
He told me of the sights at sea
Upon his back I traveled with
The Lochy was a Lucky myth

A nice photo

I took this while I was visiting the east coast of the Carolinas. It was a cold day, but the boats looked interesting, still laid out for a trip later in the day? I didn’t know, didn’t care, and just took the shot; it’s pretty. The couple on the beach was exchanging words loudly. The gentlemen taking a walk was walking in a fast pace. There was nothing really outstanding about the end resulting photo, but when I saw it today, some two years later, it reminded me of the painful way I live today.

I’ve been foolishly trying to live my life online. Met people, lost people, wrote for some people, and tried hard not to get involved with anyone. How unfortunate to discover that no matter where I go I take me too. It’s not like I haven’t been told that I have problems; I’ve been told. I’m aware of the some of my issues. Lately I have to deal with them daily. I don’t think there’s a “go back” button and because I’m feeling responsible for my feelings, there is no going back. There’s death and then there’s healing; always more healing.

So let there be healing. I’ll ask for something when I want it or need it. For example: assistance in healing. I refuse to feel guilty when asking someone to help me. If they cannot help, then I move on and ask another person. Somewhere along the way there will be someone to assist. As healing begins to sink into my head I realize that I am responsible for my actions, especially abusive actions. I'm now doing what's been done to me and I hate my life. I hate the photo.

Ironically I am just as responsible for my inactions. Those things I tell myself I will do but don’t get done; like letting 156 photos hang in a computer file for two years? I’m tired of looking at nice photos and wondering why I can’t get closer? What inaction must I turn into action to be in the photo of my dreams?

Gulls, piers, and pretty things

In North Carolina from whence I hail, is a shoreline so remarkably beautiful, that a glimpse brings me tears. A place I first “found” at thirteen and have seen so many times more than my age. (100 trips and counting) (LOL)

The seagulls sail along and will gladly snatch a cheese stick from your hand as they pass. At times two of them will chase each other for rights to the snack. Always calling, always hungry, they circle my head wanting more.

Sand in pinks and beige-golden tones adorn my feet as the sun rises, with a change to mauve and blue as the sun leaves for the day. My feet look pretty, on the sand, kicking up little puffs as I walk toward no where.

Piers and partial piers left standing in ragged condition after great ravaging storms; I photograph them all. In 100 trips I have easily seen and walked them all. To find one gone is to say goodbye to a friend.

Sand fences built to keep the Outer Banks home and support the wonderful sea oats planted to hold back time and sea. Oh to have the power of the sand fences.

It’s been almost three years since I was there in that most treasured home I love so. No one wants to go because they are not “beach kind of people”, preferring the mountains. But I am making plans to go there. I am going there and there are people waiting to help me see my beloved sea; my beloved Outer Banks.

One morning will find me sitting on the sand, facing the ocean’s horizon, waiting on the sun to rise. Waiting for that red ball, as it usually is, come up to smile at me in greens and golds. In tears I shall welcome the gentle breeze, listen carefully for the far off sounding rumble of water, and toss the first cheese snack to the lonely gull who sits beside me; there’s always one.

Merry Cookies!

‘Eelloo to everyone, Alistair Cookie here!

Lot of joys, lots of toys and all that hi-hip-hooray ballyhoo this time of year. Ohh, but if your children only knew the real truth about the man in the red suit… I tell you: he’s a cookie monster! Yes, come closer to your screen and listen as I reveal the sordid narration. You know how much I enjoy a great narration. Sordid, well, I think that’s the word Mum uses to describe the dreadful diapers. So we’ll sort through the sordid tale together.

Mum and I had gone to the local strip mall; one of those places your car careens off the road onto, and you park and shop. ‘Grammie’ had mailed the most glorious navy blue and white, attired, baby stroller. I was feeling dapper and all full of my loving little narration type self. Mum was wheeling me everywhere around the mall and I was quite the tease with those “pink stroller babes’! (“Hello, I’ll let you have a ride in my navy and white for a cookie? What? How rude!”) Some stroller babes are ridiculous. They throw you a toy or cookie and then scream for their Mum to retrieve it.

But wait! There he sat in the big chair, with that red hat and a large box of candy canes. Yes, he lured us, one by one, into that chair with promises of candy; yummy red and white candy, which all of the Mums precisely took away as soon as it left his hand. (“Oh what fun, oh, what now? Ooh, sticky baby time, that’s what. No one’s Mum wanted a sticky baby.”) The line was very long and I was there, trapped like a rat, through an apple, bottle of juice, those fun teething crackers, and 16 repeats of “Santa Claus is coming to town” blaring over the mall speakers. Why hadn’t somebody realized he was already there? Stop the music!

While I waited there was one sordid tale after another of children giving this man their cookies; well, sort-a sordid, I suppose. But he was getting a lot of cookies and we found out he does this world-over, whatever that means! So there, the truth is in your hands now. Don’t give this man your cookies. Keep them or send them to me. You'll find my address on the profile page.

Merry Cookies!

Great Feelings

Great feelings begin with acceptance of others
Give to ones that need sun to shine for them
Find a moon to cast a shadow across the land
Prepare a pool to catch tears for the one who is lonely
Follow the Jasmine scent of the night breeze
Find the lover who waits
Receive warmth by the crackling, hissing fire
Longing with heart to share and weep wisely
Walk through cool morning dew where the feet are chilled
Sweet juices flowing over the face in sticky joy
Watch the sky fill with sunlight
A gentle ocean comes to greet the sky
Above the clouds are chasing clouds
A bird flies over where sweet song
Awakens the morning man
To great feelings
To great feelings!
Great feelings
Begin with
Acceptance of others

Closure - an inside job

At the age of six years old I watched as an ambulance left the driveway below my window, taking my Mom to the hospital. I wasn’t too worried because the last time she went there she came home with a little brother for me. He was barely two years old, but what do six year olds know; Mom could have been having another baby, but she wasn’t.

She spent thirteen weeks, equal to three months and one week, on the psychiatric ward having shock treatments and God knows what else. I stared in unbelief the day we brought her home as she kept repeating to my Dad, “Take me back to the hospital; I’m not ready to come home.” He drove on, smiled, and sometimes laughed, and I wondered how he could be that way. I remember begging him to please take her back… and began to cry when he laughed at me too.

I knew things would never be the same because she was never the same. The bouncing, bubbly Mom I once had was gone. Instead a “mean woman” came to live with us and I began to hide and isolate from everyone. Long hours out in the yard proved to be the best hiding place, as no one bothered to come find me. I wandered from house to house, meeting other children’s’ Moms, just so I could feel loved the way I used to. Pretty soon those Moms were talking to my Mom and begging her to just let me stay another hour at their houses. Seems everyone wanted a little girl except the people at my house. They were busy being angry and throwing things.

When my Mom died it’s as if all of these issues came back to haunt me. What had happened to her to so change her spirit? Why did she almost hound me to stay close by, yet pushed me away? The answers I finally figured out took 40 years to come forth and I can promise you that I’ve been able to forgive her every unkind word and act. What was left was closure for me from me: an inside job. It would take learning about my own mental health issues and how empathy from others would and could help me mend. Though I might not ever be 100 percent, I will try and not let anyone deter me from seeking my goal; welcoming the empathy that supports my inner healing… and eventual closure.

then this

“The idea is to admit and accept that you're experiencing mental distress and that something needs to change. It is better to try and focus on solutions rather than letting the problem(s) overwhelm us.”

Three weeks before Christmas

Three weeks before Christmas, I stood at the road,
Surveying the house lights and checking the load.

Most strands lit up brightly, one hung down too far.
I stepped in the road, was struck down by a car.

The driver was nice and he wore a red suit.
I glanced in his car and saw tons of loot.

He had everything, from mixers to trolleys,
And bags full of toys, including small dollies.

The stars that I saw, when he hit me, were fading.
I thought of the task of my house light upgrading.

He had me sit down while he went to work.
The strand hung too far, he fixed with a jerk.

From a bag he retrieved in the back of his car,
He presented the most brilliantly lit golden star.

On the top of the house he moved like an adder.
I looked all around, but where was his ladder?

He danced and he pranced as he sang out with laud.
Dumbfounded I sat there and could only applaud.

In the blink of an eye he stood on the ground.
The leaves were all dry, but he made not a sound.

It was then that I noticed the white beard and hair.
My eyes must have widened, he laughed at my stare.

This couldn't be 'him', he didn't exist,
But I just had to ask; I couldn't resist.

I turned to say something and found he was gone.
Had I merely passed out right here on the lawn?

Later that evening my family came out.
I flipped on the switch and heard a great shout!

The tiny lights twinkled with nothing to mar.
The biggest surprise was the golden lit star.

The years pass by quickly, and the star's always bright.
There's no cord connected, no batteries for light.

Yet every December the cheers always jar,
And I think of the “'dream” when hit by that car.

The words he exclaimed when he left with his load
"Merry Christmas to you, and stay out of the road"

Finally

I'm going home! Finally away from this cold spot. Finally away from the wrong type of vacation. Finally to begin thinking about where my life is headed. Finally I can get on with the things I want to do. Finally just me and the people that appreciate my life. Finally, love for me from me. Finally I'm going home!

Leaning

Like a football cheer from childhood: “lean left, lean right, stand up sit down, fight, fight, fight.” Just like the house in the photo: no matter where I stood to take the photo, it was always leaning; although the house was perfectly level. I fought, fought, fought to find a level area to take the shot, but no such luck. Once I got home I decided that I kind of liked the looks of the house leaning; so maybe my own leanings on the struggles I deal with are an illusion. Maybe they’re not crooked or leaning. Maybe they’re normal for what I go through. Maybe I have trained my perspective to see them as imperfect, or as less than perfect. Maybe I just haven’t found the level ground that says, “It’s okay to lean.” Does anyone understand what I’ve written? If so would you explain it to me?

~photo from Greencastle, Pa., by dcrelief

Heart of Time ~ a collaborative blog

Heart of Time: part one written by dcrelief

In this world where time is considered a commodity for chores, attending events, and working incessantly, I’m concerned that too few consider that the “inner being” needs our time first. The “heart of time” no longer runs our life for happiness, but makes as its goal ‘other world-centered agendas’. Yes, there are some very worthy causes to support, yet when did it become necessary to overlook our health to make sure the world gets its? Do we really want to run on, to and fro, not stopping to contemplate why we’re sad at the end of the day? Where is the block of time wherein the heart sings to us? After searching I came across a few who are taking care of themselves. In their healing and on-going recovery, from mental distress, their “heart of time” has let them know they possess gifts to pass on. In this collaborative blog, I share with you, my co-blog writer: “Klahanie, a man challenging his inner critic”; indeed his own heart of time. Enjoy.

Heart of time: part two written by Klahanie

Life is about priorities. We can get so wrapped up in material and day-to-day 'priorities', that we can forget the most important priority of all: Our emotional priority, our mental health wellbeing. So we put it off to one side. We choose to ignore the 'warning signs' that try to let us know, that something is wrong in our lives. No, instead we stress ourselves out; after all, we have to compete in the 'rat race'.
We can dismiss the warning signs that will unbalance our mental health stability. We can ignore our lingering concerns because our material, our day-to-day priorities take precedent. We do so at a cost that goes beyond any financial value. It is time for us to slow down, forget that driving force that tells you: 'I've gotta' keep up with the Jones's'. Your health, both physical and mental, is vastly more important than this bizarre competition that impels us to ignore the 'song in our hearts'.
Dcrelief knows the value of taking care of herself. She has witnessed others' who understand this same ideal. I do the best I can, the nagging ache of my mental health concerns will, never again, be 'filed under forgotten'. Now, I ask you to kindly think about yourself, take time out to cherish the wonders of the world you may have been too busy to notice. Now is your chance to be kind to yourself and pass that kindness on.

Note: Read more from Klahanie:
www.klahanie.blogspot.com

It's old; it's damaged, but still rocks

The story of my life lately is much like the title of my blog. I am old, I am damaged, but I truly believe I still rock! My vacation to the north country has proven to be most difficult. I am challenged daily on so many things it is like juggling balls. I am in contact with friends to help me keep positive and that helps greatly. (Thanks you guys!) And yes, this is the very red rocking chair that I sit in and watch snowflakes, children playing, glorious looking sunsets and clouds… oh and lots of rain recently. I will continue to challenge my own discomfort.
I hope you are watching things that give you enjoyment; maybe you’re rekindling an old hobby. Either way, take good care of you. Most warmly, dcrelief

Sunbathing Birds

In a small adventure in Greencastle, Pennsylvania, I came upon this very tall tree. I’m not a photographer, mind you; I only tote a digital around and snap away. My camera was on point and ready to snap when a couple of birds flew to the limbs and perched. Hmm, birds in three different sizes kept coming to this tree, until pretty soon the tree looked to be sprouting new leaves. But I promise you there were no leaves on it at all.

The sun so bright lit up the birds’ bellies and they are bright and light too. Their sweet songs and chirps created a symphony of sound I wished I could translate. What were they saying? They remained in the tree’s highest limbs closest to the warmth of the sun. So it was I came to photograph the sunbathing birds.

Candles in the wind go out...

Candles in the wind go out…

Not to compete with Sir Elton John’s song, “Candle in the wind;” his song, speaking of a life lost to confusion. He admired the life that eventually blew itself out. Then he rewrote the song to show respect for the loss of another one. When is the wind strong enough to blow out the candle?

Recently I’ve been reading about other lives and their desires to continue living. They have a ‘driving force’ that propels them through the world they travel. They speak of recovery from various dilemmas and events that took some or all of their life away. Yet this ‘driving force,’ this motivational person, place or thing, took them to a level of wanting to continue to exist. The person, place or thing, ‘saved’ their life; like a surrounding wall protecting the flame of their candle in the wind.

So I wondered in my own way of wondering, which is flawed at best, but still it’s my own: what is my ‘driving force’ to continue existence? What keeps my candle glowing? What gives me shelter from the wind? …

My little computer cursor has been blinking for five minutes now, until I finally typed this sentence. I’m searching in my mind for an answer and I have none. Have I no ‘driving force’?

The wind has always found me. The wind has always blown out my candle. Then one day I just decided I’d only light my candle when indoors. Then when it got blown out it was because it was at the bottom of the wick. With that spent, I’d simply get another candle to light. So maybe my ‘driving force’ is simply to have a lighted candle? Maybe the realization that I can blow it out just as well as the wind gives me control? I don’t have any real answers today, but I bought a new box of candles.

Portals of Earth

When I found this rather curious ruin I wondered where the place was. It’s called “Glen of the Downs”, Wicklow. I think it’s a rather enchanting ruin looking out to the trees and meadow below it. The arched windows remind me of portals; stepping over and through to the outside and the adventure waiting there. A place of real existence in the land of Ireland calls me and I long to answer the voice.

Go through these portals of earth and where will you arrive? It almost appears as a place that time has passed over. Winding dirt roads, tall hedgerows, and the sweet stillness of silence greet each of us who transport ourselves to a time of peace. Shall we ever return? Why, lest we break the secrecy of this wonderland and lose the so long sought green freshness of pure life. I would remain for as long as possible, if not forever.

Words

Words on a page are the same as a pencil sketch; limited in their scope of being understood, or worse, misinterpreted. One must use adjectives, more words, to view shadows and highlights, just as more pencil or charcoal enhances, or defines the sketch.

In my case I have always used photos to do what I've not had the capability of doing with words. I am not a word-usage descriptive, accomplished writer. I am a wordy artist. And as I sat writing away on a recent children's story I realized how inadequate I truly am at mastering adult composition; mastering the adult mindset. The children's stories always come easy because I still remember what it's like to be a child. My nieces and nephews tell me they enjoy my stories because: "Aunt D, it's like you're a child writing about a child." Yet my child-like ways have hurt me within this internet sphere of "meeting other adults and thinking they want to play."

If I am confused it is only because I live in a world few live in. I have a disability that extends to mental, emotional and physical arenas. I have done nothing to become this way. I took some prescribed medications given for 4 years and those were the disabling bullets that took the life I knew but cannot get back. Things will never be the same... and some days it’s not all bad. During those years of medicated torment I saw things you could not in your wildest imagination see or conceive. I saw, felt, touched, heard, and acknowledged a world of existence you have no idea is even there and eventually I arrived at a place so full of light and peace; I wanted to stay but purpose had me return to this place, where now, only my subconscious remembers what it is I returned to do.

In regal beauty... the red Gerber...bathes

An awe-inspiring flower did touch my heart one day
And though its beauty yielded radiance, I had no words to say.
I watched the petals form and fan in no short span of time.
While gradually I felt its power that swayed this regal rhyme.

A sprinkling of the rain fell softly and hung.
Round beads as golden glass on the petals they clung.
My eyes filled with wonder and small human tears.
This beauty before me was tender and dear.

A bath from on high caused the glistening and shine.
It prompted my memory to also be thine.
Put all of my trust in the lord of the lathe.
And seek my own duty… as the red Gerber… bathes.

Night Fishing

I knocked on the door of a kindly old fellow
And asked him the way to Deerfield Park
He smiled rather slowly and answered,
“Lady you’ll get lost out in the dark.”

Funny but the sun was sinking fast now
As I looked around I could barely see
He nodded the white-haired head slowly,
“Lady, do you see that tree?”

A low hanging limb reached the ground
Where rows of colored roots crossed the land
He turned and walked off without a sound
“Lady, take you time, the scene is grand.”

So I walked to the tree in a gentle wind
Night birds sang out in searching lark
A chillness in my shoulders and thought I heard
“Lady you’ll get lost out in the dark.”

I knocked on the door of a kindly old fellow
Got lost while camping at Deerfield Park
With a hot cup of coffee the evening mellowed
“Lady can you stay for just one night?”

I watched as the full moon climbed across the sky
Illuminating every tree in sight
Night birds picked a path on which to fly
“Lady grab the net, I got a bite.”