Salvador Dali sketched my eye last Sunday. He told me to keep my head moving so that he could paint a seeing eye-- a picture that would stare back at its observer.
"An eye in motion is a seeing eye." "An eye that sees nothing is almost blind."
He painted blindfolded so that the painting would be an original vision.
Next Sunday, he wants to sketch my mind down by the river.
Watching the World Like a Silent Movie
Crouch twisted stiff in a blank stare squinting through shades of grey nothingness.
No projection of the origin of cherry trees. No injection of madness to puncture wounds. No fleshtones to paint what goes BUMP in the night.
Close your eyes (the hero is murdered) See black (your eyes roll back     white           like the hand of a dead man)
See nothing nothing Everything turns RED
Cars, fast food, Kodak memories-- sophisticated products for sophisticated people.
We should sophisticate the trees-- All plant life must furnish proof of property rights before it can legally take root.
Nothing is alive without official documentation. Each person has a right to their own bar code number. Products that don't scan will be discarded.
This is a system for your protection a safety net to catch you, to hold you, to keep you from falling through the gaps, the cracks, the loop holes, the escape hatch to freedom.
K. Lee. Born 1975. Been plagued by extreme clinical depression since age 11. Sometimes suffers "visions" .Gave up on therapists, but still takes medication (currently Prozac, occasionally Buspar). Panic attacks and paranoia. Thinks Pizza and Donuts are food groups. Knows that dogs (especially little ones) are the most superior of all beings. Has a fantastic mom and step-dad and a loving boyfriend who keep her going. Also has 2 amazing critters who keep her laughing and caring.
i cut the rock below the earth and fill my arm with dusted paints i fall into a fishie-stream and dream a dream of unsurpassing glamour and enchantment.
i fish my Wrists for life's emphatic bleat and find beneath my Blood a whole and newer thing; which, with its unbinding, seeks the sun and lets its lips become the Eye of Hour.
i fell into a whistlie dark and daring cave and beyond the dripping whisper of its fangy lid i seeped inside a crescent fishie-stream where soulless crisp and white and dreary eyeballs peek a precious light inside myself
i have an Eye, an Hour, two Wrists and just one drop of Blood.
i could do no damage.
beyond the swimming, beneath the fatal floating of a cold and wretched corpse:
i see the waterlog way she lay, as if blanketed; blank, afraid, shocking. kill the wetness, kill the chill, kill the light.
i could kiss you, murderer.
i remember your basement. plans of tut's untombing combed our tangled lochs. old and stickie rosemeat lay about. dread and death's unhiding shout.
dreams of years and years, dreams that go to golden fields where sun is like a lemon dew upon the neck, dreams below a well of vibrant sung and racing angels, dreams below our feet could never warm our hearts.
dreams of years and years, and years we never kept, dreams of glowing with la lune, and the splendour that she wept.
she let the fishies brush her up another choice was missing.
that log was wept. thus began Our Last And Dying Grasp, which with a million horse's hearts, we cast ourselves (young elves) upon the stinking creek, and each moon leak its great and brilliant glance into trying, drowning eyes.
the moon could drown us too, we knew, and in our cold we sunk to lowest depth.
below a certain point we touched our feet upon a rock, and cut our arms around its heated current.
that blood could--it would--swirl a certain way. that blood would--it could--whirl until day.
a way in which the rhythms of some deep and dying god were summoned, and the wrath of his last words swept us to a light and peaceful eddy, where we lay panting till some desert consumed us with a dry and dusty fire.
in this way we learned to breath a different air, which let our minds know truer things; in this way we learned to walk this path: of the lotus in the rose.
if the world were deathly still, and your heart a spinning place, what way would your blood whirl?-- by what would we set pace?
would roses buy a lover? would time buy a clock? would moonthings cease to hover around their earthen dock?
if love were temporal, and eternity a beast, I'd live my love a tool-- useful at the least.
i saw a fire queen drop from that window.
i felt that flame should be rising, rising, and at winter's descent, i hid so low that anything was a throne for her snatch.
michael p. workman: i am nineteen years old. i don't know what to say about any mental illness. i've been 'diagnosed' with many Disorders, but not all of them i am so sure were actually present. They include bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder, general anxiety disorder, borderline personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, ADHD, the list goes on. i've been on dozens of different medications, ingested massive amounts of illegal drugs, controlled substances, and alcohol, tried to kill myself six times(only two of which were serious attempts), been hospitalized, all that rot. i only include the long list to show that neither i, nor educated, trained professionals seem to agree on what, exactly, is The Problem, nor how to effectively treat it. all i can say for sure is that i seem to have trouble stimulating myself in safe and acceptable ways, and that i am cursed with something that others will always cruelly refer to as 'Being Gifted.' i won't be surprised if in my early twenties i begin seeing the symptoms of what i really have--probably schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. people will say "we should have seen it coming." oh well. at least i'm not one of The Stupids. anyway.
I cannot remember something; hurt so hard and fight it to begin and believe I try to recover to recollect memories within
A vague distant night morning the end of delight feeling mellow I hear them singing: for he's a jolly good fellow' as I encounter feel-low
Alone with myself at one with inner love she, with a vacant stare of hope swirls emotion behind her dream eyes "useless, useless - I cannot cope!" her words but whispers between cries.
Herbal insecticide breathes old man losing innocence he never had nothing to start with sure as something to end with
He hung himself from the old apricot tree ever since that fateful day apricots have never fallen only his body rots on the ground below.
Invading Points of Structured Light
I can feel sound decomposing and filling with a rotten substance today I bled on rose thorn tomorrow I never remember
I've also heard the sound of death for I need guidance shattered sense of misgiving the isolated hymn for peace the excited expectation I have the right to disintegrate where the bird fell
Colin Van Der Woude: That was a collection written over eight years. Many a lonesome night pen in hand. I hope my poems and writing can explain or give the reader a sense of what I've been through and encountered in my 24 years. The rest are purposefully designed to make sure I never forget or regret my creative past... experimental. And if my writing brings happiness or a sense of deja-vu to others out there with a mental illness, it's job has been done. Listening to wide range of different music is my muse. Colin Van Der Woude... age 24
watching for whistle of wing through bloody sunset mirrored in home lagoon
cold of the double chills blued fingers
autumn breath lives briefly in frozen air
The Sun Sleeper
He sleeps on
There on his bench in the thin city sun as others hurry past him doing the things that they must do.
Swells of traffic noise break over him like ocean waves that try to wake a rock
Few see those who do care little
He sponges in the warmth its free night will bring somnambulant walk with a paper bagged bottle of blanket tucked firmly under his arm.
His only armour against the cold
But for now he sleeps to the beat of the sun.
Dream of the Middle Aged Man
There is a rope coiled neatly hanging on the wall of the shed in the back of his head
There is a branch reaching out from the tree in the park in a corner of his thoughts
There is a night waiting on the path of his future in the possibilities of his mind.
Peter Tremain. I am a 48 year old Australian Baby Boomer. I started writing seriously two years ago when my 28 year marriage fell apart. At present, I have no more mental problems than the average Western male, traumatised by life in 2001. However, I was diagnosed with mild reactive depression just after my marriage failed. To me, it was bad and I am OK now. But it made me think, that if this is mild depression, what are those other poor bastards with Bipolar going through?
I work for a university providing Learning Skills services to Australian Aboriginal and students, mainly in the field of Natural and Cultural resource management. I see first hand the effects dispossession has on Indigenous peoples. The incidence of mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse, along with all the other associated social problems, in Australian Aboriginal people is the highest in the Western World. This should be a source of deep shame for my country.
Drift back into nostalgic photos: a coral-fringed beach where time seems to stop, framed against the sunset sky; the sensual native who cleanses inhibition in heathen springs of undressed sunlight.
Many journeys begin in his eyes. I find myself traveling into them again. A drunken sailor lost on the sordid side of town, wondering if past could swirl into future.
Let me wash upon his tawny shores in waves of whirlpool tongues and untethered tides, intertwining and writhing in the currents of the rocky straits below his navel. Undertows flow in unison to beating tribal drums, drifting on rushes of wind in a warm tropical shower. Eyes on fire with the exhilaration of dolphins arching high in the air.
Let me quench this thirst with untamed water, touch his cheek again like gentle rain. Let us be lovers who kiss in the setting sun as it blankets the ocean, says goodnight, then slips away.
Come. Lie down beside me, and whisper my name.
Portfolio in the Rain
I remember the final days of the monsoon best. The exotic spirits and pills rained down his throat, sloshed his mind in sludgy splatters of murk.
The camera remembered him best posed on the toilet, head tilted over his shoulder, mouth drooled open, shorts around his ankles; a knockout on the runway floor.
He wouldn't remember that photo shoot taken during another blackout. A shaken and rattled slur, he couldn't even open his eyes. I tried to sober him up with caffeinated cups of goodbye, thick skinned and bitter from brewing too long.
I remember the final days of the monsoon best. His eyes were still closed as he stormed down the flights of my twelve step stares. That's when he stumbled into the door on his way out, the locks changed like last years overrated styles.
Hemispheres Part Two
Hemispheres were him, hothouse landscapes where night hid from day and tiny creatures of the psyche ran through hot-blood terrain.
I walked along edges of southern tectonic plates, fed on jungle fruit, touched each leaf with soft desire. My own roots grew in sultry, steamy twilight.
I dared to terra form chaotic coasts, strained to tame a reckless planet. I planted my seed and like God, tried to create Man in My image.
Flora sprouted despite ensuing chills. A father's cruel, frigid care fluttered over a child's horizons; coursed across shifting surfaces where love branched out.
He took shelter in my embrace, then claimed my offshoots overshadowed him. He did not realize his duality cracked the final fissures, erupted slow volcanic waves. I pulled up roots, brushed off dirt, walked away from the hemispheres that were him.
Rick Parsons: I have dabbled in the many fine arts of post traumatic stress, miscellaneous phobias, anxiety attacks, but my forte and true calling has been depression. I work as a veterinary technician, live with eight cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. I deal daily with the effects of ankylosing spondylitis. Writing poetry, in my opinion, seems to be a bit of insanity in itself. I hear voices inside my head and write down what they are telling me. Some voices are a child, some a beating heart, while the origin of other voices seems to be bits and pieces of subconscious thoughts jumping out at me from the dark, lonely corners of the mind..
Twenty years, twenty long years I've shared with you and now I am astonished. Your suggestion? A gun for protection. Good one!
Place it in the nightstand close at hand, next to the rope strangling my vibrator.
Does it hurt?
Sometimes when I think, razor blades slice the time from my watch. Warm weather friends gather around my stove. to smell the fumes of apple strudel. They wait for my crust to crumble,             to fall, as they pretend to wipe my product from their hands.
Think of me as Mr. Ed. I broke a leg. Stuff me like Trigger, quick and easy. A hair behind the ear and sound is clearly defined. I need my eyes to know the final scene. This story-book page stuck between the last two sheets of verse.
I'm sleepy from the singsong rhyme on this bro ken record.
Skipping past the hopscotch. I'll take a double, please. Make it two, in a shattered glass, slightly shaken- stirred like curiosity.
My father and his father too wore a bible-bandage, a tourniquet that never worked for me. This mind,             my head lags in a place far behind a bed used once.
It's all the whore-moans, I'm sure.
I'm different from the average bear. Much like a beaver ensnared, one foot beyond madness I gnaw this chain, impaired, this wilderness will never accept me as I am, so will I ever be.
Doctor do little,       but please
do it right.
Off With Her Head!
The Man's foot sends me come- hither, uncomely, to bleach my hair and put on makeup for a new lover and a new bed, outside he waits for me.
I'm Alice and Alice doesn't sing.
She'd rather chase rabbits and Time. A tea party if you will she won't, don't ask.
A Cheshire cat- her front, her back; a mirror of very unbirthdays.
She breathes in her sleep. I sleep when I breathe, it's not the same thing.
"Then you should say what you mean." Says a cardboard queen who reads her own poetry                 then swoons.
I can walk away and away and surely       I'll be somewhere. I can fall and fall for two days wrong,
strong as eggshell bumped and shattered, pre-splattered, well humped and believe her-me, horses do not have hands.
Then again, sure, why not? Missing pieces, reserved spots, even donuts have holes and they're sweet.
With Time I'll be two miles high and the lowing of cows will take the place of Mock turtle sobs and all       will be long ago and this day all but forgotten. Come, my head's free at last!
The Fury of Anne (In memory of Anne Sexton)
Someone's writing poetry. Passionate, backward swirls of blood across each windowpane.
Inside the pea-green house, I saw a shadow pass, heard a laugh and knew it was God.
I tried catching snow to show you. Left to my touch these two oven mitts destroy the flake's beauty. Even my dumb tongue won't describe the taste. I know the Nana-hex as if it were mine, and I know God.
Little lights encircle my air, fire-flies strobe their butts while buttercup whispers stutter awkward news. I'm deaf, dumb, blind.
At thirty eight, I'm told of eight distant cousins dead from the too-late disease that took you, that wants me. I'm nine, ten, eleven, and twelve forever.
A good week is filled with poetry. God is on my plate, my dish, my spoon. God is on my pillow, my sheet. God is on the stairs, each chair.
In my dresser drawer, Anne's empty notebook sleeps. God is not there.
Karen Herring: I refuse to write this in third person due to the inability to keep the first person intact. I haven't written poetry in a couple of years but my mind and speech have never ceased. Diagnosed and treated I have become braver with my ability to "submit" my poetry and hopefully will begin writing again. I have over 200 poems and a book ready to be published. (I chickened out two years ago with a publisher.) After reading the poetry published here in "Poetrysz" I feel like there is a place for what I have to say.
Tucked in, discussing Disney and Mufasa's demise, bright eyes turn for an instant serious and dark. I wouldn't let you get killed, he said. I'd make a fist and punch the whole world back.
Later my champion lies in a blanket of innocence, the day's events playing quiet games at the corners of his mouth. I stroke each fragile finger knowing how he felt - willing to fight for love but with more fear.
Each day I stand fist drawn back, ready to swing and miss. I am small in the face of enormity - a toy pistol cocked and aimed at a world that would take that smile.
He is a man who walks the world with cautious poise and ever present watching. Who, when he is alone finds himself able to dance, arms akimbo, doing a jig just for the hell of it.
Joe Hackworth: I was diagnosed in 1989 with Depression, Obsessive/Compulsive and Panic/Anxiety disorders. I have yet to find the right doctor or medication, but the search goes on. Obladi, Oblada.
I can hear the music cats play melodies and harmony sacred notes in disarray a chorus plucked from a broken piano choir a choir of haunted souls
The enchantress of unholy salvation purifier of thought pontifical to a God of love
Mirrored minds the son of thee disappearing twisting images
My mind outcasts friends and mends broken ends
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 24 year old writer from Tassie Australia...was diagnosed with a mental illness at the tender age of 14...I write about thoughts and experiences, mainly at night when I'm too tired to reach for a pen. I have written poetry since the age of 15, a year after being diagnosed with Schizophrenia... used to also be an artist but my creativity in that area was "haloperidolised" and I gave up painting a year ago. Writing is now my main creative outlet.
same lives from different views a thousand a day cross this path (exaggeration, perhaps-fluke) dump the marbles over the Verrazano no need to keep the little time spent sitting still, sitting-trapped against her large buxom hips every ghost's trip
when finally it's won they pull at my arms and clinch my hand as an excited child does at first entering an amusement park
abandoned again along the skyline drive I was once so curious I was once, at one time, so eager Now my splitting head… Moves me back
Measured. Sunken. Downhill. Some one Capture this
William Cannon: I am 26 years old and have been published in a couple of minor e-zines. I've been writing for 12 years and am aware of my voice and my target audience. I am the pronunciation of a new generation. My will is to free association with all that's around me. I want unadorned realization. I want to be scared and yet readily accept my environment. I want to change the mainstream from being pleasant greeting cards to altruistic consideration, not in verse but action.
The writers of the gospels claimed to be under divination when writing; I too know not where my structure forms but am deeply compelled to develop the passages I find before me. I take my craft very seriously, I am an artist granted the privilege of communication. My medium is the English language and all its various slang; the life of mine is given purpose.
Keep on digging up brand new ideas    facing the day of hell on earth which is New Year's Eve Locked up with no chance of parole or receiving visitors    then comes the day when all emotions disappear for good. I never realised i was in hell until it was too late    but we all live in one kind of hell You can't go outside to play when it's pouring with rain    because there are more puddles than jackets.
I watched the explorer once as he was exploring    i could run fast but he could always run much faster And i screamed aloud but he could always scream louder    now i am walking down this lonely road alone.
Desperation has once again entered into my life    if i listen hard enough i can hear God laughing at me Sometimes it's as if even the poetry seems incomplete    maybe i finally have become my own worst enemy.
Why work when you can play? if you think you know the real me sorry you don't, When it isn't good but as good as it's ever going to get with 456 poems written ten times over. I'm never what you expect to see what monsters in my head giving false answers weekly, Acts of pure weakness hang around like smells from a lavatory eyes see but not always the truth.
it is possible to live without knowing it kiss the wind and those liars play their cruel games, One day every answer will show itself loud and clear for now i believe this game is real. Every one of us born with a killing instinct as mighty as the devil can make a sound, The truth hurts me like a knife deep in my soul life is a cruel game and i must find the missing link.
Rae Burton: I am 30 years old and i suffered a nervous breakdown a few years ago which lead to a few problems but it also brought a new strength to my writing as i find it easier writing down my thoughts and feelings than actually speaking. Although i am no longer considered at risk to myself and no longer have to hear the b.s my shrink threw at me the thought of suicide goes through my mind everyday but i have learned to fight it.
The enthusiasm of a sentimental kind Full-dressed in broad daylight A splendid mendacity distinguished in fashion Is a toil of a faithful companion The undertones of a half world In the midst of surroundings Where sweet idle lies flows the spring of sorrow A mere form of words within the breast of sympathy There is the toil without formality A silver plate neither rhyme nor reason Of words spoken at a shadow Peculiar to itself, there are tears for things Work and play, love and hate are one and all of the same It will be pleasant to recall this some day Diamond cuts diamond, ignorant by ignorance A fallacious debate through adversity to the stars A potential existence in empty space I know not what; it doesn't follow Everything unknown come in! Tomorrow How do I know? What does it matter? It's pleasant to play the fool sometimes, while I breathe
I am an apple hanging fat upon the sighing limb. Hard as a planet, with eyes enough to drink the sky, I only have to speak and the entire tree listens with all its pointed ears. But one slip and I am face-down, mumbling to myself, beauty gone, with only a worm's tongue.
I Could Have Been On That Bus
which left the bridge and dove toward the afternoon street; I lived on that route. I could have sat up front and watched the statement on the shooter with his oiled gun; could have seen the driver fall out the open door as he tried to take the steering wheel with him, could have watched him fall. I could have watched the calm young man point the gun to his own head and pull the trigger; could have watched the great bulk of seats and wheels ballet down the air; faced my own death. I could have.
I am warming up on the cliched head of a pin though the pin keeps getting smaller and these acrobatics bend my limbs unnaturally. "Can I stop now, friend?"
The tedious season of my brain has begun. To write a poem is Promethean now; such a steep ascent requires more than I have. I squandered ink and vision to reach this plateau.
I deserve a bronze medal for getting out of bed, the gold for remaking it, all the ends tucked in.
Long after the lithium dissolves in your bloodstream, the black eye of night will still open upon the bruised sunrise, the blue ache of day.
Blame me, daughter, for passing on this savage gene that eats away at our good times, that feeds the bad. If you are at war with yourself, it is my fault.
I couldn't keep it to myself. Life is lonely when no one speaks your language. I wanted someone to talk to; I chose you.
I wanted someone who could stay up for days on end. I wanted someone who could hibernate in caved silence besides the bear and me.
Your mind's rhythms will become slow, and you will never be completely happy or completely sad again.
I lie flattened by the heat; all the covers abandoned to the floor. The fan in the window does no good; I crave water, any kind of shore.
A swim would help no matter if the moon's bland face guarded or I'd find a splintered skiff pushed into tall reeds, oarless.
Let's say I found myself on a lake. If a crowd began to gather on the lantern shore, I'd paddle by, my hands in cool water.
If I saw you walk towards me, a starlit Christ, I'd turn away. Your body would have its old heat and I'd wake.
Teresa White: I began writing before the onset of manic depressive illness at age 18. Went undiagnosed for nearly fifteen years and bounced in and out of hospitals. I'm presently on disability and finally on medications that seem to help most of the time. I've had over 100 poems published in online e-zines, have one book of my early poems published, "In What Furnace," and am working on a book of recent work.
On shaky ground he stands. With trembling wilbury hands,    he holds his life-line            (with just enough rope left          for a hanging)
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:    Listen to the words hidden here      as they roll of my tongue...”
Easy as the moon glows The river certainly knows    I have no form.
Blinded by the fright Seduced by the night    Drunk by the riverside
Saddened by the news Oppressed by their views    A nation dies in agony.
Wicked in the east We must kill the beast    Laughing in all of us.
When will words come? When will I ever learn? You can’t get anything worth saving without risking something.    Or everything.
All of my poems are Daily Suicides. Rebirth can only come when all thoughts are Words -- Birds in Flight.
Can anyone forgive me now? Can I resolve my past? Can you? Can I?    the dog is foaming at the mouth,      big, ugly, sniffing at my feet,      begging, worshipping
Part II: “Calling to the young...” The radio is moaning a thousand songs calling to the young: “Forget what you’ve learned Or what you’ve been taught. It’s not too late to turn it all around, To find a new way or answer.” The world is on fire, fueled by the red sun. I will not go. I will not go      ‘till I’ve had my fill.
To awake in a strange house the dogs Children playing with guns Ancient artifacts The television newsman is talking aimlessly. Telling tales of the men who made him.
Dying man on amusement park ride Maggots eating at rotting eyes “Will someone stop this thing    and let me off?” On the end of town lives a reptile in love with a shrink. They said he robbed a convenience store and shot the cashier. Do you read the news?
Ride the current The electric wave A shock to the system
I am a rock’n’roll poet.
The preacher is leading his flock to the sea. Who will tell them they will all drown? But the children are in the know. They sense he is unreal.
Part III: "Radio Nites" Radio Nites City of Lights Hazy recollection of past impulses    Stoned    Poetry    Death games That Day At The Lake Nights we made promises sure to be broken
We escaped through the neighborhood    on the way to the mall And shot the bird at the slow-going car.
Now and if I leave this town    (from which I was born) Who will know me then? Who or what shall I be remembered? Men of Wisdom Wanderer of Souls Grant me my one wish: That those who knew me will...
Death is life’s ultimate safety haven.
the ancient river runs through the graveyard the Indians drank from these waters long before Colombus took a wrong turn and the white man stole their land a railroad track, built in the mid-1870’s, still runs through the nearby woods the steam engines long ago gave way to diesel power “that was when the trains lost their virginity,” says an old farmer down the dirt road here his father’s father tilled the same land but his son won’t carry on the tradition he’s a big-time lawyer in some small southern town but the cows still graze the land although they’ve been dead for 20 yrs. or more and the steam engines still barrel down the tracks (if you listen hard enough, sometimes you can hear the piercing whistle just barely over the din of the textile mill in the distance) and the Indian ghosts still drink from the river, clear, unpolluted water from ancient times yes, the cows are withering, white relics with deep set eyes watching the cars go by while the passengers remain unaware of the secrets of this land and the ghost cows roaming the forgotten graveyard
To be real. Not to catch a star but to be only what you are. No God or Purple Phantom can show you until you know You, the way you feel without even a fly in the room. I used to believe in a Galaxy until it devoured me; now I believe in Something that takes me from the Northing. It is not a thought, it is without reason, as is as natural as the seasons flowing one into the other; it is a whisper, the falling of leaves, my baby's breath upon me - The Child within giving birth to its Mother.
The horizon is holding up the sun shining as a floating torch upon the sea; The moon is rising in the east pale as a see-through disc above the cliffs. Time is now both night and day, black and white exchange to grey and the tide moves uncertainly between a premature birth and a lingering end as the moment spreads into infinity upon the pastel sands.
Pigs in Clothes
I don't like dogs that talk pigs in clothes snakes that walk Or fish that know which way the wind blows. So baby     be real        be real baby           baby be real              with me.
Diane Laurie-Farmer: I was raised in Southern California and began drawing and writing at a young age. Being a child of the sixties, I was a flower child who took psychedelic drugs and went to Love Ins... By age 25 I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which has been a lifelong illness. Apparently the tendency to develop sz was there, but I believe the drugs pushed me over the edge. Through therapy and medications I was able to earn a bachelor's degree in psychology. I then worked as a behavioral therapist with autistic adolescent boys who had severe behavioral problems. This was a rewarding and interesting job. However, my husband and I moved to Northern California, leaving our old lives, friends and family behind. I had a hard time adjusting to our new environment, but I'm now doing better and back in school studying computer networking
"Soundless as dots--on a Disc of Snow-" * I stood with hood up, galoshes unbuckled and my navy blue knitted mitten outstretched to catch snowflakes as I waited for you at the corner. The soundless dots covered the wool like the milky way covers the night sky. What mystified me was not the snowflakes but rather the spaces within them. For the first time I saw space instead of shape. Slowly the snow transformed to water droplets. My toes began to ache. Why didn't you meet me at the corner like you promised?
Lamb's wool graces his head. It's a porch-sitting kind of day. Invited by his metal fanned-back chair, he sits.
Only content silver backs still enjoy the porch. Brown eyes still sharp and bright. Veins protrude from his lanky arms and temples.
Long thin fingers clasp loosely in his lap, he reflects.
He has grown accustomed to his less able body. His small vegetable garden weeded for the day and all the produce nurtured to ripen.
Sheets flapping in the sunny breeze send clean laundry smell to his nose. His wife Vera from 50 years ago floats to him.
Eyelids heavy, his head nods for an afternoon nap. A pleasant memory returns to the ether to be captured on another porch-sitting kind of day.
Today is a mild tangerine morning. Peasant women stoop and brush the night away with stick brooms.
Maids soothe crying crickets as they light their laundry pyre. Cauldrons of steamed laundry paint clouds on the sky
Mourning doves pray night's return. White faced Geisha hobble down cobblestones, bow at each other in still perfect kimonos until they arrive home to rest, before lessons.
Silk rustles with the flowers in the morning breeze.
nothing more soothing, I was lost in embryonic sleep and I woke to surmount clarity and wounds too deep everything lighted up and blinded my grey eyes I slipped into the funnel to far-gone azure skies.
to be a mother of a thousand breaths was a feeling that throbbed under the skin and veins so healing bringing forth in code works the somehow lost notion of the cycle and the responsibility to its bounding motion.
we are pressed to the floor by ice shards from the waste land i saw that I am your fingers and you have become my hand dreams have faces that only on occasion will be divine and these occasions will set a theory that I can enshrine.
It's been an eagle-day. And people were scratching their heads, I got a cold from walking around moving from place to place, sleeping on wet clothes.
But that's a while ago now. Now I sit in my warm room.
I've scrubbed too many floors with the same water. Well, I don't think you want to throw up the expensive medicine.
See, I am not bothered by such things, that was all he said… …there goes the days.
Like brave new children jumping about on the field that's the end of the world, they are just playing in the sun making fires burning young love into the very last air
Well, I have been blind because this is the first time I see how the end looks like and it's a place where I'd like to stay and only because I know my hands will be warm and the air will be fresh on the field
The field is endless as a fargone asylum made to fill the empty hole of clean morning air inside the hole where I am aloof
Helena: I was born in 1983. I live in Copenhagen, Denmark where I am studying (high school).