Raw Footage

We survived our family white water rafting excursion on the weekend, but with bumps and bruises (they show up days later); it has taken Mary and I a few days to recover physically and mentally. None the less we are forever changed by what happened, and how we use these situations to grow. I saw this quote on facebook and it fits...

• A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery while on a detour." Author unknown

I consider myself one of those truly happy people.

Today is the 11th year anniversary of my daughters passing. My life forever changed. Really the day she was born, but facets move about in obscure ways.

I woke up extremely early and could not go back to sleep. Something I have not done in a while. Maybe an unconscious awakening, maybe not. I need rest because today I have my homeless 'Homefront' meal project this afternoon. We will cook and package food for at least 90 people who are living in motels around the city, many of them are children.

I discovered this photographer Greg Friedler (mentioned on here once before), a New Orleans born artist who was highlighted in a documentary called Stripped: The Naked Las Vegas. His work is fantastic, and great for some inspiration prompt writing. Last night I decided to check his website for his latest 'Daily Compositions'. In doing so the site offered a link to some of his 'Naked' work. Viewing some of this work, I was inspired to write this for Jessie Carty's Thursday Poem Share.

This 'Mattress' link is my inspiration...Thanks Greg for your wonderful contributions to my life...

A Window Junkie's Next Fix

Eyes bend forward
taking in

and exhale life,

saying goodbye to innocence.

Lips become dry
turning tables

giving words back,

finalizing kisses
swept across the skin.

Fickle hearts move on

never remembering a name
the reason, or last time

love stroked Eden’s cradle.

Infernal fires rained down
closing doors,

never knowing
the side
a place, a corner

where hurt felt like

a last breath,
seedy back lot rooms,

before dawn gave way

to ghostly stains.




(Photo above was taken on our Jim Thorpe train ride along side the river...looks mild right?)

Metaphorically Speaking, Of Course

A request made by a friend of mine.: I guess writing in this manner makes me feel the writing is forced, or too wax poetic, of which I was once accused of over using by my ex-husband. That is why I try and stay away from it. Is it painting too much of a picture. Truth be told, I found it difficult to write and keep a straight face. Meaning my eyes wrinkled up as I pushed my fingers into the very tight inkwell hole and began to make the third to the last line. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Growing up in Carrollton, Texas we had this painting my mom bought to go with the seventies Spanish Iron furniture they also bought; it was of a still life...a peeled orange next to a vinegar bottle, and had a glass of red wine off to the side. Man was it a dark fake. I was always puzzled at that painting. You know how we place things like a picture in specific spots, but do you ever really look at them after you made the choice? Do you really LOOK at them, study them, or do you just dust them off each week as it blends in to our surroundings. Sort of like a photographers musings along their path.

In anticipation of Lil'sista, I found it hard to go to sleep and woke up early, as usual, and began thinking of how I could lay in bed all day because I was just plain tired. Of how things would still change around me, even if I continued to lay there. I also watched 'Stripped: Greg Friedler's Naked Las Vegas', by David Palmer before I fell asleep. Must have impacted my thinking. Or was it Greg's blog, and his still life's of fruits and such? Hmmm, does art really imitate life...

Still Life
as requested by Jeanne

I sit, quietly on the edge of an island
of blankets as the world turns
spinning schedules before the day

ever begins. Morning shadows start tripping
across my lap, stretching obscure minute men
who under your nose steal the thunder

aimed at hearts filled with memory
and pain. A shelter of hoarding rises up with
empty vessel lined shelves; in waiting

they mirror me, ready for random target practice
when an ocean of tears breaks free of its barriers
and keep me prisoner in this spot, where day began.

On this black leather sofa planet crust
evenings darkness meld and break me free.
Floating along the red hot lava of desire

I scavenge up nourishment, and exercise
the will to bend my legs. But it all pulls me under
sinking what I was crafting as a get away boat.

Metaphorically I am like my photo, many flavors, layers, and what you see is not always what you might get. Ha!

Jeanne how was this? and it is a first draft, not sure there will be another...I will let it simmer in my mind pot...