Saturday, March 30, 2019

Push Me Hard and I Will Make You Lose Your Balance

Don’t stay
because you can’t move on,
it won’t work

—freedom hates chains

dancing in the clouds
with a fish made of rainbows
pulling on her strings.

When rigid mouths trap liberty’s feet, butterflies scream through gentle wings,

“Push me hard,
and I’ll make you lose
your balance.” 

Rattle cages, howl in color, show your heart opened (in horrors made armor)— 

no one will see you,
if your heart is always closed
to the one you want,
to the Universe’s energies,
or to your Self. 


the wee notes… 
- this poem is made of pieces I frankensteined from bits I’ve shared on Instagram. Some of them were published weeks (even months apart), so I had a bit of a blast finding the right ways (and words) to encourage them to dance around one theme.
- crafted for The Sunday Muse (#49) and Poets United Poetry Pantry (#445).

photo by Isabella Mariana
a fish made of rainbows
pulling on her strings đŸ˜‰ 

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Some Battles Aren’t Worth the Energy They Suck Out of You

“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr.

the poem...
 

On the corpses
of last year’s oak leaves,
my thoughts and I danced
with you in mind, kissing
solitude… never alone.


the writing and living...

If we’re friends on Facebook, then you know that this blog has been in Facebook-jail for some time. I’ve yet to figure out the who and why behind the banishment. For a day (or three), I was obsessed with trying to find out who reported this blog as abusive. I wanted words with that person. And if I had gotten my chance then, said words would’ve probably danced dangerously on the uglier side of enraged.

Today, I am glad I didn’t get to speak to that person. I discussed the issue with my Piano Man, with my plants, and with non-green friends. Then, I vented and ranted until a thought came to mind: What sort of person reports a blog like mine?

After a lot of thinking and deep breathing, I came up with this answer: Whoever reported me must have issues that are worse than mine. And considering that my issues involve fighting breast cancer (and keeping my remaining eyelashes from assaulting my eyeballs), then whoever reported my blog must be in a rotten spot. Someone like that doesn’t need a fight. What someone like that needs is help.

So, whoever you are, know that I feel bad that you exist in such a terrible place. If I could help you, I would. Not because I’m the kindest person (trust me, I am not) but because I believe that the only way to make things better for you and for me is to do all we can to make things better for everyone. Hm… I guess that when all is said and done, it’s all about me, me, me (and you, too, if you want to heal along).  


the wee notes...

- if my blog is not out of Facebook-jail by the next day or 3, I’ll change my URL. If I get reported again, I’ll take an indefinite break from the book of faces. Some battles aren’t worth the energy they suck out of you (yes, by “you” I mean “me”).

- crafted for Blogging Around with Rommy (Week 11), Wednesday Muse (#1), and Poets United Midweek Motif (Solitude).

Breathe Deeply, by Gina Morley

Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Grow or Rot

When she asked, have you ever had an instance when the words that came out of your mouth might’ve done hurtful things you didn’t intend? I was more than a bit tempted to answer, “Does a bear poopeth in the woods?” But since I did not want any problems with bears that might resent my word choice, I stitched this instead:

words are seeds
we can grow with care
or let rot


the wee notes…
- or, in plain Magaly-lingo, word-seeds are wild things that must be handled with care. And most of the time, we do a decent job at the handling bit. But... when we are terribly pissed off, our brains and tongues tend to do whatever they want (and gentleness isn’t always part of the wanting). Also, the things we say are subject to the state of mind of those hearing us (even if they aren’t really listening). In other words, even when we are careful, our words will do what they will (and the same is true about those listening to our words (and, as always, by “we” I mean “me”).

- um… I don’t always Magaly-explain my poems, but when I do… I use a lot of parentheses and ellipses and hyphenated words and *cough, cough… coughing*.



Saturday, March 16, 2019

My Exercise Routine Might’ve Left My Neighbors Needing Freud


The neuropathy monster sets its teeth and tongue on icy fire before wrapping its maw around my hands and feet. The bite is pure pain poison that blights through flesh and bone, paying special attention to joints (“Oh!” my ankles wail at night).

The neuropathy monster chews hardest on days made of thunder and clouds and rain, its frosty flames howl through skin and limbs (“Move an inch,” it threatens, “and I will pain-drop you on your face”).

But since my will and I refuse to suffer false signals and bullies, my muscles and tendons stretch… my bones work out hard for balance... and I stand on rebel feet that will never let my face down without a fight.   

exercise torture
keeps my flesh and bones healthy
while I sickly curse


the (not so) wee notes…
- my glorious (edema-kissed) cankles have been saying goodbye, so I have added some strength training to my stretching and cardio routine. But... since, peripheral neuropathy dearest refuses to pack her agony gifts and leave me alone, exercising my sexy flesh and bones hurt (and the pain inspires my tongue to curse and cuss) in ways that make me think my neighbors’ ears might end up needing counseling.

- last night, I went to bed thinking, I need a proper title for my Cancer Book. I just can’t continue calling it my Cancer Book. What if it develops a complex? Causing my neighbors’ ears to need Freud is one thing, but doing the same to an innocent book. It will not do. So, of course, I dreamed a title, and woke up remembering… absolutely zilch. Until now, when the dreamed title flashed into my skull. Victory! No, the title of the book isn’t Victory! It’s just my victorious mental-cyber-dance.

- written for Poets United, Blogging Around with Rommy, and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (where an gloriously attractive and unbelievably modest Wild Woman invites everyone to write a new poem that includes one homograph).


So, my Wicked Luvs, do you have any torture exercise tales to share?

tragic! I’ve no idea Rainbow Dash was my neighbor. Her poor ears… *sigh*
Louder Scream, by FoxInShadow

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Kindness Is in the Eye of the Beholder


Not-So-Dear One,

A truckful of the no-longer-blooming dead is wailing brightly in the driveway that used to be ours. I told Ms. Fayette (yes, the sweet old dearie from down the street) I told her (because she asked), I told her, “He and I shared a driveway for years and years and years. Why would the contents of his skull (of any skull that knows me even a little) reason that a massacre of blooms would warm my heart?”

And Ms. Fayette said to me, she said to me (in that sugary-choking voice of hers, that’s all goodness and no thought), she said to me (as I inner-raged while really wanting to outer-scream), she said to me, “Oh, honey! Bless your heart! Darling girl, don’t you know? He thinks he is being kind. It’s his thought that counts.”   

And I, Not-So-Dear One, I hope Ms. Fayette is wrong about your thought (or lack thereof), about what counts, about kindness. Because, you know, what she seems to think about kindness (and me) isn’t true. Your thought is not what counts when being kind. To be kind, one must think critically and knowingly (act accordingly) and remember kindness is in the eye of the beholder. And I, I behold you ruthless.

I am hoping Ms. Fayette is wrong, wrong, wrong about what counts and kindness and you. For if she’s right, I wasted half a lifetime with a stranger who fails to see the gormlessness of killing (flower or flesh) to win a heart that feels for all things. 

Truly Yours (never again),
Me


the wee notes…
- crafted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (just one word: gormless), for The Sunday Muse (46), and for Poets United (poetry pantry 442 and kindness).
- if you missed “Oh, the Weird Horror! of a Dream with a Humorous Corpse in It (and updates)”, my earlier post, give it go (for none should mad-dream alone).
- smile from the top of your head to the tip of your toes (then picture it).

borrowed from Floret via The Sunday Muse