Distraction

If I could funnel my energies into one thing
That lightens my life and makes my heart sing,
Would I set up my tripod and click-click away,
Storing photos to freshen my memories someday,
Or plunk away, tapping my keyboard all night,
Trying to come up with a story just right,
Or study psychology hoping to find
The missing connections that weigh down my mind?
Would I read all the classics or find something new?
Would I try an inventive new recipe or two?
Would I play with my dog tossing Frisbees and balls,
Or paint pictures to hang on my many empty walls?
Would I tinkle the ivories or strum on some strings?
Oh I wish I had time to do all of these things!
But it seems every chance I get when I’m alone
I’m a virtual prisoner to my smartphone.

Photo via Foter.com

 

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Dancing in the Dark

Golden sunlight pierces a rift
In draperies drawn closed,
Warm photons passing through floating motes,
To land upon a fallen streamer lying
Coiled in a graveyard of listless balloons.

For a brief moment the hovering dust
Swirls and eddies
As a figure slowly sways through the light,
Stocking feet shuffling
Back and forth,
Back and forth.

Eyes closed in reverie,
Softly humming,
Moving in time,
Her graying hair shifting loosely
Around thin shoulders,
As she sways
Back and forth,
Back and forth.

Arms opening wide
As if in expectant embrace,
She slowly twirls
Out of the light
And resumes her swaying
Back and forth,
Back and forth.

The balloons scuttle heavily out of her path,
Carried on disturbed air.
Streamers whisper as they form new entanglements
On the wooden floor,
And as she makes her latest pass,
All becomes quiet again
As she continues
Dancing in the dark.

Damage

As spokes of a wagon wheel of old
They radiate out from the center,
Intentions played out in actions,
Cruel words spraying out in torrents of hatred
And fear,
Until those who would seek to curtail the damage
Are flailed by ever loosening,
Wildly unstable shafts,
Radiating out from the center.


RIP brave souls who stood up for all that is right and human on the Max train in PDX last Friday. They came from divergent backgrounds, but a common humanity.

53-year-old Ricky John Best
23-year-old Taliesin Myrddin Namkai Meche.

We should also not forget the surviving hero, who also put his life on the line. Thank you for stepping up, Micah David-Cole Fletcher. (21)

 

Life as a Jenga Tower

Carefully the foundation was laid,
Criss-crossing planks reaching toward a sky
That tantalized with low-strung clouds of hope
And a vast expanse of possibility.

Life took a plank here and there,
That’s how the game is played,
Opening holes into the recesses of mind and heart,
But a Jenga tower is not easily toppled.

Illness came like the petulant child and
Swiped at the blocks, scattering a few to far reaches,
Never to be seen again,
Knocking the tower a little off kilter.
But the tower remained standing,
Shored up by many hands.

Blocks were extracted as
Building materials for towers which were
Themselves under construction
In a reach for that wide expanse of sky
In a never-ending shuffle of finite resources.
Still, the tower held firm.

Then a block was drawn from the bottom,
And the tower groaned.

Then another.

And another.

Players played on,
Wondering why the tower swayed.
Unaware of the laws of physics,
Of gravity
And of equal and opposite reactions,
They poked and prodded at the structural integrity
Of the Jenga tower.

The game is still in progress,
Though the base has become riddled with openings
Where the winds of disillusionment and melancholy
Eddy and swirl.


Photo credit: Nicola since 1972 via Foter.com / CC BY

Three Dots

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tattoo….You?.”Do you have a tattoo? If so, what’s the story behind your ink? If you don’t have a tattoo, what might you consider getting emblazoned on you skin?

Three dots,

front and center

left and right.

Guide marks

as alone I lie

on the alter of machinery,

a toxic stream of radiation

beaming through my flesh;

grinding and throbbing

a death knell

to cancer.

Three dots

representing life.

Inked

Ink belongs on skin

You say.

My ink belongs on paper.

Commitment required.

To judge you must read

not look.

And when you turn the page,

a new layer of skin,

deeper,

fresher,

closer to the nerve.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tattoo….You?.”Do you have a tattoo? If so, what’s the story behind your ink? If you don’t have a tattoo, what might you consider getting emblazoned on you skin?