Sorry I’ve lost a few sources. If you know, I’ll add:
Horses go where the rider is facing. Look at where you want to go, not where you don’t want to go.
Putting people in trances is easier than keeping them out.
The Witness of the Waking State is so constant a presence in our lives that it’s hard to stay aware of it…But it’s very important to learn to catch hold of and identify with the Witness of the Waking State because that changeless Witness is the One who makes it through the transition we call death….The detached spectator is the Witness of the Waking State. That Witness is who you actually are…Silently address yourself by your own name or he or she. It’s simple but it’s not easy…The “I”…is so full of itself and so used to starring in your show,,,,Getting that crucial distance from the emotional weather is what happens when we substitute the third-person pronoun or our own first name for that ever-captivating I.(I have a zerox page from the book on death by the author, a Quaker widow. If anyone recognizes it please let me know. I shouldn’t have let go of the book.).
It may be true that the unexamined life is not worth living but which is the best lens to use?
Profile: My current (former?) profile says I’m not through growing yet. I’ve re-thought that.
When after an uncomfortable (well, some of it) thousand-mile trip you finally arrive at the end of the line only to realize your ticket was for the wrong destination, what then? Is it your imagination that someone whispers “Gotcha!”?
Despite what the scientists predict, my first organ to go was my heart. It turned to stone. My last surgeon said, showing my daughter my extracted mitral valve, it was hard as a pebble from a brook. On to another, more current metaphor for me, while awaiting compost:
I am lying on a vast bed of empty metal ice maker cubes (remember, from the old refrigerators?), trying to be helpful I’m sure, someone puts such a tremendous pressure on me (steamroller?) that my body is now comprised of hundreds of cubes, almost like building blocks. Now I’m really ready for compost.
But wait just a f***ing minute! Building blocks! Like in the days of yore, before my post-partum depression at 83? Whee!
Although on July 12, 2019, at the bottom of the page on which “An ACOA’s Confession” appeared, I wrote:
“While continuing to try to continue organizing “my stuff” I came across a passel of earlier poems. I don’t know which have made their appearance in this blog and/or d’Verse, but I just felt like giving them a run-through again. One a Day takes the —what was it?—away. Since I love my Media Library, I think I’ll add a random pix, also. (This must be what happens when you start getting old.)”
I decided this in part because my site has no stability–anything at all could be in the blog (and usually is). So I decided that for a while at least (until the well runs dry) I could start including a different poem a day-either from my slush pile or maybe newborn. Thing is, I haven’t been sharing the date written, which may cause someone to think I’m writing and publishing a new poem a day.
Now I feel kinda guilty about it. What do you think? Am I misleading readers and should I include the date originally written? I’d appreciate some feedback.
He knew he was crochety.
He’d forgotten how to love.
His cane held him upright and
allowed him to kick at stones
along the winding path home.
He wanted for nothing but
stones to kick and maybe a
bone to pick once he arrived.
Being crochety was safe.
He knew it and they knew it,
and at night after supper
he could be found down
in his old soldier’s fox hole.
Posted in age