Have you noticed along East State
and the Library frost has come,
taking with it the leaves but not
the hundreds of berries revealed now,
unprotected to the elements, neither
devoured nor visited by the birds?
The hungriest feathered aviators, how did they
learn the lesson not to be tempted
by the round brown faces hanging around
and so available? Is their odor pungent,
their taste bitter? Their juice deadly?
They look like berries to me, or is it an illusion?
I learn my lessons painfully.
Posted in Poetry
This is a delayed photo to illustrate a post about my trip to Tybee Island this summer. Someone found him on the beach and wrote in the sand, “R.I.P. Mr. Crabby.” Since he was already dead, I felt no compunction in gutting him and “airing” him for 3 weeks prior to hanging him on my wall.
Our grandparents live
only in our memories. When we go,
Why care if we’re forgot?
As if we never were?
I speak of myself, now:
Why do I care if I am forgot?
As if I never was, never
strove to overcome my limitations,
only partly successful, yearning yet afraid?
If truth be told, my heart is rusted
My children and grandchildren
know this. Perhaps
being forgot is not
so bad after all.
Nan, Common Threads, 2012
I wanted feedback from my dreams last night so I “incubated” a dream, adding hypnogogic and hypnopompic thoughts and images (the going to sleep and waking up periods) to my focus. And I think I dreamed all night–during, before and after. But I learned that no matter how motivated, I could not record my dreams with my eyes closed, or even open while still lying down and not re-arranging myself in bed.
Day residues are easiest to recall, & the lone motorcycle in my condo’s otherwise empty parking lot (Thanksgiving, you know) clearly re-appeared in a fragment about a family next door not permitting a motorcycle to park in our own driveway.
The other dreams were fruitful, I could tell, but too many to fully record any. I do remember hearing the sound of scissors cutting. What I learned is that I must get new batteries for my old voice recorder if I want to really get serious about dreamsploring.
Envy is a no-no word, harsher than jealous. When I feel envy I admit to myself that I have failed, and I think I feel more anger than when I feel jealous. Jealousy feels more childish, or adolescent. Envious reaches the stage of gnashing teeth, a dark corner to plot revenge in, and the garbage can–no, sewer pot.
Does it also carry with it a dislike of the person envied? I’m just exploring my id, you see. I can’t easily imagine feeling envy of someone I like and enjoy. I’ve decided (now) that envy may be the most multi-leveled and torturous emotion of all. Hate is clean and honest in comparison.
At least feeling envious leads me to my dashboard to reflect.
Posted in Negatiiivity