Careless

I can relate to this so much. It sounds like my own thoughts tho not so elegant. I’d like to reblog.’

writing in north norfolk

Sometimes,
I can’t remember who I am.
I look at photographs and wonder,
where did she go,
that carefree girl, that careful mother,
so careless with herself?

I often feel disjointed, as if part of me
has broken off,
a branch
hanging,
buffeted by the wind of time,
and wonder, is it mine?

When I read a poem
that was written in my name,
I scrutinise each line for me,
proof that I write poetry
and find that careful,
carefree girl I so carelessly mislaid.

Kim M. Russell, 29th June 2018

Teenage meMy response to Poets United Midweek Motif ~ When I Think About Myself  also linked to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

Sumana has given us a thoughtful motif this midweek, and she begins with Maya Angelou’s poem ’When I Think About Myself’ – truly inspirational. She also includes poems by John Clare and Gerard Manley Hopkins…

View original post 17 more words

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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