A mixed bag

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Psychic Reading 1972

Published July 26, 2019 by Nan Mykel

My last child was born in 1971, a Down Syndrome child with a terminal (at that time) mitral heart defect. Trying to make sense of this unexpected event which was traumatic to me (for years I couldn’t mention it publicly without crying), I sought out a psychic reading  in an attempt to make it fit into my experience of the world.  I just came across something I wrote about the reading, written three years later:

 

My aura is muddy with fear

the psychic said, three years ago,

as I sat hesitant before him,

searching out dim forces of my destiny.

A two-fold karmic mission

lies in wait for me, he said.

Mine to scale the heights of consciousness

and mine to loosen passive bonds.

Through action shall I free the captive

Soul of eons whose receptive mold has

fashioned the aura which I wear,

passive becoming active, opening up

my third eye and our third world

in a consciousness both higher and raised.

Today is Monday, June 30, 1975 AD.

Three years hence where shall I be?*

__________

The psychic reader was an official minister in his other role, and when my father subsequently died I asked if he would conduct the funeral service and include a “life reading” for him, so I could better understand why my father lived the life he had.

It was clear the psychic/minister was scandalized at the suggestion he bring his psychic activities into the church in a funeral.  I wondered how he put it all together in his head, or rather why he didn’t.

I reckon I’m going to have to work on freeing my captive soul the next time round.

(If nothing else works, a psychic reading can be briefly useful).

 

WADING IN A ROCKY STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS–for d’Verse

Published July 25, 2019 by Nan Mykel

I saw a Neanderthal in a pinafore…

Twice or more a year or so

my nose gets outta joint–

“The Roly Poly Poet”–I get no further

than that, you see, after so grand a title:

dead ends.

You poets out there know I’m sure

how sneaky words can pose a lure

in order to make you think

you’re on the very brink…

But some poems are dead ends,

never see the light of joyful welcome.

Sigh. We know it’s we who have

failed them.

Other poems  only lie on the dock

smelling fishy,,,

They do it  about twice a year now, as I said,

my words,  they want to play with me.

They jump into the dirt and roll, and

expect me to crawl in the mud after them–

which I do.  If I say thunder rattled

the window pane where does your mind

go next? I wrote a depressed poem called

“Down in the Mouth” and it was so bad

I wrote “Lighten Up,” both blessedly missing

from this diatribe.

“For shame, Alphonse,”

was my response when he suggested

a rendezvous–just we two. I got mad,

then sad, for though he was my sister’s

beau I always thought him cute, you know?

TIME WAS. . .

Published July 24, 2019 by Nan Mykel

A spear point under an oak,

shark teeth in the roiling beach sand;

shooting  stars spied from my porch cot;

fossil trilobites in my hand;

lightening bolts found underfoot

and potshards after a rain.

The unknown beckons                                                                    Paleoenvironmental indicator-Wikipedia

while my muse reckons

the irregular fringe of time.

The Long and Short of It

Published July 22, 2019 by Nan Mykel

Life’s too short

Tooth’s too long

Horses snort

Answer’s wrong

Eyes too bright

Pool’s too deep

Bra’s too tight

He’s too cheap

Sky’s too high

Feet too smelly

Words can lie

Too tight belly

Stream beds trickle

Chewing gum sticks

I’m in a pickle

Up to old tricks.

Lost my keys

This won’t do

Down on my knees

Should get two.

Don’t say pome

Only a verse

Come on home

Could be worse.

1899. John Brown. (USPD.pub.date, artist life/COmmons.wikimedia.org)

Just You Wait!

Published July 21, 2019 by Nan Mykel

I CAN’T                                                                                                                                                Play hopscotch any more                                                                                                                        Nor skate across an icy floor.                                                                                                                 I know headstands would break my neck                                                                                           I drove my car and caused a wreck.

It’s hard to write a funny verse                                                                                                              ‘Specially when you’re glum and terse.                                                                                                I wonder if I’ll ever see                                                                                                                            a poem sadder than my knee.

Oh I know it could be worse–                                                                                                                 I could have Trumpkin as my nurse,                                                                                                    Pointing at me and saying he                                                                                                                Would never make a pass at me.

BUT                                                                                                                                                     Now I don’t have to clean my plate                                                                                                  Or remember to stand up straight                                                                                                   Oh what fun to say shit and damn                                                                                              while chasing Mary’s little lamb.

Yet no one tucks me in at night                                                                                                          or hugs me as my mother might.                                                                                                        Home made peach ice cream’s the best                                                                                           I’d not swap it for all the rest.

I STILL KNOW                                                                                                                                Little Orphan Annie can say                                                                                                               “Watch out for the Goblins today.                                                                                          They’re bigger than ever                                                                                                                    and terribly clever–”

Citizens United foretold                                                                                                                    The capitalist manifold                                                                                                                    That can squeeze you to death,                                                                                                Enjoying your last breath.

I guess there’s a Devil after all.                                                                                                       Call him a Goblin, you say?                                                                                                             But the evil’s outrageous,                                                                                                                 And even contagious!

GOOD LUCK                                                                                                                                       For the next century–                                                                                                                       I’m outta here.

JUST JOKING                                                                                                                              Though not very funny, I guess.                                                                                                      The whole thing’s a horrible mess.                                                                                                  Oh I’m moved now to barf,                                                                                                                   Do watch out for the scarf!

NEXT SCENE                                                                                                                                Maybe it’ll be better after my                                                                                                                   next round trip down home.                                                                                                             I’ll be pushing up sod                                                                                                                  Second only to God.

You watch; I’ll be back.

 

THE SCRUBWOMAN

Published July 21, 2019 by Nan Mykel

THE SCRUBWOMAN

She’s on her knees, but not to pray

Trying to scrub the stains away

While knowing that they’re on to stay

“Undoing” ‘s the term used today.

He Said, She Said

Published July 20, 2019 by Nan Mykel

Today I stopped to see my shrink.

He said, “Well, what do you think?”

I said, “You mean how do I feel?”

“O Yeah, yeah, but what is the deal?”

“I’m losing it, and that’s no fun.”

“Life is no bowl of cherries, hon.”

“I didn’t think it was, but it’s

overflowing with all the pits.”

“You should think Happy Happy.”

“O that is so crappy, crappy!”

“Don’t let me rain on your parade!”

“I can’t believe what you just said!”

“I know it’s mighty bad out there.”

“Well you look comfy in your chair!”

“I am, and you should be too.”

“How can I when I am so blue?

How much do I have to pay to you

for this therapeutic hour or two?”

“S & H green stamps will be fine.

What was it that you had in mind?”

“I’m out of stamps but hope you’ll take

a cherry cheesecake that I’ll make.”

“You’ll bring it next time that you come?”

“Maybe we can both enjoy some.”

Sigh. “Goodbye.”

Flypaper Thoughts

Published July 19, 2019 by Nan Mykel

Today I could talk straight through until I die and not tell you half my thoughts, history and fellow travelers. None great but I was there and lived it all.  So much, all the time.  Little things, big feelings–I am an Indian mound full of artifacts, a wrapped present on Christmas morning, full of surprises, not all good.  These atypical thoughts will leave me, but here they are for you to see, caught on my flypaper.

Moon casts her shadows

A plop sounds in the old creek

Night birds croon their songs

And I sleep…

Image:Ruth Scribbles.com

Other parts of Lump’s Body–Reblogged Excerpt

Published July 19, 2019 by Nan Mykel

Jill Dennison shares an anatomical survey of Lump’s racist body by Nicholas Kristof in the New York Times:

 I have identified the following racist bones in Trump’s body:

Phalanges and metacarpals: These are bones of the fingers and hands that Trump has used to tweet tirades against black and brown people and to retweet Nazi sympathizers, including, twice, an account called @WhiteGenocideTM with a photo of the founder of the American Nazi Party.

Mandible and maxilla: These are the jawbones that Trump has used to denounce Mexican immigrants as “criminals, drug dealers, rapists,” not to mention to refuse to criticize the Ku Klux Klan.

Femurs, fibulas, tibias, metatarsals: These foot and leg bones carried Trump into his casinos, where black staff members would be rushed off the floor so he couldn’t see them, according to a former employee, Kip Brown.

Virtually every remaining bone was implicated in Trump’s early refusal to rent apartments in his buildings to blacks, leading the Nixon administration Justice Department (not exactly a pillar of liberalism) to sue him for housing discrimination in the 1970s. A former building superintendent working for Trump explained that any rent application from a black person was coded “C,” for “colored,” apparently so that the office would know to reject it….

Good sleuthing, Jill…

Words Won’t Do the Dishes, Though

Published July 18, 2019 by Nan Mykel

(I know it’s not a poem but it sort of looks like one, doesn’t it?)

 

A Transitional Object

is a beloved and reassuring

item that stands in for Mom

when she is out of sight.

 

A  late bloomer, I still crave

nurturance, but I get comfort

now from books.

 

The books I most like  are those

that make me scratch my head

and wonder why and how and who,

 

Like reports of the flying monk

who flew around the church wearing

no underpants and became a saint.

 

Graves, Yeats, Mann and Leibnitz

believed in the monk, as he is

described in Wilson’s  The Occult.

 

In  An Experiment with Time, Dunne

suggests we dream of  both future and

past events equally.

 

Hillman’s Dreams and the Underworld 

scared me out of my Jungian analysis

with hints of archetypes come to life.

 

Wilhelm Reich knew that his patient

had an abortion when she reported a

dream of a book standing upside down.

 

Strangers to Ourselves, The Whisperings

Within,  and Sam Harris’ Free Will all

hotwire my curiosity.

 

Wilson’s Consilience stirs my mind

and my heart, even though the friend

of a friend says he’s a misogynist.

 

Intellectuals  alerted me to the fact that

Rousseau placed his five newborns in

baskets and left them, unnamed.

 

Discovery of the Unconscious tells of

a fox who possessed a sick woman and

refused to leave without a fine meal.

 

The journals we pen ourselves of

dreams and doodles and wonderings

devour loneliness and stir the pot.

 

I save pure escape reading until bed

time,  when I reward myself  for making

it through another day, with mysteries.

 

Did the header say something about

dishes?  I prefer reading, writing

and paper plates.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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