Archive for truth

She Digs Him

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2010 by 1writegirl

He’s undeniably, eye-catchingly
Handsome

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has a tattoo
Speaks several languages
And was educated
(Among other places)

At the prestigious
School of Hard Knocks

He writes plays, poetry and
Uncategorizable prose

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has traveled the world
Cooks like a gourmet chef
Excels at saving money
And the art of bodyspeak

But even that’s not why
She digs him

She digs him
Because he
Thinks about things others dare not
Talks about things they won’t
He reads Nietzsche
Tolstoy and
Kerouac

He reads her

He
Refuses to conform
Kowtow or
Acquiesce

To dictates
Dogma and
Convention

He cares not for
Status symbols
Nor the
Material world

He drives the divine
Mamita

He understands her inner battles
Between chutzpah
Patience and passion

He tells important stories
He shares without
Imposition

He respects her independence
And keeps her secrets

And when he holds her
She feels more at peace
In this world
Than she ever has

He’s the gift
She wasn’t expecting
What she sees when
She closes her eyes

The face without the mask

That’s why she digs him

Presence

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 25, 2009 by 1writegirl

Don’t give me presents
On Christmas day
Give me your presence instead
Wherein my heart flies
To meet my soul
Beyond words into
Truth
Felt only

Uncontained
By wrappings and ribbons
Undefined by greeting cards

My piece of peace
My joue my jew
My joy
My magi
Magically real

This day and
Any day

Shedding

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 7, 2009 by 1writegirl

Walking
For hours
Shedding
Along the way

Old memories
Old pains
Old lies

Like diamonds
Once valued
Now
Meaningless

In the context
Of today

Left behind
On the ground

Faded sentiment
Useless trappings

Withered leaves
To scatter
In the wind

Leaving room
For
Truth

Leaving room
For
Redemption

The opening
The changing

Of a soul

Baring Down

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2009 by 1writegirl

I seem to want
Less and less
Each day

Fewer possessions
To tie me down
Fewer thoughts
Of what if

Fewer hopes
Fewer dreams
Tired truisms
Unquestioned
Ideas

Less guidance
From
Without

I want to meet
My fears
Expose them
To the light
Relieve them
Of their power

I want
Good coffee
Something
Sweet to eat
I want
A warm bed
A good book

A worthy conversation
With someone
I respect

I want
To pay the bills

I want to write raw
Down to the bone
From the soul
The truth
No matter what
Without caring to
Please anyone

I want to shadow dance
In his kitchen
With a snake
On my arm
In an amber light

Wearing only a hat

What You Have

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on October 16, 2009 by 1writegirl

It settles in like
A warm fog
Born of nights that
Last too long
And dreams that
End too soon

The wanting is to blame

Motions pass the hours
Till the sun
Breaks through the clouds

Bringing with it
Salvation
In the form of
Truth

To throw away
What is of value
For the sake of
Wanting more

More of that very thing

Is in essence to break
One’s own heart
To spite it and
Render it mute

In the name of
The ego
At the expense
Of what is real

There is no hurry
To get to the more
The more is now
The more is here

It is having the heart
To understand

That this very thing
You want more of

Is golden in its own
Right
As it exists in this moment

What you want
Is what you have

Close Enough To Hold On

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 19, 2009 by 1writegirl

He is drowning

I wade in as far as I can
As far as he will let me
Stay back, he yells
I do as he says

Pulling branches from the shore
Extending them in his direction
Grab on, I call
But his arms barely move

I watch his head go under
I am frozen with fear
Then he resurfaces
Eyes wild
Choking on black water

Just leave, he says
Get away while you can
Don’t try and save me

Don’t be a fool

But something rises inside me
I dare not give it a name
And this time I don’t listen
To what he tells me to do

Instead I reach into my soul

And look around for something to throw
For something that floats
For anything

Then I begin to toss them
In his direction
One by one

The flotsam and jetsam
Of a disappointed life
Tattered and battered
But alive still with hope

It’s all I’ve got
Hoping they might land

Close enough to touch him
Close enough to move him
Close enough he can reach them

Close enough to hold on

The Spin Cycle

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 9, 2009 by 1writegirl

She sits at the only table
In the laundromat

Bright orange lipstick
In crooked smears
Blurring the lines
Between

Then and now

Dressed in feathery cotton skirt
And starched linen blouse
She crosses veined gnarled hands
And waits for him to greet her

Thirty years her junior
He sits down opposite
Tilts his head to one side
And says, every time

Lois, is it?

Which is all the
Invitation she needs

It is always the same
Life story revealed
The streets of Detroit
In the 1930’s

Where self-respecting
WASP young of
High brow America
Played games in the streets

At dusk

And joked about the
Dirty irish

Or

The nasty spics
The stupid pollacks
The lying niggers
The thieving jews

Pick one or choose
Your own
The only variable in her
Otherwise

Word-for-word memoir

Recited each time
With the passion of conviction

Sticking like honey
On the silver tongue
Of a golden girl

And the message
If ever there was one

Lost in the whir of
The spin cycle

After one too many rinses

Rambling Revelations I

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 4, 2009 by 1writegirl

The office manager in the urologist’s office where I work doesn’t like me. I haven’t yet been able to ascertain whether it’s personal or not. I suspect she wouldn’t like anyone who is currently doing the work she formerly did before she informed the doctor she needed help with her workload. I suspect she’s of the opinion, “Nobody does it better.” Or as well. Or if things continue on as they are, at all. Does that make sense? Not to me, either. But I’m waiting for her to corner me behind the water cooler and say something along the lines of, “I’m sorry, but you just aren’t working out here. It’s not a good fit. The doctor would have spoken to you personally but he’s extremely busy, well, doctoring, so he asked me to let you know. Go ahead and leave right now…”

Sensing the inevitable, I actually tried to quit last week, in an effort to save everyone the unsavory consequences of being stuck with an employee who “isn’t a good fit.” I came into the office, announced to OM that clearly I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of things, so much for that extensive college education, and why didn’t we all just cut our losses right now and I’d be on my merry way. After all, 72 other applicants applied for this job, surely one of them is still willing and available. She said she’d been too hard on me, would I please forgive her, and doctor would like to see me. I marched into his office where I presented the same speech, then added for good measure a bit about how I’d gotten spoiled from living off my savings after selling my house a few years ago, which allowed me to simply write and not have to worry about mundane and annoying little distractions like making a living. I told him, in a burst of bare naked honesty, that I realized after working in his office for two weeks, “how much I really detest office work.” He seemed surprised to hear this. “It’s not rocket science,” he told me. “Precisely,” I said. I waited for my dismissal. Instead, he announced he’d chastised OM for what he referred to as picking on me, and asked me if I’d give them another chance.

So here I am, filing charts and sending faxes and making appointments and dodging phone calls having to do with patients wanting tomorrow’s laboratory results today and nursing home facilities wanting to speak to doctor about the prescription for Mrs. Smith’s increasingly bothersome incontinence, and thinking what a relief it would be if OM really did fire me. Which is crazy stupid, because I need the money, and this is the only job, albeit part-time, I’ve got at present. Yet the fact is, I hold onto this position for that reason alone, and have to drag my sorry ass in to work it filled with compunction and reluctance every time. The fact is, I detest living in a world where your worth is based on what you do to acquire money, and acquiring money is the primary motivating force for your existence once you reach the age of “independence.” This world is so wrapped up in the exchange of performing some duty for receipt of an intangible which we endow with power and sustenance that those who reject the logic and benefit of such a system are shunned outright as slackers, bums, worthless leaches and downright losers. Creativity for its own sake is given no value whatsoever, and there is no such thing as the inherent worth of a human being. You are tolerated at best, and made to feel ashamed and inferior for your lack of “contribution to society” if you don’t throw yourself wholeheartedly into the pursuit of work for remuneration. That’s just how it is and is likely to continue for the foreseeable future.

Still, I think I’ll secretly continue to fantasize about OM giving me a pink slip. Somehow the idea that it’s right around the corner makes it just a tad easier to bear when she sighs deeply and takes a chart from my hands, muttering under her breath, “I’ll just do it myself, that way I know it’ll be done right. Go and make 100 copies of that form, will you?”

And if I don’t ever get the hang of it? So much the better. As Bindo says, doing stuff is overrated. I mean really, what I long to do, what my heart cries out for – shit, gotta run. OM is coming and I still haven’t collected those urine samples…

In sotte voce

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2009 by 1writegirl

Artist by nature Soul intemperate Inclined to drift conceive and flight of fancy Voice of darkness crescendo dwellings deep Too ugly or lovely too high low bright piercing unbearable unspeakable inappropriate
Unmanageable

Inseparable from truest self

Denied Driven Pummeled to conform Guided by the guided masses To square rooms milk toast tidy hedgerows And acts of submission Clocking in clocking out marriage to a woman without the merest hint of a soul Yet clothed always in the finest Ever prepared eternally equipped with just the Right thing to say in any given circumstance Any man’s asset Hair coiffed in place Long lacquered spikes painted in muted pastels That reflect In the fading autumn light Lukewarm living settling up and settling down Five o’clock cocktail hour with the Joneses Garage with house attached Labels on children’s clothes (One boy, one girl) Track meets PTA dentist appointments and college funds Scrimping, saving, spending

Starving

In sotto voce

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.