No Socials
I’m disconnected
I’m free
I’m risen with glee
I find my esprit in my own jamboree
in heavy heat of day,
in heavy gait
with heavy beats—
right hind leg,
right fore, left hind,
left fore, and so on.
slow, smooth. but she
trots now, seeing
canine-friend,
human-friend to enjoy
a cool rinse, a fresh-
picked black raspberry.
she nudges us both,
cuddles close. three
cats stretch in loft—
lacie’s large brown eyes
take all in. mine, too.
i breathe in
a ton of love.
Tins of olive oil
from the land of your birth
crowd your cabinets, the perfect
blocks for small hands to play with.
The sound of oil popping as it
enfolds bell peppers frying in the
cast iron skillet, creating the forever smell
of your house.
Crocheted covers embrace tables and beds,
gifts of elegance created by your hands large
and worn from the working, making, and giving
of your many years.
The noodles only you could make, kneading the
secrets held in your heart, pressing them each
Sunday, sprinkled delicately with flour and love.
I see them draped over the backs of the dining room
chairs waiting to dry.
the rains came down
and the rivers rose
and the winds blew
and that which was
a solidly built structure
gave way in the storm
no fool was involved
every caution was taken
but the skies had decided
the house had to go
that’s what faith
and bettering myself
seems to earn me
a cycle of growth
then unfair destruction
then picking up the pieces
has me wondering
if the foolishness comes
from trying to build
anything at all
The depths of your core squeeze
And your eyes squint,
Almost all the way shut,
Your lips part
And the sound,
unique to only you,
Pushes out, forcing your jaw to expand
enough to allow room for the booms
of joy…
I have often fancied myself “funny.”
Finding humor amid failures,
inappropriate moments,
mistakes, even in the movements of others, strange thoughts,
my neurosis are particularly comical as well.
or the way people use their face in so many ways.
And of course, the best part of honing the label of
“being funny,” is having a part in making people laugh.
Because… we ALL freaking need it.
Working (re: social work) with vulnerable adults can be challenging.
Especially when years of protective factors come into play,
creating barriers.
A person with their guard held high,
is my favorite opportunity
to implore a challenge against the bold encasing…
Sarcasm is specifically my most treasured brand,
And often most successful.
Slice the ice…
with some,
good,
ole fashion
mockery.
When cussed by client that I am trying to help manage their money so they do not become homeless (again), becomes hostile, complaining of me being “up his ass:”
“Oh, yes, dude, I can promise you one thing to be true, up your ass is the absolute last place I desire to be. So, if you could just help me stay outta there, I (and probably you) would appreciate that. So, let’s try this again, Mr. Happy Sunshine.”
Mr. Happy Sunshine indeed chuckled and loosened his shoulders.
There we go. We are both just human.
And if the time is right (well, or if it isn’t),
Add in some voices.
Oh man.
Some tried and true characters (who have rarely failed me):
We have;
Judy from London, who laughs with an overwhelming squeal, and is always, always drunk with hiccups,
Todd, who is very “bro,” and thinks females are innately beneath him, and being a man gets him everywhere, but he fails to see he is nowhere.
Betty, the old lady, who cannot for the life of her use an iPhone, or understand the “progressive” world we live in.
Billy or Billy Joe, the redneck, (must protrude teeth and generally contort face into looking like utter dumbass); typically used when referring to racists or ignorance in general (I know, I know… I am irreverent).
Marvin the Martian, who will eventually successfully blow up the earth (one of my oldest voices),
And
Karen, of course, needs no explanation.
And of course there is the character that IS my daughter, who is a whole “thing” of preteen joy and ‘tude with a personality as big (and beautiful) and unrulely as her hair… She gets the most pissed. But man, she makes it easy.
Introducing… The Comedian (yes, I know, a character role as well);
Breaker of silence, stifle-er of pain, releaser of whatever is inside, reflective listener, troublemaker, ADHD spewing, faker until maker,
Yes… fake laugh, until it turns real.
I. Dare. You.
Flashback:
Without a doubt, like clockwork, eyes watering, pursed lips, until I cannot hold it in and snot flies out with a chuckle during the DEAD SILENT PARTS of Catholic mass…
And the inevitable, ultimate disconcerted look of disappointment and anger from my father. I still do not know what was so funny… Replaying the horrible a cappella attempt from the poor soul of a song leader…? Or mostly looking at my friend and simply knowing we are not supposed to make a sound, let alone laugh.
Repeating “Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh…” until it was Marvin the Martian’s voice in my head saying, “LAUGH LAUGH LAUGH. It’s all funnnnny! Blow it up! Laugh!”
And more times that I would like to admit, I am a “laugh until pee-er”… If the laugh turns silent, then you can bet to catch me sprinting to the bathroom.
But. I don’t want to laugh alone. I want you to laugh with me.
But. I would also appreciate being the reason for your laughter… 🙂
your secrets clench my stomach,
First
in the dark
I see them
atone them.
I travel
many roads
with my eyes
closed.
Still
I find my
way past ru-
ins burned to
the ground with
misused words
said in my
sleep.
I
will not be
what I dreamed
for I will
be what I
dreamed (& dreams
lie when shown
truths).
Watch
me re-hurt
whom I hurt,
empty shirts
filled
with vanished
men who know
me.
When
I wake, these
flaws will stay
free
from
me & me
from them (both
true).
Sound
like sh-t to
you? Nothing
new.
Post poems
It starts with a dip in energy
followed by mysterious aches
that morph into chronic pains
accompanied by clicks,
clacks, and grinding sounds
the symphony
of wakeful
movement
Age.
