Poem – Pretty Painted Machine

sports-car-pkw-auto-vehicle-94272.jpeg

 

Perfect new paint shines
covers your body like silk
sheets pulled perfectly tight
across a lovely queen bed.
The scent of new glistens
where leather skin stretches
taught across seat-backs
and arms. You could be held
by a graying lover or a fresh-
faced man-child out for
a first fast ride. You
like the cool room
of glass windows, waxed tile;
equally like the heat
of street and pavement waiting
outside for your display. You
acquiesce easily, push a button,
turn a key, roll forward.
Never complaining about
what you didn’t become
unaware of what you are …
pretty painted machine without
sentience.

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Poem – Beautiful Belle

A Birthday Poem for my daughter . . .

Red Moon Diary

pexels-photo-211757.jpegBeautiful Belle

~for my daughter BJC on her 34th birthday

Beautiful Belle of red blood and divine light

Battling strangulation in the womb

As the tangled intentions of nature and spirit grew

To emerge from darkness, life unbound —

Screaming your first exhale on a Friday afternoon.

Beautiful Belle of sea foam and fire

Entering through a door of complexity and tangled intentions –

Newborn child to a child of sixteen, the warlike forces

Of class and culture and mystery and possibility

Dancing in the air of your birth, at the foot of your crib.

Beautiful Belle of soft pulse and warm breath

Vibrant child of bruises and cuts and fearless

Determination to run toward the waiting world

Dragging your brother by the hand, always seeking

Another adventure of happy mischief and bubbling laughter.

Beautiful Belle of purple quartz and diamond hardness

Rebelling at every teaching, refusing every lesson,

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The Me That Was Missing (or Buried Under The Weight)

Red Moon Diary

surrealart_24

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.”
― Martha Graham

I missed her. She was a faint memory, a fragment hiding inside my spirit and heart. A ghost-whisper of feeling, presence, image, essence. . .

That me was a kind and gentle person with a quirky sense of humor, a bright sparkly  laugh, that saw people as multi-colored skeins of yarn, unique and beautiful in their various hues. She was the type of gal that understood everyone, including herself, as imperfect individuals fighting their own daily battles to survive, grow, and become. And she recognized that those battles gave people a variegated quality of individuality that made…

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Beauty out of Sorrow

Red Moon Diary

lovbe4

“Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” —Sylvia Plath

The words hurt.

Or, maybe…

The venom of the disease is horrific. It will destroy me if I allow it to.

Or, maybe…

The truth in the words hurts. The reality that I wish was different … but isn’t.

Or, maybe…

The words hurt because they match the actions that (I interpret to) mean I am irrelevant in this relationship. The person I love either too sick or otherwise unable to love me back or show me kindness that is normal between two people who care about one another.

And I keep trying and wanting a “different” answer, keep trying to “force a solution” that lets me find some small happiness in this relationship. But all relationships are partnerships of some sort…

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Finding Our Way Home

Red Moon Diary

black-and-white-branches-tree-high

It is the ongoing, daily living of a spiritual life that has meaning. Our progress may range from dull to spectacular, but we must accept both. Each and every day should be linked together, strung into a long line of prayer beads.

In life, you don’t know how many beads you’ve counted already, and you don’t know how many are yet to come. All that matters is fingering the one that comes to you now and taking the spiritual significance of that moment to heart.

~365 Tao Daily Meditations, p. 226, Deng Ming-Dao.

A daily ritual when I was a child, weather permitting, was me and grandma taking a walk. We lived in the country with over twenty acres of land, cut with numerous footpaths and trails in various states of upkeep, backed up to the house.

Grandma was a weathered sage. She knew the hills and valleys and old…

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Falling Down Again (mu jo)

Red Moon Diary

mu jo   constantly changing (meaning Impermanence) in Zen

“Who am I?” ~ Repetitive life-long question in my journal entries

We all fall down. A comment I say often to my partner during different struggles in his life. A comment that my children have heard me say a million times in their lives. A whisper in my mind to myself during difficult times.

This was my personal mantra that meant:

We all fall down, but then we stand back up. We all make mistakes and are less than we wish to be, BUT we can find our way through it and grow and become better. We can become anything we want to be. The key is not to quit, not to give up hope. God will help you, you will figure it out,  and it will all turn out for the best.

That mantra had served me well through…

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Theory of Artists and Artistic Value

Poetry is a Verb!

Alastair Magnaldo 2The stunning work of ALMAGNUS

Poetry is a Verb! working theory:

1. All human beings possess creative abilities whether or not explored and utilized in their daily existence.

2. We define the Artist or Creative as anyone who practices or performs any of the creative arts; as one using the skill of creative expression in an artistic method.

3. The judgement of others in regard to the output and quality of creative work is arbitrary; based on individual and cultural bias, the historical  time-period in which one lives, and an individuals background and belief systems.

4. Thus, no one (including the creative individual themselves) can accurately judge the artist or the work and its overall contribution to humanity.

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Image on Wednesday

main red

Imagine the Past as a body
perhaps male
dressed sharp in black tux
arms open – stance solid
ready for the dance

Imagine the Present as a body
perhaps female
dressed elegant in red silk
arms open – face smiling
ready for the dance

Imagine the Poem as music
a slow rhythm
a four count – with husky undertones
of the ancient Mississippi blues
playing as they dance

Imagine the Past   Present   Poem
as the dance of life
sashaying by
drifting in time
toward the future

formal dance3

The Only Us That Endures

sophisticate-richard-young

Only in the backwoods of Carolina
in the Year of Our Lord, 1982
would the marriage of a 23 year old man
and a 15 year old girl
make sense. And
Without a pregnancy, to boot!
No need for a shotgun

wedding
except we loved before we knew
what love cost,
the price exacted
as that first great flame of crush
burns low, embers left
dying.

You were my person of first things:
First trip to the mall
First dinner in a steakhouse
First trip to a movie theater
to watch romance
complete
its union through Richard
and Debra in An Officer and A Gentleman.

All with you. Before then
I walked through gardens, picked peaches.
Motorcycle gangs and Jack Daniels drinking —
straight from the bottle — rape violence poverty
the three demons of daily existence.

I believed
You could save me
but it would take years to understand
the depth of that damage,
more years to know no one
could save me from myself.
I hated me years before you
with that cold-sterile hatred.

My promise of kindness
like that day I gave you
a shoulder rub, like
our first Christmas shopping
the mall in Charlotte, the night
I sat in the new pink nightgown
beside the Christmas tree and you
said I was beautiful. Then

I wished I could use your eyes
not those dirty broken lenses I owned.
And I wish the children knew now
How much we loved back then —
air to lungs, pulse through blood —
before they became the only us that endures.

Photo Credit: Sophisticate by Richard Young