IRL

In real life
sticky black ink
pools at the tip
of my writing pen
it bleeds onto my
fingernail–the ugly one that
was slammed in the front door
I lick my fingernail, wipe
it on my sleeve but the
ink stays, it cannot
be deleted–
which almost
surprises me.

I stare at the page.
my handwriting is that
of a harried, unbalanced person
my handwriting is not feminine
it does not stand up strait but bows
and curls with the weather, with mood
I hate it. I wish my words could be as
pretty as type, as pretty as font.

In moments of weakness and disillusion I
desire — foolishly — to filter our life.
perfectly symmetrical
handwritten pages of
original thought.
this might bring me some joy,
create some illusion of order.

How can I work with ugly and imperfect?
I mean, the goal now is that nothing
is ugly and imperfect: nothing should be
not with the tools we have today
Not our penmanship or our thoughts,
not our friends or our parties and
most importantly: not our faces
oh heavens no, not our faces.

Funny how in our pajamas,
slack jawed and scratching
here and there,
breathing heavily
through garlicked tongue,
we click and primp — determined
to camouflage our shortcomings
(as if nobody knows they’re there)
but in reality when we up and walk
from the computer: we are no better off
than when we sat down

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

IRL we are worse for the wear,
evolving, stupidly
toward disillusionment
passing it off as enlightenment.

I cannot help but wonder where
we’ll end up

How deep the divide of fantasy
and reality
will widen

Windchime

A windchime
shutters to life.
Little had I thought
of a windchimes need
for chaos and swirl.
“Be the windchime”
I realize
as practice closes
and in perfect timing I
am set to step into Now,
despite the unpredictable
circumstances and
clouds,
those pushing undercurrents,
life’s unavoidable buoys and lifts,
life’s twisting gates,
opening and closing
with the weather,
with storm
“Be the windchime”
I realize
Make sweet sounds
in the turbulence
of your own life
not for others this time,
but for you

You are the windchime

Where Do You Go? (A Note on Solitude)

In the beginning of silence and solitude, it actually gets really loud. This is all the residual chatter and chimes pouring out, hesitantly, from your mind. This can take some time. These are nothing more than the bells and whistles of your life–the catch phrases and fillers, the advertisements and the one-liners you and your loved ones have been feeding you. Where do you go…my lovely?  Where do you go?

You almost have to cover your ears, only to realize it’s all in your head…and it’s actually really very quiet out for once. You’ve picked a nice spot. So you take your hands off your ears. You are kind of surprised and aroused by the solitude.

In the beginning of silence and solitude you are THUNDERED by your thoughts. I’d forgotten about that. It had been so long. The longer it’s been, the louder it gets I suppose.

You are smiling and alone.
That rare experience of being yourself, 
when knowing you are not being observed
and you really genuinely are free.
This is you
Ah, that feeling,
that knowing
that freedom
yourself!
where do you go?
my lovely
where do you go?

I want to know

Reading at the Old School House

 

schoolhouse

Authors Evening at the Schoolhouse | Junction City, Oregon | March 5th | 7 pm
91949 Purkerson Road, Junction City, OR, 97448

Please join us for the first annual Authors Evening at the Old Schoolhouse, featuring poetry by local poet Terah Van Dusen (Love, Blues, Balance and New Moon), prose by local authors Danuta Pfeiffer (Chiseled, A Memoir of Identity, Duplicity, and Divine Wine), Jacquie “Jax” Manning (Caribbean Shadows), Kathleen Cremonesi (Love in the Elephant Tent: How Running Away with the Circus Brought Me Home) and acoustic guitar by local musician Josh Pitney.

$10 entrance covers a lovely selection of desserts made with local  Camas Country grains, coffee and tea. Local Bennett Winery wines available for purchase by the glass. Proceeds go directly into the school fund to continue renovating this beautiful old schoolhouse into a community event center and home for the arts.

Space limited to 50 guests, so please call 541-357-5448 to reserve your tickets!

Home

Home
the most irresistible
place, the only space
where I wither and bloom
and tincture myself with
crystals and sage
and ice cream

Home
where lamp chops
fry and soups wait patiently
on the stove top for no one
but us and company if we’re
lucky, if we’re not

Home
It’s where I
begin again
where I end
where I cannot hide
where I can
where he kisses me
and promises me things
big things, unimaginable things
that he would never utter elsewhere
but home

Home
it’s where I dream

it’s where I live the
dream too