Irons in fires and babies in bathwater burning hands on hot choices tossing dreams with the gray matter Dead horses are flogged and red herrings are leaders drown on dry land cry-cry the bleeders Cats bark up the wrong trees and worship false gods disheveled deliriums reverence for frauds Covet glittering fool’s gold and turning blind eyes doves are but pigeons baked blackbird pies Stitch in time saving nine and the madd hatter’s head gear leaches mercury anyway insane-inside voices leer jeer and snear Knights in armour so shiny and heads up in clouds chainmails breed rust glory dreams become shrouds Hold feet to wildfires and get raked over coals an ingrate's in-gratitude shown to kind souls Hands unfit to hold candles and heads full of loose screws hold powerful offices govern from pews Low men on high horses and caught with pants down got nil on Godiva gadding all about town Pots call kettles black and once upon a blue moon justice prevails victories small and hard hewn Keeping nose to the grindstone and paying with arms legs and heart a fertile mind screams just keep making art Get your three squares and beeline to the hive but find the bumblers and fumblers they are your tribe Life in a pickle jar and facing the music pay heed inner wild children they are the muses Make all days red letter and pull out all the stops climb trees climb mountains view your world from hilltops live high on that hog for yours doth have wings and when lift-off fails get up on a swing Affix rose coloured glasses and don your finest of finery misbegotten cretins remain but you’ll make damn fine scenery ~Marcela: Idiomatically yours. November 11, 2018 Poetry: All Rights Reserved, please share with attribution Image: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Don%27t_throw_the_baby_out_with_the_bathwater
Where do we run to Sister? The noise on the outside, the noise in our heads, where do we run to Sister? May we find a place to rest our minds for the noise all around is building prison walls with no means of escape, where do we run to Sister?
I run no more Brother, I run no more. I find solace in my mind for I know it to be aware and fertile. I find peace in my heart with self for I know me better, now. I seek peace and solitude in my personal environment for my public environments are loud with others’ pain. I run no more Brother, I run no more.
Be still in your heart my Sister, for it knows the true meaning of truth & tranquility. Run no more my Sister. Be still in your heart…
My heart breaks my Brother, my heart breaks. It breaks or us, for them, for me… and I understand, why Vincent cut off his ear… .
I understand as well, we are here for other reasons, not to gouge out our eyes or cut off our ears. We are here to witness and listen. We must give credence to those who cannot do for themselves… he says as he carries his 20 year old dog outside, because he can no longer make the journey alone. Along with the fear in his eyes I see much love and understanding as he holds on knowing that he is safe in my arms. Soon I will have to let go, where do I run to sister?
I held Gloria’s hand, for she had no other, when her eyes saw no more, and I had to let her go. I understand. I seek Brother, and we run no more, we run no more.
Gloria was honoured to have held your hand, she moves on knowing that some one cared and now she too, runs no more. I love you sister…
We have battled over our differences, only to find, that we are so alike. I love you brother.
We battle no more my sister, we battle no more… we took different paths to get to the same place. One can only fight with one self for so long before the futility becomes evident and it is evident to me that we are ONE my sister, we stand together as one, and we run no more.
I cry tears of joy my Brother, I cry tears of joy. And I laugh my Brother, I laugh aloud! For we are cut from the same cloth, and our seams are crooked, but they tear no more Brother, they tear no more!
Yes, they are crooked and you know we wouldn’t have it any other way, the straight path was never meant for us… we are adventurers of sorts and must stray off the path every now and then. It is what makes us feel alive. Walk the crooked path my sister for I am behind you sewing up the seams and filling the potholes as you do for me.
Where do we run to sister, where do we run…? We run no more Brother, we run no more.
This poem is the literal and direct outcome of something I posted to my personal Facebook page. It is the ensuing thread of comments/replies, to the original post. In it, I was expressing my dismay with others’ disregard for their neighbours. The post occurred in a moment of significant emotional, physical and psychological fatigue and pain. The unwitting poem began with the heartfelt words of my brother Tom in response, and took us somewhere quite unexpected, or is it… that? Out of current and more long ago struggles and battles, individual and mutual, we created something deeply meaningful to me, and I am thunderstruck by its depth and the reverberations still going through me, hours later… I am beautifully blind-sided, by its acuity and by its power to break me down, in the most beautiful way, though not without some anguish, to the core. This could not have happened, without his input, which only serves to underscore and demonstrate, the entire point of my original post, and what I am challenged with on a daily basis: what we do (good/bad and all points in between), matters, has impact, good/bad and all points in between. We are connected to everything and everyone, and we live a world which increasingly diminishes, denies and destroys, that. The words of my brother are his heart, my responses are mine. The continuing love and loyalty of my one and only ever best friend Sue, the immediately raw responses of my friends Collie and Carol to the thread/poem, are theirs, and I am profoundly moved by and grateful for, the presence, in my unruly and precarious life, of these women, and my brother Tom. You have done good work mama Marcella, you have done good work. All of your toil, sacrifice and pain, have not gone unnoticed, have not been in vain. And we love you. This poem is yours, mama, it is of your making, word for word.
~Marcela & Tom, with Sue, Collie and Carol.
November 03, 2018
Writing and photographs: All Rights Reserved.
While you were busy careening toward the artificially-cultured dream, you let your own take a back seat. While you were busy painting a life of colour and nuance into a black and white world, you fell into your own grey area. While you were busy loving haters, because compassion, compromise and ‘the right thing,’ you learned to hate and mistrust yourself. While you were busy over-working to make other lives better, you made your own heartbreakingly hard. While you were busy flailing and falling to live a life long undesirable, your voice drowned in the noise of survival. While you were busy lighting others’ flames to roaring bonfires, your own diminished to barely a flicker. So while you flail and fall, flicker and dim, do heed this voice: for it has found that most calcified crevasse, the one to your heart’s ear, and know; I am you, and: [I will] not go gentle into that good night, [I will] rage, rage against the dying of [my] light.
Sunset Photo & While You Were Busy: All rights Reserved M.Y.M.
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Reading:Dylan Thomas Reads Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
The roar of a trusty steel steed, beneath a lead foot, masks the rolling thunder of a cascade, down a tear-stained cheek. And for but a split second, a mortally wounded, though upright warrior, considers swerving self and her metal mount, into the final oblivion. Parker, Dorothy that is, in all her glory and folly, calls on me to live another day. And so I resume, and re-revise, this life's resumé. ~Marcela: consumed enough to resume. August 18, 2018 Photographs and Writing All Rights Reserved. RESUME by Dorothy Parker: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44835/resume-56d224150522
Breathlessly and without pause the mouse chased the rabbit through the sandstone walls vying for first choice of place beneath the giant toadstool under which she would seek shelter from this her current storm. ~Marcela M. July 20, 2018 Photos and Writing: All rights Reserved
Sailing, with a Salt’n Pepper Sailor of off and on renown
I am shaken to the core by the clearest understanding,
of why we are what we are, to the other.
For one is hard pressed to overlook
the human shipwrecks we often leave in our wake,
in the pursuit of self-serving romance.
Floating, in a sea-water bubble-bath behind his true love, Jezebel
I am deeply aware of self and surroundings,
and laugh inwardly at the ironies of this life.
For one is hard pressed to deny one’s true nature
and relative un-importance,
in the middle of a salt-watery vastness.
Pounding, as the prow of his vessel meets the lumpy sea
I g(r)asp at the why, of THIS relationship,
as opposed to one of our culture’s norm and making.
For as affection must not be confused with ownership
so infidelity not with freedom,
and I languish no more in a union of others’ choosing.
Learning, the literal and metaphorical ropes alongside this(hu)man, in his element I am thunderstruck and blindsided,
with a deeply resonating perspective, of my own met and unmet needs.
For one is hard pressed to disregard the tutelage
of a life’s worth of evidence,
contradicting the common view.
Rolling, the hot silent tears down my cheeks
happy though wistful,
as I stand at the helm while the Sailor rests.
For one is hard pressed to spurn one’s calling to self and freedom
when it is so beautifully modeled,
by a Master of that art.
Counting, as the numbers on my personal odometer
climb toward an undetermined end point,
I remove the next vestige of a life never mine.
For as 3 years short of 60 register in my mind
so the realization that I owe me different,
than that which the box provides.
July 19, 2018
Photos and writing: All Rights Reserved.
Remnants Like an old flag in the wind, tattered remnants of fear, flap relentlessly, in the recesses of my heart and mind; denounce and decry my worthiness of, the unorthodox life I crave. Whispers the fearless wild-child inside, “…burn the flag woman, burn the flag.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ With thoughts of my maternal grandmother, Žofie Schlosser Ševčíková, June 06, 1911 – November 17, 1995. She was inordinately dignified and quite literally worked her fingers to the bone for my mother and her. She did it while standing up to, and then leaving (unheard of at that time), a violently abusive, alcoholic husband. She did it during a time in war-torn Eastern Europe most of us cannot fathom, no matter how many history books we profess to have read. She was profoundly gifted in languages,and well-read. She toiled with her tiny body and life-worn hands,in a way we, of more recent generations cannot know. One of the things I remember most about her is the importance to her, of quality, in everything. And I wonder, knowing what I know about the drudgery, the losses, the sacrifices that were the bulk of her life, I wonder, given the opportunity to ask her about what she would have done differently, had she the chance to be anyone,to do anything,she desired,what that would have been. I am anxious this day,and she came to my mind. She was born 107 years ago. A mere blip on the radar of our Universe, not known to most, but remembered well, by me and my mama,her daughter, this day. ~Marcela: tattered in the process of (more, always more,) unfurling. Writing: All Rights Reserved / Image: Google Search June 06, 2018
Verdant, bordering on showy, the lush greens of spring, …announce their inimitable presence! Ferociously, not unlike yours truly, the Fiddleheads unfurl, …to dazzle us anew! And so I, a self-reinventress, emulate them with an abandon wilder, …than even amok! We are HERE! Hear? ~Marcela: unfurling, again... May 15, 2018 Writing and photograph: All Rights Reserved.