Parker’n me…

18 Saturday Aug 2018

Tags

Dorothy Parker, Life, Poetry, Self, Staying another day

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

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The Guarded Peony does Haiku

09 Saturday Jun 2018

Imperiled by Elk
I have watched you like a hawk
Pretty Flamingo

It is not without awe, that I scribe these words, for I am, Peony.
this day. Yours, most burgeoning-ly in full bloom, and with an attitude
of Elk-peril be damned,
~Marcela.
June 08, 2018

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Remnants

05 Tuesday Jun 2018

Tags

Fear, Humanity, Personal Power, Poetry, Truth

 
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

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Announcement!

19 Saturday May 2018

Posted by ~MyLa in Poetry

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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.

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One fine day, child… A Birthday Poem

22 Thursday Mar 2018

Tags

Family, Motherhood, Poetry, Relationships

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that the single fiercest battle you will ever wage,

the only one from which you must emerge victorious,

is the one against and with,

yourself.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that the only human behaviour,

which you ought critique in any great depth,

the solitary one you possess any capacity to revise,

is your own.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that in order to live a life you want,

you must tune out the auditory barrage of the box and masses,

ignore all but one voice,

that, of your deepest self.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that to err is the essence of humanity,

and risk is the singular path upon which you must tread,

in order that you become,

your truest you.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that failure lies not in mis-steps,

but in lack of trying,

and that success is yours to gauge and judge,

yours, and yours alone.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that we occupy a world laden with the land-mines of our own, and other’s planting,

that detonation will pain you but you will suffer less,

for you will have learned to navigate,

the rough patches.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that ours is a culture cancerous of spirit, and bereft of critical thought,

that no action is benign and the choice of impact,

as detriment or contribution is yours,

solely, yours.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that love without labour is something else,

that joy cannot be known in the absence of sorrow,

and that contradiction is at the core,

of a life well thought.

One fine day, child,

you will, of-a-sudden realize,

that our time here is indeed finite,

that procrastination is a drug as powerful as heroin,

tempting as a sea siren and equally deadly,

heed not, her call.

This, is one fine day, child!

Happy 27th birthday Thomas, I love you more than life, and we know that’s a big-ass bunch, because even in the middle of life’s biggest bitch-slaps, I have a fairly healthy love affair going on with her, crazy bitch that she is… I still love you more, there can never be enough, or the (w)rite, words… Thanks for your limitless patience with my human folly, a loyalty defying description, and for providing me with that most ubiquitous of concepts, hope, for our species…

Fully yours, with every ounce of everything I am, and always with some awe and madd gratitude that you turned out to be you, despite me.

Love,

~Mama.

March 22, 2018

Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Life Lessons & Stories, Poetry

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Your Chainsaw Voice – a nod to unruly work-folks… and others…

18 Sunday Mar 2018

Tags

Burnout, Humanity, Life, Personal Power, Poetry


Your chainsaw voice  
has dismembered
the last vestiges of sanity
in my human shell
severed the final tendon
connecting compassion to my heart   

Your rusty-grater words
have shredded
the final ounce of patience
in my once limitless hoard
corroded beyond salvage the walls
containing my desire to be your ally

Your atomic bomb behaviours
have irradiated
the remaining molecule of hope
for your salvation
jaded this now impermeable spirit
to anything but its own voice.

It is a brutal irony, that as my desire to exit the work-world I so grindingly (yes, that is a word!) and lovingly built grows with a vehement vengeance each day, the place and space for which I pay such a hefty premium to escape to, has been anything but peaceful in the oh-so-limited time I have to enjoy(?) it, of late. The level of human disregard for others in some of my neighbours runs deep, the ridiculous human folly of my most inglorious work-folks, along with our culture’s obscene systems and structures, follow me home for longer and longer stays, and the gargantuan contradiction that is my life continues… on the flip-side, I have, without fail, only ever built anything meaningful, to me, on the foundation of strife, struggle and/or suffering… it appears that a skyscraper is in the making here…

~Marcela: corroded and unchained

March 18, 2018

Chainsaw image from google search.

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Good Morning Sailor…

11 Sunday Feb 2018


Would you like your coffee here, or there?
Would you like to have it, with some flair?
Would you like it in a cup?
C’mon Sailor, bottoms Up!
Oooh! Bottoms… blush…

Would you like your wench, to serve,
your cuppa Joe with a lil’ swerve?
Would you like it with a wink of her eye?
Would you like it, with some (bacon) pie?
Aaah!  Pie… tee hee…

Would you like it with some ‘spice’?
Or should I add a little ice?
I could oblige your salty, here, or there,
I can accommodate you, anywhere!
Oh! Even there…? wink…

Would you like your coffee on your boat?
Though from this lake we cannot float, there.
We’ll just have it, in my lair,
sorry ‘bout that curly hair!
OhMy!
Good morning Sailor ;)

Writing and Images: All Rights Reserved.

Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, Tales out of School

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Ugh, a grown-up goodbye…

15 Monday Jan 2018

I (re)bid farewell to a Sailor,

then I stacked wood and cried.

I was tempted to talk to a Sailor,

so I swept the deck and cried.

I pined for the touch of a Sailor,

but remembered my heart and cried.

I ached for the wit’n winks of a Sailor,

so I ran the stairs and cried.

I re-read fond words from a Sailor,

wanted to burn them and cried, cause they’re in my damn phone and lappy!

I remembered the ‘delete’ features of modern technology,

smiled wistfully at self and realized holy shit I’m a grown up,

and cried.

And then I laughed and laughed,

‘cause it’s all such a fucking ride!

There is something so much less satisfying about a more grown up perspective to romance, love, sex and knowing more about how we work, and don’t. Acting in my own best interest, despite the requisite pangs I know it brings is sad, because there is something a little more self-righteously gratifying, in the immediate discomfort of the moment, to childishly expounding on another’s un-virtuous behaviour, than in owning one’s own. Knowing, accepting, that I went into something that probably wouldn’t work for me over the longer term, but being willing to have a go anyway, eyes truly wide open, is so damned mature, that I’m angry about it because it takes away the previously noted gratification of stomping my (fifty)six-year old feet. Someday, other than this one, I will publish the (for real) ‘Dear John’ letter (yeah, I did that) and other correspondence associated with this most grown up parting of ways, for it holds all kinds of ‘interesting’ in relation to the psychology of love and the human folly of romance, but for now;

Against all odds and my own attempts at not, I am Adulting today. Who fucking knew?

Momentarily dry-eyed and temporarily in my right mind,

~Marcela: maturely unfiltered.

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As Is… Finale.

29 Wednesday Nov 2017

And as the waves crash onto the shores of my beloved bay on a blustery-warm, almost end-of-summer day, so the wind blows through away the remnants of the havocs and hatreds you wreaked, upon every square inch of my world.

It is not that I still writhe in the agony of your countless and sundry tyrannies, it is my astonishment at the brilliance deceitfulness and deliberateness, with which you so expertly executed them, that prompts me to waste my words thoughts on you again.

And as the last of the summer-people roll up the dirty mats outside the glamping monstrosities they rolled into this tiny bay on, so I endeavour to roll up the dusty track upon which I have trudged, in my efforts to expunge the dirty, self-hating demons that set up camp in my person, when I realized who what you were are, and what your mission was is.

It is not that I am regretful of my suffering over these 14 months, for it has brought me to the wisest, fiercely-softest incarnation of me to date, it is that I am bewildered at the calculated depravity with which you pursued orchestrated the demise of my core, in order that you could take from me that which you came for: my stability, my worth; emotional, psychological, intellectual and economic.

And as I pack up my favourite things and sort through turf the last vestiges of you from my being, my home and my worlds, so I prepare, with peace and gratitude, to leave the place and space I escaped you to, for one with nary a trace of your existence… and I leave dispose of you, for good.

And as the Maples and Cottonwoods drop their riotous fall colours, and frost and snow hit the tiny Bay with the same vengeance with which you collided slammed into my being, so I drop the frozen weight of your revile and it shatters on the ground into a million tiny ice crystals.

It is not that they are sharp, broken shards; it is that they have landed on my new ground, formed created frozen images, beautiful, like the hoarfrost I marvel at, fragile, powerful, and vulnerable to the thaw which inevitably occurs, at the end of a period of iciness, frostbite, even.

It is not that you held me hostage for the 14 months since I fully uncovered your sociopathic duplicity imposture and ran limped away, it is that I held myself captive, with self-reproach and other useless recriminations, and it behooves me to end the ‘As Is…’ saga with this, my final message to you:

Your dirty, narcissistic misdeeds have backfired, for I am the exact opposite of what you so purposefully endeavored to tear me down into.

And while I have very little but pity and the DSM diagnoses I normally abhor left for you, I hold myself, in the highest, kindest, esteem.

~Marcela.

November 29, 2017.

Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Life Lessons & Stories, Poetry

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