Category Archives: Poetry

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Un-learned; an Intelligence of Self.

26 Tuesday Feb 2019

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“The Artist is no other than [s]he who unlearns what [s]he has learned, in order to know [her]himself.”
-E.E. Cummings

The longer I write, create anything, the more I get this on a level so profound it hurts; and it hurts so good that at some point it stops hurting, and serves to validate, that, which I have always known, self.

The less I care about what you or anyone think, of anything I create, written or otherwise, the more I unlearn about all you and they have inured me with: false concepts and ideas, of who and how to be.

The more I unlearn about these things you have gifted me with, the less I need your, and their validation for my art; or anything, pertaining to me, any little thing at all.

And the less I need your validation, the more forth-rightly I can inform you, when you have mis-read me, again, and care little, if at all, about what you do with that. This is a freedom, an intelligence of self, I have not known, here-to-fore.

~Marcela.
February 26, 2019.

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Diamonds’n Hoars

17 Thursday Jan 2019

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        Cold-drunken Hoars, drop
        frosty icicle diamonds
        in the grassy ditch


Marcela: itching to go walkabout,
January 17, 2019
Image and Poetry: Please share without plagiarizing. Thank you.

 

 

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First, Conquer Self.

06 Sunday Jan 2019

As I watch the squalls bend the fir and cedar behemoths surrounding this house,
see the lake pound the log booms, docks and boathouse into the most bizarre angles,
I am struck by the thought that while I yearn for straightforward, low-maintenance,
I repeatedly choose complicated, convoluted, even, for that thing we call home.

As I navigate flying tree limbs and floods driving the scary highway for the umpteen-millionth time,
curse the road-warriors recklessly passing logging trucks to beat all of us to the same place by 2 minutes,
I am struck by the thought that while beautiful; this place, metaphorically and realistically speaking,
is so far away from the peace and solitude I so desperately crave, that it is indeed, its antithesis.

As I gaze upon my storied-face, decorated with the lines and ridges of a life well enjoyed, and suffered,
pick up electronic and figurative stylus, to scribe chapter six in the book of my nine(teen) lives,
I am struck by the thought that while spectacular in appearance at first glance, like the lake it abuts,
below the immediate surface of this home, looms the deepest dark of high-maintenance and very little peace.

As I rest on this, the final day before the next enormous learning curve in the profession I hate to love,
play many games of solitaire and look out upon the best vista eVer from my beloved, flannel bedecked bed,
I am struck by the thought that while I am as restless a spirit as the scary-wild weather patterns of late,
I am urgently compelled to settle into, a life of less (everything), in order to enjoy, a life of more, me.

And as the gusts move on and we dodge the next wind-storm-blackout-bullet,
so I dodge my own impulsive need to bust the next big move,
and I cancel the viewing of a beautiful, beautifully low maintenance
domicile, in another community.

And I whisper to self: patience Grasshopper-Queen, patience!
One big move at a time! For while we know, you and I, that you
‘can deal,’ with more, it is not an advisable choice at this this juncture.

For to simplify, to conquer the goal of less,
requires a practice of restraint. So do not obfuscate, with more.

First, conquer self.

January 06, 2019
Image & writing: All Rights Reserved.

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Idiomatic Idea(l)s

11 Sunday Nov 2018 

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 

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Where do we run to, Sister….?

03 Saturday Nov 2018

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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.

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While you were busy…

29 Monday Oct 2018

 



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.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2cgcx-GJTQ&feature=player_embedded&fbclid=IwAR2XsYLCspcaxSXWKwzcRkEKJhzi80_o3nuYBOWuOqHq5xEzRQyV3p-szvA

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

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Parker’n me…

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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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 Mouse and the Rabbit in a Sandstone Wall

20 Friday Jul 2018 

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

 

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3 Yeaяs Shoяt of 60 – a Tяanscendental Meditation

19 Thursday Jul 2018

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.

~Marcela M.
July 19, 2018
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Я’evolution – a Haiku

18 Wednesday Jul 2018

~Marcela M.
July 18, 2018
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