Tags
Intense
Intense is confused, contradictory,
Intense is conflicted.
Intense is connected, insightful, wise, crazy, vulnerable and volatile, even.
Intense is wild, unfettered.
Intense is not funny or amusing;
Intense is hilarious.
Intense cannot be contained, will not be boxed.
Intense puts shattered pieces together;
creating a picture more beautiful,
than the seemingly in-tact.
Intense grows wings, makes pigs fly.
Intense knows not, of impossibility.
Intense is creativity, its core, its essence.
Intense is never indifferent, mediocre or neutral.
Intense knows no middle ground.
Intense is love and hate, war and peace, black and white;
but Intense resides, in living colour.
Intense is primary, neon, even.
Intense registers no nuanced hues or shades of gray, has no space for washed out and faded.
Intense is not boastful, but aware of its internal power.
Intense is student and teacher.
Intense appears bossy, but is in actuality, a leader.
Intense roars loudest when silent.
Intense will not walk the talk of shameful suffering and pastel-coloured pity.
Intense occupies souls, fuels infernos of spirit-blazes too hot to extinguish.
Intense will be doused only, with (premium) fuel.
Feed the flame;
watch,
Intense incinerate,
evil; with Love.
Postscript:
Intense will no longer apologize for its intensity.
©Marcela Y. Mrnka
Original written in 2014, edited for publication July 17, 2022.
Page 27
Because I have known heart-breaking loneliness,
I know and crave, the bliss of solitude.
Because I have known spirit-crushing abuse,
I know and love, with compassion and empathy.
Because I have known mind-boggling ignorance,
I know and seek, emotional and intellectual intelligence.
Because I have known self-stifling entrapment,
I know and revel in, autonomy and freedom and self.
Because I have known trust-shattering dishonesty,
I know and live, truth and fielty.
Because I have known soul-ripping harshness,
I know and pursue, a softer side of being - me.
Because I have known gut-wrenching hatred,
I know and endeavor, to default to love.
~Marcela: knowing… but not all… never all…
June 09, 2021
I am not content to fall,
any deeper,
into the hole in my soul,
which was once occupied by the relationship with you,
my only child.
I am not content to dwell,
any longer,
on that which has befallen us,
respectively,
my dearest friend.
I am not content to remain,
paralyzed,
in a robotic survival,
originating in the grotesque realities of this life and world,
yours, mine or ours.
I am intent,
on creating something,
anything,
other than:
black holes
broken hearts
and trudge.
I may not know, may not see, yet,
this new future,
but I am fervently and passionately,
intent,
on creating it.
One
Foot
In
Front
Of
The
Next
I am not content;
therefore:
I am intent.
~Marcela: moving toward that which has eluded me most of my life,
one well-shod step at a time.
February 20, 2021
Photo and writing: All Rights Reserved.
My oppositional flailings
to the expectation-less relationship
you desired,
have inadvertently
weathered my person
into a deepening of spirit,
reminiscent of the sea-years
etched upon your face
dearest Sailor.
With the persistence
of waves on stone
at the seashore,
these flailings and failings
have smoothed
harmful rough edges,
jagged bits of a younger, old me
no longer useful
to anyone.
And I am grateful.
Not despite,
but because of,
that which my net
failed to capture.
~Marcela: version 57.9 despite myself.
June 22, 2019
Remnants
Like an old (Czech) 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 damned 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
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.
As I pluck, the stray hairs from my face,
I try to ponder with some grace,
this crazy thing, called Aging.
As I take my locks, from gold to dark,
With silver strands just for the lark,
I smile, for I have Lived.
As I view the lines on this visage,
every day is vernissage,
and mostly, I care Not.
And as I judge this culture, youth obsessed,
no more couth do I possess,
than (T)rump-a-dump, himself.
In this world, where absurd is King,
I wag and wonder at this thing,
the phenomena, of Stupid.
We're teaching children, to regurgitate,
are raising mindless reprobates,
in bubble-wrapped, Entitlement.
I yell at them, to read a book,
get your brains back off that fuckin hook,
you call a life, on-line.
And as I sit, with 56.5
I rejoice the years I am alive
Live(d) and Love(d), with frenzied fire’n Passion
A youthful spirit, in its tweens
the wise chick in me hears’n gleans
that this body, doth Protest!
In recent words, to my well-(b)read child
I spoke of this my big wild ride,
and uttered this, fair Warning:
If tomorrow, I should die,
know that my life was not all pie,
but holy fuck me, what a Ride!
Lose no tear, for my time lost here,
I sped through akin to Buzz Lightyear,
had no time, to sweat the small Stuff!
No such burden, as regret,
for NO dull moment did beget,
a single breath, I Took!
And so I enter, this next phase,
In a blur of crazy-dayz,
and with electrifying, Verve!
I ought to warn, you faint-of-hearts,
my new grand plan will have no chart,
to map out how this goes!
So if you love me, in all my glory,
you will know that this next folly,
will be, of proportions Epic!
BOOM.
FALLOUT.
AFTERSHOCK.
SPLASH.
SMILE’n WAVE,
like the Queen I am.
Quack-a-fucking-doodle-dizzy and with a brand new energy,
for an old(er) chick!
~Marcela.
October 21, 2017
Photos and Poetry: All Rights Reserved.
Marcela: Unfiltered 