Buddha’s Golden Years

He was squat and round like the Happy Buddha.

He no longer had a care in the world,

yet he worried about everything.

We met in a place called home-his home.

I was a child entrusted with the care of a human being,

A beautiful bald headed, confused little man

who once upon a time had his own life, cares that mattered,

and a vote in his own destiny.

He spent life as a carny, raising roller-skating monkeys.

He could barely tell me anything about them through the haze and worry

of the dementia that was killing him far faster than anything else that plagued him.

His family no longer visited.

His monkey friends were long gone.

A sixteen year old stranger sat at his bedside

while he lay dying.

I cried for his loss and mine.

Guest Bard: She is Raging

 Support Laura at Pubslush

Her every step has set the ground to
Shaking; quaking and trembling,
it’s breaking off at the edges
and swallowing up every ounce
of the requiem, of grief.
The calling of sincerity.
The jeers slipping in her veins
and boiling, bubbling under the surface.
The pressure is building and steam
falls in droplets, carving canyons into
the pale framework of her cheeks.
The landscape has shifted,
rushing in. The scaffolding that held
her little world in place
has turned liquid and swept her
straight off her feet.
She’s sucked up all her skeletons
in the whirlwind of her desire
and torrents of hopelessness have
blackened out the design.
It’s opening inside her:
a daybreak that looks like twilight.
Her womb unlocks like a fissure and there
the storm rages on.
The thump, thump, thump
of her latest plummet.
She does not fall gracefully.
She crawls through the sludge
of her latest defeat, barely on her knees.
Her hands dip into the typhoon,
the endless well of emptiness.
She screams in silent pleas.
A storm bound and bent on the decline
of civilizations, of peoples, of hopes
She’s hollowed out her place here.
She’s settled into the void.
The unfilled.
The vacant.
Carnivorous yearning,
ravenous famine.
Her words are a pestilence,
a plague on those who have stepped back
to watch the rupture,
to mend the breach.
Storm chasers, paparazzi.
She is an epidemic,
Widespread, unchecked,
and unbridled.
Rampant and wild,
she is filling this world.
Encompassing.
Raging.

Laura A. Lord is the founder of the blog, History of a Woman. She is the author of Wake Up a Woman, History of a Woman and The Telling. Her work has been published in The Beacon, Whirl with Words, and The Collegian. She is working on a book featuring her son’s favorite toy, Boo Bear, as well as, Perjury, a collection of short stories and poetry. She lives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with her husband and her two children.

Social Media:

Twitter: @LauraAshleyLord
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Blog: http://historyofawoman.com

Bards’ Verdict: A true whirlwind of feelings, wrapped up in words and somehow made palatable by the benign nature of dark and light pixels, yet beneath them, the emotion of this poem is almost strong enough to break free of the screen.

A quick and heartfelt cry

It’s been days since we last spoke
And I’m wondering why
Did something between us get broke?
All that I know is I
Am wrapped many layers deep
In such insecurity
I can’t ask you outright, so keep
It public by veiling in poetry
Just know that I see you
I’ll wait til you’ve something to say
I’m not trying to reject you
But I can go too far the other way
Sometimes I can frighten
(I think by clinging too tight)
I wish you’d enlighten
Me so I can put this right
Was I inadvertently unkind?
Did I say something rude?
It’s rolling around in my mind
Don’t know what to conclude
If it was something I’ve done
I know that I’ll curse the day
I promise, I’d NEVER intend
To push you (of all people) away
Yet it suddenly dawns on me
That I’m of no consequence
Your life might’ve got busy
Maybe there is no offense
I’m just not important enough
(I’d rather that, than that we had an issue)
Hope you’re off doing wonderful stuff.
In the meantime, I miss you.

Behold – the tree of words

Background: We wanted to do something different as Christmas presents one year, so I wrote this, and we put it with watercolour paintings of trees, in frames, and gave them to our nearest and dearest. Since then I’ve had more fun making images with poetry (did it today, in fact) and LOVE the versatility and cross-over of using the words to physically create the picture.

Guest Bard: Into the Light

Source

Into The Light
There is darkness.
In the drink I hold
There is light.
It is brief.
It is faint.
It is mirage; no oasis,
Only a short road to tragedy.

More darkness.
Let me sleep,
For when I sleep
I do not feel.

In the morn (my last day?),
I take a breath.
The plans for endless darkness fail
As I reach for the light
Held by another.

Yes.
I realize, coming out of the darkness –
Where there is breath
There is
hope.

Sandy is a wife and mom who claims sarcasm as her superpower. When not immersed in the chaos of five kids, a husband, and a dog, she writes – and only hopes she does it well. You can see for yourself at Mother Of Imperfection.

You can also find her here: Twitter, Facebook, Google+, Pinterest, and Bloglovin’.

Bards Verdict: Sandy has the ability to very quickly immerse the reader in emotions not their own, and to take them on a journey with the poem as it moves towards its end.

End Stage (After All These Years)

Attempting to breathe in every ounce of energy that flees my ailing body,

Daily I inhale life-

No longer for the desire to live, but solely on instinct

I am supposed to live.

I am supposed to live because that’s what the brave do.

Because that’s what we tell ourselves—will ourselves to do

Despite the illness, the fatigue, the waiting…

And while I wait,
Razed emotions make futile attempts to emboss themselves upon my soul

They leave no lasting marks

They make no impression to stir my withering core

Yet the body keeps on

Separate but conjoined

Siamese twins of the psyche, unable to be parted without death of one or both

The courageous will forge ahead

Because that’s what they do

Valiant, heroic—the words of survivorship

 I am supposed to live.

I am supposed to live, because that’s what the courageous do.

Time has stolen the desire to live, in exchange for the compulsion to exist.

Among less seasoned survivors

I may appear fearless.

I am simply fatigued.

 This entry is for Two Shoes Tuesday. The cue is Breathe. Hit the link and go read a spell.

Guest Bard: Hobbled

GUEST BARD: RICK MARTIN

Hobbled

The dark.

Crawl my way up

Cold, stone walls

Dragging under me

a leg broken to bits.

Hurts?

Decide not to know.

No one there to tell me different.

Soaking wet

Shivering

The longest, coldest

Decades-long night.

No stars above

Clouds, rain, voices

Lightning to illuminate shapes, figures

Stopping to peer down at me

Watch me struggle

And then vanish

Some shout encouragement

While sending rocks towards me

The most sympathetic of them

Throw me rope

Attached to nothing.

And I thank them.

Motivated only to survive.

Every inch a new callous

Every movement shooting pain

Powerful, strong and acknowledged.

Closer to the top

Voices clearer.

“Why does he bother?”

As if I have not asked myself

The same thing

Endlessly.

As if their doubts and fears

I did not share.

And I climb to shed them.

Fingers touch earth

Drug out of the well

By the last of my strength.

Forced to be still.

Patience mandatory for healing

For true healing.

But once I rise

I find myself

Hobbled

Wounded in a way

Perhaps only I may ever see as truly restored.

Others choose to see the scars

I see the healing

I see the miraculous

I see the recovery

I seek those who see it too.

And whether I find them

Or not

I will run

And dance

Awkwardly but with such a passion

And joy.

I choose to feel

I choose to be bold

I refuse to be anyone

Who is not me

Who is truly hobbled.

Who is truly hobbled?

Indeed.

Rick describes himself as an Easy-going, life-loving, b ball watching, guinea-pig tending, heart following, truth telling, blog writing, hard working doofus wishing u much love and joy 🙂

Go visit Rick over at All Things Bright and Lovely …an eclectic, happy mix of photography, color, fashion and personal insights.

Bards Verdict: There’s some really powerful, emotive imagery happening here, which is hugely effective in conveying the struggles the poet is experiencing, and in spite of adversity, striving to overcome. And it’s always nice to end on a hopeful note.

Guest Bard: The Birth of Soul

This book was 15 years in the making. I wrote poetry, keeping them in spiral notebooks and pads. Hoping one day I’d have a home for them. I realized a couple years ago after having a near fatal medical issue, that “one day” better become “today.” The Shaping of an “Angry” Black Woman is my first poetry collection, where I’m discussing different aspects of life that has shaped me. It’s not all anger and vitrol. I’m much more than at. We all are. The title is more taking a stab at the popular isotype of the “angry black woman” portrayed over and over again in American media. Fortunately, Sakura Publishing believed in my vision, and now I’m proud to say, my book is available for pre-order on their site right now. It goes on sale March 25th.

I wanted to share a poem with you today. This one is about an old crush. Kinda.

The Birth of Soul           

I want to expel your wisdom from my insides,

let my abdomen expand into the fullness of your politics.

My dormant maternal instincts gears to life with a suddenness,

presses the air from my lungs,

my inner thighs quiver with anticipation.

Mind whispers caution,

to protect myself,

but my womb contracts as your voice,

whiskey soaked and $3 packs of cheap cigarettes roughened,

penetrates my every orifice,

bridging this gap between stark lifeless reality.

Pressing deep with words of alternate universes,

elevated consciousness dipped and tinged with crude levity

and a frank disregard

for my need to keep my senses.

As the angels and demons, who dance in your head

slip from your tongue,

into my blood stream,

intoxicating me, and my heart races.

Infusing me with their lust visions of nirvana,

And my mortal soul weeps.

My breasts grow heavy and warm.

With your stylized world.

Tapping into my ovaries.

Your rich timbers triggering my eggs,

Traveling down my fallopian tubes,

matriculating as your words

move like light beams

wriggling, infusing my womb

With you.

I feel the spark as your ideas take root deep inside me,

growing, stretching, reaching

taking me to the pinnacle and beyond.

Beyond where sanity lives,

and I grow full with opinions,

your fiery rants, skewed view,

and I have to expel them,

I grab a pen,

Clench my teeth, bearing down,

I grab a pen,

Clench my teeth, bearing down,

pushing beyond my limits,

self-imposed boundaries

And I scrawl, grunting,

sweating in

this damn heat,

Until I birth these words.

Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathemagician

There’s a video up on her YouTube Channel talking more about the why for the name of her book. You can follow her on Twitter, like her on Facebook and circle her on Google+. 

Bards’ Verdict: She writes so that you can nearly FEEL the things she’s describing, and you can see precisely, in your mind’s eye, what she means. And look – a PUBLISHED poet, no less. Kudos, Tamara.

Reflections

  This is a companion post to Thoughts of a   Notated Life ~z

My Darling Other

Next year is landmark.
In calendar, printed clear: that auspicious date
Though neither of us remember it now.
Yet we will celebrate as though we did
For from that month – September – came;
The serendipity of our meeting.
Thence our lives were intertwined
Thence altered irrevocably
As we came to belong
To each other.
Stunning.
And yet not,
For how could I have known
That within me lay a brash and brazen
Strong, free-thinking woman, with soul akin
To yours? For you were golden
Tiger-striped with vim and vitriol;
Creativity dripped from every aspect
And confidence from every pore.
And you wanted me:
For the first time in my maligned life
I was sought – my company enjoyed
Nay, cherished
And it blew my mind.
A few months in, we both relaxed
Our friendship set in stone and precious jewels.
Our lives slipped neatly into one another’s
And our houses became each other’s home
(Though neither were our own sanctuary)
But mostly, once the secrets were out
Dark childhoods shared
And that understanding;
That kinship
Settled.
We flew
Rejoicing in
The delight of deepest friendship
We shared our words
We wrote flash poetry
We swore and laughed and drank wine
We realised our cup would always overflow.
No depths were too deep
No heights too high
No gap too wide
That we couldn’t bridge it
Together.
And united we faced our dragons:
Fathers.
Mothers.
Abuse.
Mental illness.
Bad marriage.
Kids.
Sick husband.
Miscarriage.
Attempted suicide.
Infertility.
We’ve anointed one another
With our deepest truths
With tears
With mud
With laughter
With chocolate war-paint
And spilled tea.
We’ve talked for more hours
And about more subjects
Than I ever thought were possible
To share with another human
Without being bored.
And still, side by side
Minds attuned to perfection,
Even with distance of cities between,
We face our futures
Knowing, deep down
That this landmark
Is only the very
Beginning.