this is not about clowns

person holding purple petaled flowers
Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

So here’s a thing, our lives have taken an interesting turn because of a cancer scare for my husband. He has had pancreatitis for years, and we were told a long time ago, he most likely will be a candidate for cancer at some point. Now he has growths in his pancreas. One is not currently cancerous, we are hopefully finding out more soon about the other one. We are remaining optimistic at this point. But they are large growths and one of them is in an inconvenient place and we will still have to make decisions on what to do about them.

Continue reading “this is not about clowns”

life’s acrostic

(take two, for Steve)

*

floating down the alphabet

or maybe it’s drifting past me

compiling the days into language

or maybe it’s speaking through me

filling my diary with appointments

increasingly shaded each day

anticipating storms by the weekend

interrupted by a welcome segue –

“e”lixir

I’m sorry but

I am pretty darn sure

you have the wrong person

I’m in over my head

haunted by the same lesson

these tasks I must do

were assigned by mistake

erroneously typed

and blown into the lake

where only I was swimming

(in other dialect: drowning)

*or is that were?

See,

I am not ready for this

this palpable knowing

that pushes me deeper

into shades of unglowing

(or autocorrected

that would be ungluing)

I keep walking around

bumping into your words

you insist I should be there

your aim, it disturbs.

But nothing comes out

knotting up lonely fears

into a bullet proof vest…

battery is low

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please take back these words

alarming me

from this divinely encrypted

reverie.

please don’t preclude

my musical bath

of these olfactory notes

on this rose dripping path.

Your intrusion like thorns

embedding my core

the reality of it

is bleeding the score.

A glitch so poetic

ironically so

kaleidoscope scripted

my battery is low.

 

I’m not sure where this is going, or at what speed…

The grey sky and sea are one today.

The only discernible difference,

the texture of the latter.

The encumbrance of the matter

in mind’s funnel

distracts and disturbs.

Protracts and perturbs

still the distilling,

the stone at my neck

is blunt from the milling.

I ponder this song about addiction.

Another one I’m addicted to.

The frictionless sky

and the turbulent sea,

I sway between

the knowing way you look at me,

oh mind’s eye,

and the mystery of unease,

the sky gets me there so soon

compared to the past,

on the sea,

in a tempested moon.