Rising Thinking

This stone rolling, refuses,
Deep cover over this recess
Fallen on misstep into
Innocently,
A deluge, quickly, levels rise
Drowning should be such
Impossibility,
But the catalyst environment
Welcomed so many years, ignores;
TRUTH,
Ah, become a word
Like other words, read
Contextually,
So it may be judged to vary
Without any precise meaning.
FREEDOM,
A seemingly clear notion,
Emotion, tied up in hustler’s
Knots of privilege and abuse,
Given
Some, withheld such others,
But all when questioned
Believe its existence is
An absolute – RIGHT –
Everyone should possess.
What are
TRUTH,
FREEDOM,
When humans, beings, are
Placed in situations where
Who they are is compromised –
Evermore?

Been reading current events, not a proposition without the continual engagement of deep thought. As poets, we ignore the public sphere to the detriment of democracy.

You may also recall I recently revisited 1984.

The Journal Habit

If you are dealing with doubt, fear, worry, loss of sleep, any sort of stress, unresolved feelings, anxiety, or mental disturbance, I recommend journal writing. When we journal, it is a form of personal therapy as well as creative expression. It can be highly effective and most inexpensive. There is no need for referrals and insurance approval.

When we work in journals, there are no rules. We bring whatever manifests in our attention to the page. It is beneficial if there is excessive turmoil in life to do a brain dump where all the negativity is lanced and released. A twenty-minute session of free writing with the option to go longer is often helpful.

Beyond the initial purge, a journal can be a proving ground for ideas and other types of creative expression. A journal is simple; we bring who we are to it. We may choose to share or make it a very private space. We use journals to cover seasons of our lives like school, college, jobs, relocating, love affairs, marriage, pregnancy, a new baby, journeys, and everything else. We can claim journals for any time, occasion, event, place, or emotion.

When we read old journals, we progressions and can congratulate ourselves on how we evolved and what we achieved. We find we have many victories. A journal is there as needed. It does not have to capture writing every day, though it can as required.

Journals are like friends who take your thoughts and allow you to explore and reflect on them without judgment, solutions, or criticism. We are allowed space to develop our own best conclusions. This is the beauty of a journal. It can be anything we need and morph into something else as required. We give it value as we choose to use it, and it becomes a reflection of ourselves.

I recommend everyone journal as they will.

This was handwritten in my journal. I encouraged someone with sleep issues to journal and see if it helped. Journal writing is one of the ways I care for myself, I have done it since childhood with long skips at times. I see the website and my previous blog as extensions of my journal, where I choose to share. Creativity and living more comfortably in the world with love are my hopes for my readers.

Short Story: Unexpectedly Gone

Married to an ex-military man who was crawling back from the abyss of a previous divorce with alimony and lots of child-support. His rising star was Maitlyn’s favorite creation. She invested in all the programs to teach him coding and hardware to help him become an expert with networking and computer maintenance.

Her aversion to being away so long from her little one, she swallowed along with her anger over unmercifully long hours and no corporate support. It had to be okay because, for the first time in her life, she was a runaway success with money in excess.

Sometimes she wished there was time for guitar practice, small jams, photoshoots, and writing more than grocery orders and inventory counts. Making a good life for those she loved was a dream, though, and she held it in her hands. No sacrifice, no fulfilling extraordinary demands, one could not expect plans to bring hopes to fruition. Maitlyn knew from experience everything could suddenly crumple like notebook paper and catch afire, burning totally away as if none of it ever existed.

At moments she felt like a mouse on a wire-wheel chasing forever faster to catch a tablet-sized cheese, which was inevitably beyond her reach. She wanted a quiet life where items could be alphabetized and checked off the list, where nothing was impossible, and joy was ever-present.

Climbing the ranks had been a vertical ascension, always giving more, reaching higher. It amazed her, but the shadow, she was consistently aware of how quickly one could fall from the heights.

She had seniority and was vested, but there came a time when she had to manage several weeks short-staffed working fifteen to eighteen hours in a row. She called her supervisor for assistance, he offered none. One night around 3am, she crawled into bed. At 5am when she tried to get up, she no longer connected with the world.

Logan called the district manager, her supervisor, he explained that she was sick and he was taking her to the hospital. The DM said if she failed to come in, she was fired. Logan kept her home and took her to the hospital, where she was admitted for an extended stay.

Sweet dreams often end precariously.

Redefine

Why must there be hate?
Why must the lovely be killed?
What possesses those
Who cause inestimable
Harm to individuals?

Somehow combat must
Ensue within hearts, homes, schools,
To irradicate
That nurturing such malice;
LOVE must permeate, prevail.

Exemplifying
Kindness, LOVE, bringing wisdom,
Generosity,
To the commonest of days;
Change may begin, take hold, win.

It can happen now
If our hearts – love and care, embrace
For the human race,
Treasuring each thing shared here,
LOVE leaves nothing still undone.

When I read of people meeting a violent end, it cuts into my heart and makes me feel that there should be better ways to handle life. All the stories ended, when a person dies are such a horrible tragedy to me.

Apologies To Allen et al.

You sudden, wake up,
To find the world is not all
Things you had in mind,
But still, life beckons much like
A closeted skeleton,
Reminding you, “Time
Waits For No One,” exacting
Its toll on bodies,
Minds, the frolics of each day
Fading quickly now away.
You hear a whisper,
“I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,”
While the tears run down
Your face without any trace
Of the deeds, you are obliged
To do in your hurry
To become who you will be
In the darn, “Who’s Who”
Directory, which you have
Always wished to discover
Some method, madness,
To propel yourself to fame
Which is not tinted
By the same “True Colors,” as
Everyone who makes
Good the journey, slowly begun,
In the paltry neighborhood
Where we each were born
With not one shiny penny
To launch us into
The stratosphere, you will know
Of which I mention because
The tarry residue clings
To the racy wardrobe amassed
Along the way to the present
From the seconds of yesterday.
You shout, “Failure is not an option,”
While looking over your shoulder
To see hungry wolves clawing
Their way minute by minute
Through the balsa door erected
In haste to shelter your dreams
From the awful extremes of envy,
The monster that turns friends
Against friends and makes lovers
Into the direst of enemies.
You are reminded never
To settle for less than the best,
While begging an agent to take
Chances on a story you could
Hardly tell because of impressions
Which impelled you to recognize
You sold your creativity
Off to a lower bidder without
Believing you had “The Right Stuff”
And “The Matrix” could not come
Together in “The Field of Dreams”
For we are all just prisoners here
Captured by the devices that
Will not allow us to enter paradise.
Still, now, do not succumb
To that black-feathered bird
Whispering above the door,
“Nevermore,” for it has no idea
The greatness lying awakened
Within the love-lorn heart beating
Tell-tale inside of you
For you sail with the angels
Across an endless sea into
Whatsoever, however, whenever
Will come to be your slice
Of “Supernatural” reality.
At last, there is no peace
In which to rest, because
Debtors have no recourse
But to pay, and pay again
And so must go on writing
Even ever and evermore.

Sometimes I play, like the child I once was, left alone for a moment on a snowy day, when nothing could longer destroy who I believed I might be, given an opportunity.