In Battle Ink

Before her, I just dreamed
of a home with a phone and books
of my own—

poems birthed of free minds
journeying out of this world,
stories written in battle ink
that rejects all irrational nos.

Then we met, through the strangeness
of May snow in New York City;

her torch banished shadows I thought
eternal, showed me books, showed me
a home and a phone are not dreams
but necessities. She taught me
how to see through
written eyes and hearts—the best,
the wisest, the most loyal friends
any thinking girl can have.

After I got to know her, I began
to craft ideas
that can’t be crushed, stolen, or erased,
thoughts that are bigger than any dream

ever was.

via

- I spent some time listening to a group of people, who emigrated from developing nations, describe their thoughts and feelings about arriving in the United States. Hearing about their experiences made me think of my own.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #70: Discovery.

Instructions; or, Preachy Lines on Living with Chronic Illness

“Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there’s got to be a way through it (or around it).” ~ Michael J. Fox (and moi)

1. Accept that chronic is
enduring (pain, uncertainty,
limitations will not stop): you
must fight your way through
it--

2. when gardening gets too hard, write
love letters to wild flowers;

3. when you can no longer run, stroll
s l o w l y… appreciating the land-
scape;

4. when despair screams, “Quit
already”, bare your teeth
and push;

5. chronic is enduring, but you can
be too.

- I spent two and a half hours of not-quite-quality time in an MRI machine. The first 30 minutes weren’t totally horrible--I’m used to that--but after the first hour, I was ready to burst out of the damn thing. The music was nice and loud, but the pounding was brutal and louder. When my neck, my shoulders, my back, my left hip, my bladder and I felt like we couldn’t take it anymore, I started brewing the lines you’ve just read.

photo by National Cancer Institute, on Unsplash
(That isn’t me, obviously, the thing (mask?) they put over my face looks more like
the one wore by Hannibal Lecter. Hm, now I’m craving “some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”)

photo by Sixteen Miles Out, on Unsplash

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #67: “love letters to wild flowers”.