We Bite

Our first screams sprout
a muffled storm of shock
and loosely buried rage,

eruptions that birth a quaking
of bone and flesh and thought-
triggering warnings.

“Be thankful!” they say, force-
feeding us silence, as we bite
their filthy fingers off.

photo by Nsey Benajah, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #169: Answering Writing in Writing). Inspired by the rotting madness that is the current state of affairs in the USA and the following lines from The Waste Land: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

Fun Funereal Memories

I remember a hat (way too big for what was left of your skull). I remember two ladies arguing the depth of your love for them over your coffin (the one in the white vinyl catsuit looked more pissed off than sad). I remember trying so hard not to burst into wild laughter, and thinking, You’re freaking loving this, little brother, aren’t you?

Photo by Andres F. Uran, on Unsplash

- it’s funny, the things that come to mind while we remember loved ones taken by death. Last year, on the 11^th anniversary of my little brother’s last breath, my memories were focused on food: his favorite dishes (carne guisada, coconut rice with pigeon peas, potato salad…), his latest favorite song (“Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee). This year, my brain is over-bubbling with (hysterical) snippets of his funeral. 12 years… and the grief (and the love) burn just as bright. 

I hope your spirit remains the life of the party, little brother--ruffle some angel feathers for your witchy sister.  

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #166: Letters/Sounds)

A Flame in the Dark

The knowing dances into me (gritty and wild) through open eyes and waiting tongue. I taste the veracity shards you try hiding under a shroud of not-so-silken lies (something is rotten). For a spell, my eyes consider weeping for the worms you boiled before they could morph into moths. Then I remember: liquid mourning cleanses, but rarely fixes a thing. So my soul sucks in sadden salts, crafts them into living fuel, lets them burn for a better day. I don’t conceal what grows in me. I open my all, under the licks of moon and sun, and I let you watch.

a flame in the dark,
breeding everlasting bright,
rebirthing new hope

photo by Zoltan Tasi, on Unsplash

- this poem came to mind, after I overheard someone say, “I can’t watch the news without crying or wanting to hide. Are you alright?” Although the person wasn’t talking to me, I still thought, “Change ‘crying’ for ‘screaming’ and ‘hiding’ for ‘raging’, and you and I would feel exactly the same way about our society’s general state of crappiness.”

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #162:Joy in Chaos)

The Spoonie Life

not-quite Journaling, 78

through gray clouds,
my nature sings bright
bits of blues

12/29/2024: I said: “I’m exhausted and in no mood to party. The last few weeks have been rough. But don’t worry, my stubbornness and I still hope for better.” 

She said: “Hopefulness, in the face of this much crap, has to be a type of mental illness. Only crazy people endure the same thing over and over and keep ‘hoping’ for something good. Is that the madhouse I hear knocking on your door? Ha!”  

I said: “Your crass pessimism (badly camouflaged as dark humor) is tiresome, unhelpful, and as unimaginative as you are. Ha, ha!” 

Then I sent this picture, this haiku, and this Brandon Sanderson’s quote: “Hope is a virtue--but the definition of that word is crucial. […] A virtue is something that is valuable even if it gives you nothing. A virtue persists without payment or compensation. Positive thinking is great. Vital. Useful. But it has to remain so even if it gets you nothing. Belief, truth, honor… if these exist only to get you something, you’ve missed the storming point.” 

She’d said nothing else. See? My virtuous hopefulness is paying off! 😁

 

I am back: hurt, changed, growing…

1/8/2025: I start a new fitness regimen on Saturday (again *cough*). It’s too cold outside (I don’t love winter); my chunkaliciousness makes everything more difficult (even if it warms my bits 😅); my neuropathy is acting up (everybody hates neuropathy). Still, beginning to exercise hard again is freaking exciting! I’ll start with hiking, move to walking/jogging, and hope to run a few times a week by midspring. Best birthday present--I hope… 

 

If life sucks (again), I’ll write
my Self full.

1/15/2025: Remember how I was supposed to start my new fitness plan last Saturday? Well, my bloody gut chose to show me who’s boss and altered my plans (again). Yep, for the next few days, nothing but therapeutic writing sessions, gentle calisthenics, and quality time with my softest foam roller (is it just me, or does that sound slightly kinky?). Anyhoo, my innards’ temper tantrum seems to be subsiding, so the hiking-to-walking/jogging-to-running plan shall resume soon(ish). That’s the spoonie life--unpredictability on steroids. 

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #160: Low Battery)