Not of the Hardy People

Lately, and more often, I wish I were one of the Hardy People, those whose totems would be the cacti, the weeds, reptiles, cockroaches, and stone. Instead, I find myself among the Delicates, a horse in need of a herd, an orchid in captivity, grass in need of temperate weather, and a human already on a statin drug (at 43).  My grandfather is one of the Hardy People, a former smoker, a still sometimes drinker, and always and forever an eater of deep-fried southern food.  He is 92 and went on a statin drug in his mid-80s.  The Hardy People do not have panic attacks or chronic anxiety, and long I thought I was a member of this tribe, for I did not have these "issues" ... until 41.  Maybe the clues were there in my first depression at 21, in college, in summer school - the first time I dropped a class, the first time I failed to excel, the first time I ran away to the mountains to be alone in my personal darkness.  Lots and lots of poetry then.  Sadly, anxiety does not produce poetry the way depression does.  Oh, to be one of the Hardy, the steeled, the less sensitive, who fits the larger, louder, faster world of constant consumption.  I am a terrible consumer, failing to embrace debt and her whorish lust.  I am  not entitled and know but for the grace of civilization I would probably be among the group that was on the low side of the numbers that kept human lifespan at around 30 before the 20th century.  I live on borrowed time and am trying to make the most of it since I worry about regression; the kind that could engulf the world with the end of fossil fuels.  I wonder if I would be clever enough to be the special kind of Hardy that comes with expert knowledge; could I learn to be a doctor, witch or otherwise?  How wise does a wise man have to be to get helping hands from those that toil?  Or is it, how wise of a con man must I become?  If the medicine stops, as did in Haiti, Japan, and New Orleans, would it matter?  What do I give the world enough to make my ongoing consumption, conspicuous or quiet, worth the world's effort?  If I were Hardy, maybe these "concerns," like the anxiety would not matter.  Regardless, I guess, I must learn to manage my delicacy as one might manage diabetes or lyme disease or bad luck.  Here's hoping for at least 50 more years of oil, uranium, natural gas, and coal and a planet with enough ecosystem to handle them in use for 8 billion people.  I guess, on the plus side, at least I love the heat; winter brings sickness and death, so "viva" the global warming!

Truly Wonderful Things - A Made Bed!

From time to time I hope to write about some simple, but truly wonderful things in life.  Recently I've been feeling the loving power of the Made Bed.  Really, is there nothing so enticing and satisfying as a made bed?  We have a king size memory foam bed on a platform frame.  Nothing fancy.  Every morning after we get up, I like to make up the bed.  We keep it simple, just our blankets and the pillows we sleep on.  We're not sleigh or poster bed people with lace and satin decorative pillows neatly arranged; we're kind of Spartan about our bed.  For a number of years, before and after Maya was born, the mattress was on the floor.  The made bed is a psychological as well as practical pleasure.  Making it sets the tone of my days and gives me an immediate accomplishment to feel good about at the start of my day.  Throughout the day it is a recurring pleasure to come into the bedroom and see the bed made.

But best of all, the sun pours in through our bedroom window and lights the bed with warm sunlight throughout the day, which is especially yummy in the winter time (like now).  And when I'm really lucky, the cat will be laying the middle of the bed and use his super power to pull me into a nap on top of the covers.  Now, that is the best of all, laying down on the bed in the middle of the day when the sun has warmed the covers and the cat is fully accessing the cozy powers of the bed.  It is a simple thing to make the bed and it is a simple pleasure to see the bed made.  In life we all need comfort foods and simple pleasures that anchor our existence and allow us to truly appreciate being on this Earth. 

Freestyle Poetry - The Hanged Man

Image from the Cosmic Tribe Tarot by Stevee Postman

 
I could not so easily guess in my youth
To be the consort of Persephone's daughters
Weeping wise they are
Passing the threshold of maturity
Through dark acts visited upon innocence
Like battle blood staining white roses inappropriately
And I feel the sacrifice and witness the strength,
The awkward understanding
From a glimpse with death unprepared.
I am not allowed to tears
Knowing more than I should
And watching this childish world
Reveal its dark terror
Without regard for who may be playing in the fields
I know responsibility,
The loss of youthful boredom,
The eagle eating my liver for the gift of fire
Mothers hoarding sweet illusions
That attract thieves in chariots
Making sweeter still the binding fruit of Hades.

Freestyle Poetry - A Kiss Like Drowning

Your kiss is like water,
tasting cool blue and satisfying,
as if drawn from a secret stream
in darkness
moon lit and wet with mystery,
a kiss like drowning,
like letting go, like floating --
soft as undetected poison
and sweet deadly.
You release me quietly ...
your kiss so like...
a black cat walking cross,
or deep Earth magic on night summer breezes,
like deception I need,
or a perfect reflection on a mountain lake surface.
There's deep currents, riptides beneath your kiss,
a sexuality too strong for weak swimmers
and vast the immortal death
in the expanse of your murmuring nudity.
A lady of the lake,
awakened,
clutching me gently,
a dove with a hawk's heart,
the dolphin and the shark,
with a kiss like trespass across Charon's river
or on Calypso's isle or in Diana's forest.
Drawn as you sometimes are,
a blade from a jewel encrusted sheath,
tempered steel, Excalibur from the lake,
as the Lady gives it,
in a kiss like yielding (but not) --
that kiss like drowning, like a cat purring,
like a seduction.

Freestyle Poetry - Breakthrough

Something new ... been awhile ... may need some WD40.

Breakthrough

Lost,
Another four letter word,
Like Hate or Love,
Big, profound, terrifying.

I find myself trapped in this word,
Groping blindly for purchase ...
A foothold of Trust unfelt
Drowning
No buoy of Purpose nearby
Only the urge to swim.

Urge, another Fuck four letter word,
Not settled or satisfied like the pleasant Adrift;
I cannot find my Float, my Peace,
My other lovely fives.

I have Lost my Faith.

One damn letter,
But the distance is greater than
The moment I should have kissed her,
And didn't ... Fate,
She bitch slapped me!
For my insolence or ignorance
Or lips that missed ...
Broke me down ...

To Break me Through?

Should I be waiting?
Should I be acting the Fool?
Should I pretend to Purpose ...
And Hope it sticks?

Maybe I just need a really big word ...

Perseverance!

Haiku - Morning

Making up the bed
As sunrise breaks in the East
The cat is waiting

Freestyle Poetry - Frolic

Image by Stevee Postman


Where, O child of mind,
The mystic fires, do burn,
That once upon a childhood time
Did burn beyond a daydreaming moon
Guiding my soul,
Outcast in this dreamless world
Filled with cold practical winds
Blowing frozen the fairy wishes
That not so long ago did play careless
Round my untamed heart,
Naïve and loving tales told
By friendly witches in secret hours
Spent wisely foolish
In search of unicorns and pixies?

Why, O child of spirit,
The mystic fires, lost
That once did ignite
The wild wonder for endless hours
Seeming,
That now I search sometimes desperate
For an ember still hot enough
To keep me warm through maturity’s winter?