Deleted Comments

Just a brief note to readers, if you have read and commented in the last three days and been deleted AND were not a track back spammer, please accept my apologies. I have deleted hundreds of spam comments these last three days and may have inadvertently deleted some legitimate ones as well.  (yes hundreds not sure what word or words triggered the flood, but hope the gate is closed now 🙂

And now back to my nanonovel.

DeR spammres

I will delete you because I do not wish to have your link in my blog. But I might delete you anyway just because of your inability to spell. I make occasional errors myself. But yours is simply atrocious so please go away now.

Happy Thanksgiving

I am all the way back to Dec 2007 in the pulling old poetry off  MySpace in preparation for cancelling the account. Glad tonight I haven’t yet. Having kind of a hard day/week/month/lifetime, or so I felt this evening as I went to bed. Had an incredibly hard time finishing my 10 gratitude items. Couldn’t sleep, so got back up and decided to recover some poetry as long as I was awake, since one of my current goals is for MySpace presence to be gone January of 2012. Anyone who really knows me knows that me being awake/ up after midnight is far from usual.

It was also apparently just what I needed to turn this wee pity party around and make a smile of my frown.

It was great to reread a few blogs from 2008 and 2009, a lot happened I didn’t expect. A lot I was told would happen didn’t happen either. Normal for everyone, I guess, but due to my proximity sometimes my problems seem big.  I come away from reliving those two years of my past in my “just brushing the surface” blogs and I am truly, truly grateful for my life today, ALL of it. So easy to forget how blessed I am, how much magic surrounds me and how the best things happen when I have faith.

For

All

Impossibilities

Their’s

Hope.

Everything is gonna be Ok. I just gotta keep showing up and doing my best.

And believe.

Namaste.

New Shoes

Running Barefoot

When I was a child
I got exactly two pairs of shoes a year
In September I was fit sturdy second-hand leather oxfords
to keep my feet and stride
contained appropriately
within the patterns that pomp and poverty’s circumstance proscribed;
School shoes.

And gladly every spring
I shed them, forever forgotten,
for a new pair of canvas running shoes.   Like Bradbury’s protaganist
I could jump higher
run faster
laugh longer
on the wings of  my new spring shoes.

I remember when you were my new spring shoes
and your kisses freed me from all the leather restraints of being
anything
other than just me
and together we ran faster
and jumped higher
and loved betterUntil we wore each other like a favorite pair
each stain and fray adding to the story and the charm
And love and life were nothing we could ever throw away.

But the soles of summer shoes aren’t meant to last
And the silver wheel turns
And the days grow chill
And Mother mortality crept in while we slept.
In winter cold I lay alone, bereft, I wept.

So many shoes since then.
I see them on the store shelf, attractive to the eye,
Glossy, glittery, strappy pumps with stylish designer names
Boots of softest calf
Rocket science running shoes
Lightweight professional slip-ons
Calling out to me to try them, buy them
Commit.

And sometimes they almost fit
and sometimes I do buy them
and I married again after you died
and my toes turn inward with the years of leather shaping

but my happiest times for heart and feet

are still running barefoot throught the grass
remembering that summer with you.

CC

I-Resurrection

I-resurrection

My computer went to the brink of death
And came back funtional
But a clean slate.
Gone was all the data
Useful and otherwise

This technical resurrection
required I reboot my Ipod, it did not recognize the computer as mine
and could not agree to also regenterate itself unless it, too, was a tabula rasa
These older generations do not have the ability to regenerate
and communicate that the younger Ipods do.
30 Gigabytes of empty memory now sit in my palm
where once my musical library hid
The white dead thing no longer
crooning my favorites, lulling me in each activity with perfectly selected playlists
waiting to sneak and resurrect some small snippet of melodiuos genius
some forgotten or neglected track
with its almighty “shuffle songs”.

I must now decide which of the 3215 songs I had on there before
I will choose to reload
and in what order.

Where to start,
And what matters most
are always the hardest questions.

I try and visualize later today
Anticipate the needed soundtrack, who will I be then

I reach to touch the future
and fail.

Grabbing instead a random handful of plastic cases
And starting here at the letter “F”
I listen, humming along. adding some pieces I didn’t before, leaving off others I added and mostly ignored
choosing to ignore those added and played too often in homage to some wound
or soul deep sore;
humming and tapping my feet
Rebuilding my tower of bass notes pilons and guitar riff bricks
into a new tonal refuge
In my digital game of  spiritual Lego’s.

CC

Leaving Rome, a poem inspired by “Eat, Pray, Love”

Italian town of excess
of taste and touch and smell and song
I’ve only been there in books
or dreams
or genetic memories
but live its promise to the fullest, I believe,
each Spring
Culmination then with May day revel
I move into my contemplative stay
My Ashram
Only to bounce again to revel with the Samhain dawn
I am learning patience
to let go my powerful need to control outcomes and just show up for the process.

so many times in practice to Rome and India
this year perhaps I’ll get to Indonesia…..

I am learning forgiveness for my own weakness.
Forgiving yours no longer necessary
As I find the taste of baking soda nauseaous but brownies, bread and cookies
Are not the same without them.

So many times in teaching others I lined the ingredients up
First lesson for my second years
“Now you have established who you are and who you want to be, its time to let go of the things that hold you back,
to dispense with the angers
the righteous judgements
the things that rob you of your magic,”
I would say,
I would lead them to the classroom, a kitchen
The ingredients lined on the counter
flour, sugar, cocoa, milk, eggs, vanilla, baking soda
“taste this,”
I would sayas teaspoonful after teaspoonful raw ingredients would be placed upon their tongue,
Some would try and refuse
Some would retch
and others would taste, puzzling ahead
one, maybe two would
just taste.

“Now, taste this, ” I would say
and place a warm bite of brownie in their mouth.
“More like it,”
“Yum,”
or smiling silence.

“How is this about magic,
about anger
about acceptance” I would say,
“Each of these ingredients are your past,
the bitter hurts,
the sweet loves,
the nauseating struggles….this brownie is you.
Which ingredients would you leave out?”

CC

Composting Grief

Composting Grief

Hidden anguish slimes and molds
Putrifying,
Bitter sulfur assaulting, overwhelming the senses
Lethal carcinoma of the spirit
Exterminates hope.

Grief shared
Encounters
Aerobic decomposition.
Losses layered with laughter become strengths
Watered with tears, recombined by conversation
Innoculated dream decay
grows love.
CC