Precisely Painful Truths

it isn’t all precisely painful truths
found here in the tapestry of words
my wordly garden
also grows glorious hydrangeas
and roses alongside
equally beautiful wildflowers

but even roses have thorns
and some consider wildflowers
weeds
this gardener, not naive enough
to believe that plucking the
precisely painful truths of life
makes it any easier or more perfect

I prefer my unmanicured
and unruly patch
to the pristine beds of lies
properly curated conservatories
I shall tend my dandelions just the same

 

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First Awake

late night with friends
another state, another world.

movies we know all the words to,
songs we don’t remember all the words to,
games played but never finished
somehow cleared from the table.

copious amounts of alcohol
all in fun
sleeping on the lawn
a foreign couch
the floor is just as cozy
in this state of affairs.

even the numerous dogs from last night
have disappeared in morning light having
found a cozy bed and person to sleep upon.

being the first awake is magic
quiet and serene.

So much to write and only a phone…

I hate being without my laptop; it has been 11 days and withdraw has set in. I can’t write like this; I’m from the wrong generation! I know. I know. I complain of trivial things, but it is seriously cramping my style.

I do hope to be back from my writing break next week though. I have missed my creative time this week so dearly. Nature Camp has had me so worn out that eating, sleeping, and bathing are pretty much all I’ve done besides camp this week. But in return it has given me new fodder for writing and inspiration for my creativity. I’ll gladly take that in exchange!

Up Before Anyone Else

mornings  meant for quiet
contemplation
and                 coffee

dream storms have passed
in waking hours
our interpretation
lacking

while felines
bask in the  morning light
spilling
through windows
chasing shadows and tails

dear self,
seek inspiration
in
wild dreams
and
reflective morning silence

 

Mountain

[In response to One Word Prompt]

As a child, my family and I took week-long vacations to Ricketts Glen State Park to camp out in the mountains. We’d spend the week encountering wildlife, hiking the trails and falls, swimming at the Lake Jean beach area, and biking around the camping loops. I loved every minute of it.

I remember one trip in particular that stands out. It was the summer I met Tom. Tom was an elderly gentleman who played the bagpipes at the wooded amphitheater across the lake. He enjoyed playing there because of the acoustics. The beautiful and mysterious melodies that danced across the lake drew me in; I was entranced. I remember racing around the lake at dusk hoping to catch his evening performances. He was the first man I’d ever seen wear a kilt and traditional Scottish regailia and I was in awe of his bizarre plaid-bag-with sticks looking instrument and its oddly haunting sounds. I vaguely remember him letting me squeeze the bag and being delighted by the honk it made.

I wish I could say that I remember more about the man or that I’d somehow remained in contact, but that isn’t the case. I do however remember half expecting and later hoping to hear his music each year as we returned to our family camping spot. I don’t recall ever seeing him again though.

 

 

The Underhand

little petty miscreant
can look you in the eye
then stab you in the back
walk away with a knowing smile

you pitch a curve ball
followed by a fastball
looking for the strike
instead, you hit the batter

though it seems intentional
it messes with your game
not sure which is bruised the greater
your cocksure arrogance when you lose the series,
or the limping batters you’ve pegged along the way

shake your hand they must
it’s only good sportsmanship
doesn’t imply respect
for your underhanded pitching

but then again,
office politics have never been
my forte

 

 

Our Table

Come with pieces barely whole,
pieces no one sees, pieces that
crumble beneath the lightest touch.
Come as you are; bring yourself to our table.

Open the jar of broken hearts, the box of anxious
self-doubts, and a tin of numb; break off a piece
of not enough, while I offer up a cup of tea steeped in
memories and missed opportunities.

We dine on meager makings of mistakes and disappointments
burnt to a crisp, as we rewind the unraveled threads.
Our meal may not be scrumptious or savory, but
our gentle communion shall sustain us through
even the deepest of despair.

Here is where we come to be made whole,
poultice our wounds, give thanks,
find love and strength and mercy, all.

We each bring bits of brokenness to the table; bone weary,
figuring our parts, laying bare our deepest fears, worries,
hopes, and dreams. There are no wrong answers;
nothing is inappropriate for this gathering.

Our repast where all are welcome
even in silence to sit; come, share if you wish, be
unburdened, you’ll always find a place among us.
Come in darkness, leave in light, our table’s always open.