Friday, June 19, 2015

Swamp Rising, Etc.

Normally, a neighbor's yard down the block, now a fast-rising swamp, gators included!

I found a Toad hiding in my baby Hibiscus plants. See her?

My Tomatoes are thriving, even the ones in small pots.

Moonflowers slowly climbing my rusty wrought iron posts & Jasmine blooming!


Saturday, June 13, 2015

The Clock By Marion

The Clock
By Marion very important when in chronic pain
because, of course,
the clock, the clock, the fucking CLOCK
is Master, Ruler, Tyrant, God.

God tells me, whispers (tic-toc) into my aching 
bones, marrow, muscles & tissue
that it's time to swallow
poison to ease the torment for a few (very few)
blissful hours. Tic-toc, unlock those neurons
that bind to the ravenous receptors
in my brain that carry
this vicious/exquisite venom
to my constantly tired, 
cotton-wrapped/warped brain.

Tic-toc SCREAMS the clock, the clock
which no amount of sound will block---
an hour's gone (one, NOT two) but it's too soon
(too late) &
the pain refrain is endlessly
ringing, tolling in my ears: 
more, more, (no more!), MORE, M-O-R-E...

Never enough, time's too short, too long.
Too much pain, too many/few pills
never enough relief---
thief, stealing my life
killing me slowly & for what?
One hour of relief, seldom two,
four times a day.
Forget sleep or counting sheep
they're bleeding, bleating & hurting

Death will be the
only escape
from this throbbing, robbing hell.
Only death can
stop the damned
screeching tyranny of the ticking,
sickening clock.

Tic-toc it mocks, it mocks, it mocks



Tuesday, June 9, 2015

The Towns We Know & Leave Behind, The Rivers We Carry With Us By Richard Hugo

My mighty Red River almost over the banks, still rising. How I love this muddy, red water!!!!

A battered, tattered, curious old river dragonfly who visited me in 2011.

I first posted this poem 3 years(!) ago and it came back to me today as the Red River slowly & steadily rises on this hot June day. It's a poem to memorize and chew on. Blessings, ~Marion

The Towns We Know and Leave Behind,
The Rivers We Carry with Us - By Richard Hugo

— for James Wright

I forget the names of towns without rivers.
A town needs a river to forgive the town.
Whatever river, whatever town –
it is much the same.
The cruel things I did I took to the river.
I begged the current: make me better.

Your town, your river, or mine –
it is much the same.
A murdering man lives on the land
in a shack the river birds hate.
He rubs the red shriek of night from his eyes.
He prays to water: don’t let me do that again.

Let’s name your river: Ohio.
Let’s name all rivers one in the blood,
red stream and debris in the blood.
Say George Doty had a wrong head.
Say the Ohio forgives what George did
and the river birds loved his shack.
Let’s name the birds: heron and sweat.
Let’s get away from the mud.

The river is there to forgive the town
and without a river a town abuses the sky.
The river is there to forgive what I did.
Let’s name my river: Duwamish.
And let’s admit
the river birds don’t hate my home.
That’s a recent development, really
like mercury in the cod.

Without a river a town abuses the air.
The river is there to forgive what I did.
The river birds hate what I did
until I name them.
Your river or mine –
It is much the same.
A murdering man lived on the bank.

Here’s the trick;
We had to stay drunk
to welcome the river
to live in a shack
to die on the bank
beneath the bigoted sky
under the river birds
day after day
to murder away
all water that might die.

A murdering man is dead on the bank
of your new river, The East,
on mine, The Clark Fork.
It is much the same.
Your river has gulls and tugs.
Mine has eagles and sky.
I rub last night from my eyes.
I ask bright water what’s happened.

The river, I am not sure which one,
Says water has no special power.
What should I do?
Or you?

Now water has no need to forgive
what shall become of murder?
How shall we live
when we killed, when we died by the word?

Whatever the name of the river,
we both had two women to love,
one to love us enough we left behind
a town that abuses the day.
The other to love the river we brought with us,
the shack we lived and still live in,
the birds, the towns that return to us for names
and we give them names knowing the river
murders them away.

Friday, June 5, 2015

Altar #3 from 'Broken Chord Sequence' By Marilyn Chin

                Dried pink Roses, an offering scented with pure Rose oil by my weary hands

             Resting Buddha with two friends

“Altar (#3)” from “Broken Chord Sequence”

By Marilyn Chin
Why cry over dried flowers?
They’re meant to be straw.
Why cry over miniature roses?
They’re meant to be small.
Why cry over Buddha’s hand citron?
Why cry over the hidden flower?
Why cry over Mother’s burnt forehead?
Her votive deathglow, her finest hour.

“Altar (#3)” from “Broken Chord Sequence,” from Rhapsody in Plain Yellow by Marilyn Chin.