Voyeurs

we are all
voyeurs
of tragedy

until
we have
become
the tragic

flay
strips
of raw
pulsing
skin
off my back
in your search
in your grasping
need
to take
pieces of me

you will have to
hold me down
this time

I will not go
peacefully

I will not
acquiesce demurely

there is nothing
kind
or peaceful
or polite
about tragedy

I am not yours

your prying eyes
and sickly sweet
solicitations
make me reach
for my knives
when my claws
have been rendered
to bloody stumps

we are all
voyeurs
until we
aren’t

17 May 2018

Not around much…

So…

this last cycle of chemotherapy (3 out of 6) is turning out to be a very rough ride.

Yesterday at the hospital they gave me some stronger anti-nausea meds but they make me super drowsy.

… and then there are the bone marrow injections, which are causing my Fibromyalgia to flare. I’m in a lot of pain at the moment.

So… I won’t be around much or writing much.

I’ll come back as soon as I can.

Be kind to yourselves and each other.

Blessings,

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A Memory for Mother’s Day

this is a couple of years old but it’s one of my favourite “Mothering” stories

 

I married a bass player when I was seventeen.

He had such confidence. His presence filled a room. His laugh was beyond contagious. It cast a spell over you and you couldn’t help but laugh with him. He was sexy and funny and loved by everyone. I adored him. And I loved him long after we parted ways because we both left pieces of our hearts behind.

He was also one of the most talented musicians, singers and songwriters I have ever met and he gave me my little boy.

But this one isn’t about him really. It’s about me again.

One hot Oklahoma summer, a guy with a banjo and a guitar and a guy learning to play guitar and two hippie chicks, with long hair that would catch in the breeze and float like feminine banners to the Goddess, decided they needed a weekend in the country. We drove to Madill, Oklahoma. On a few acres of land was a dilapidated two room farmhouse belonging to the guitar player’s grandfather. We wandered the hills during the day, making grand plans of communal living with music and art and organic farming and ovens baking manna from heaven.

However, that night the two boys played guitar by the light of the moon and a few kerosene lamps while the chicks sang along. One of the songs they played was this one. They always played this one. The guitar player was a perfectionist. I suppose most good musicians are. The hippie chick with the long dark hair had a tendency to go a bit flat or run out of breath. It frustrated him.

So she learned how to stand perfectly still in the moonlight in a pair of low slung bell bottom jeans that dragged the ground, a thin magenta halter top that exposed her belly, her baby boy in nothing but a diaper perched on her hip with one hand reaching for her long dangling earring while the other pulled on her soft, straight Cherokee hair, and sing softly to the one being who possessed the most amazing ability to love her unconditionally.

And in that moment in a deserted piece of countryside under a moon filled, starlit night, with her baby in her arms, a shy mother sang to her little boy and the world could not have been more perfect.

 

 

 

 

Home

It was
a simple door

Her hand shook
as she reached for the knob
and slowly turned

It was just a door

On the other side
she was a stranger
unknown
unseen
in a sea
of clinking glasses
and a cacophony
of voices
sounding
like an unkindness
of ravens
calling insistently
to nonexistent heavens
and then a soft murmur
of dawning acquiescence

She went
unnoticed
ordered a gin
from a bartender
who never quite
met her eye

And yet
she found
she was home
again

***

door from Stratford-upon-Avon just across the road from the Royal Shakespeare Company

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Chemo Blues

Today has been a gruesome one. Day 3 after my third cycle of chemo.

I had to cancel my therapy appointment again:(

Too sick to get out of bed. Even with a reduced chemo dose I’m existing on anti-sickness meds but no mysterious fevers. So there’s that.

What do you do when you’re too sick to get out of bed? You take pics of your loyal and very beautiful Springer Spaniel.

The Spaniel spreading her love like a fever (apologies to BRMC):

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the night moves: Chemo Poetry

the night moves
in endless liquid
in pools of sweat
and suppressed vomit

and repressed dreams
and not quite forgotten
nightmares
and lucky escapes
and disastrous
adventures
and miraculous
rescues

and death
knocking at my door
and love waiting
at my back

and never ending
vistas
of sublime beauty
that take
my breath away
and take up
too much space
in my fevered brow

the night moves
and never stops
with harsh breaths
and soft
almost silent
heartbeats

and dream
after dream
after dream
baptised
in cold sweat

and living
always
more living

11 May 2018

Women of Flash

Ooh. Cool post with cool links to cool flash fiction. I highly recommend this blogger.

Zouxzoux

Now that Napowrimo is over, I’m settling back into my routine of morning online reading. This is my time to look for wonder-full flash and poetry and get lost in other places and other lives. There are many good writers out there but there are also some exceptional ones. Here’s a few of those writers and the stories that graced my recent mornings. I hope you enjoy – no, I know you will!

39C010CF-F2FE-4FEE-85C8-45A0FDF910AF.jpegThe Origin of Silk by Lori Sambol Brody in Gulf Stream Journal. I was completely absorbed in this story – the richness of words and images, the exotic locale, the foreign culture. The subject of kidnapped brides is one I’ve read about in a non-fiction, documentary genre but this little fiction story made it seem more immediate and scarily possible. I just love this story, clearly a favorite for 2018. I’ll be watching and hoping for a…

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